Chapter 33 - Raina
There’s an odd sense of calmness filling me. You’d think I’d be nervous or fearful of getting on stage again, but I’m not. This is exactly where I should be and what I should be doing.
Sure, my voice isn’t the same as it used to be, but I’ve grown to love what it is now.
This is a new era for me, and I’m embracing it with my entire being.
Raina! Raina! Raina!
The chants from the crowd can clearly be heard in our dressing room, and it makes me smile. The support they’ve given me is everything.
“Your fans are calling,” Dare tells me, a smirk on his handsome face. His hands land on my hips and draw me in, making me tilt my head back.
“At this point, I think they’re fans for all of us.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “They’ve proven they love us all.”
“That’s true, but it’s mostly because they love you so much.” He leans down, but I’m already meeting him part way for a sweet kiss.
“My turn! Good luck kisses all around!” Nash exclaims, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You know, unless anyone needs a friendly hand with some stage fright.” He wiggles his eyebrows.
The comment so reminds me of the day we met, and that hot as fuck conversation I overheard.
Before I can get too distracted going down memory lane, Nash smacks a kiss to my lips and moves out of the way for Keaton to sweep me into a bear hug.
“You’re ready for this,” he tells me, so full of confidence there’s no way I could argue with him, if I even wanted to. He lowers me until my feet touch the ground, and I turn around to find Blake.
He holds his hands out for me to take, and I close the space between us. Before he can say anything, I beat him to it. “How are you doing?” I whisper, keeping it between the two of us. Nash might joke about stage fright, but Blake really has struggled with it in the past.
“I’m actually really good. This is the first time I can remember being excited to get on stage.
I’m proud of this set and can’t wait to perform it for everyone.
” This is huge for him, and I can’t help but lift on my toes and give him a kiss.
He tastes so sweet until he sucks in my bottom lip and nips at the sensitive flesh.
It reminds me of all the other love bites he’s given me, making my cheeks flush red.
A knock at the door stops me from saying anything. “I’ve got it,” Tris claims, glancing at me before he twists the knob to make sure I don’t have any objections.
Gill steps through when it swings open, signature tablet in hand. “Everyone ready?” she asks.
A roadie passes by in the hallway with Izzy hot on his heels. “Hello, hello. Is everyone ready to go?” She bends her arms at the elbows and shakes her hands like a set of pompoms.
Gill simply smiles, even though she asked the same thing. We’re all excited today, and it shows. Even the staff seems to be in high spirits.
“So ready!” Nash bounces in place again, making me wonder if someone fed him too much sugar today.
“Fantastic,” Izzy says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s get you on stage.” Her and Gill lead the way out the door with my guys following one by one until it’s only Tristan left.
He holds out a hand, and I take it, threading our fingers together. “I know you won’t, but if you do, let me know at any time if you need me to step in with the lyrics.”
“I will,” I tell him with a smile. “I’m happy we are finally doing things the way we always should’ve.”
A huge grin spreads across his face. “Me too, Lexi. Me too.” He squeezes my hand and leads me to the door. “Now let’s show them the new Raina.”
The sound is deafening when we reach the stage. This time, instead of a roadie handing me my microphone, it’s Gill. “Good luck on the start of your tour. You’ll shine up there.”
Her words bolster me, and I take the microphone from her with a smile.
The wings of the venue are choked with bodies and gear. The air is a live wire—ozone, anticipation, the sick-sweet tang of crowd heat right out of view.
Taking a deep breath, I cradle the microphone in both hands like it’s a weapon and a lifeline. Every second I stand here, my heart pounds harder and higher, a drumline scoring the panic behind my breastbone.
Nash stands next to me, his eyeliner smudged, arms jittering with an over abundance of energy.
He slaps his bass, checking the tension on the lowest string, then shakes his hands out like he’s prepping for a prize fight.
“You good?” he mouths, arching his eyebrows high.
I manage the smallest nod. He gives a smile, one that warms me to my very core.
Keaton joins us next, drumsticks flicking between his fingers. He’s the only one here who isn’t pretending this is simply another show. He glances up once, catches my eye, and gives the briefest, most meaningful blink of support. That’s all I get, all I need. The thunder is waiting in his wrists.
On the far side of the curtain, Darius and Blake wait to take the stage with us. Darius grins at me, flashing the edges of his teeth. Blake gives a thumbs up and then looks away, already lost in whatever private calculus gets him onstage without imploding.
Tristan steps up behind me. He’s stripped down to a threadbare tee, jeans torn open across the knees, guitar slung over his shoulder.
“Lexi,” he says, pitching his voice low enough that only I can hear, “you don’t have to be anything but yourself tonight.
” It’s the same words he told me before my first performance, bringing us full circle. This is how it’s meant to be.
I grip the microphone harder, feeling the memory of Dr. Shapiro’s voice lessons scrape up from somewhere deep. I can practically hear the vowel drills and diaphragm exercises that rebuilt my voice from the ground up.
“You okay?” Nash again, closer this time, arm around my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I think so.” I stare at the curtain, listening to the murmur of the crowd on the other side. Their anticipation is a pulse in the floorboards, a living thing.
He leans in, voice soft against my hair. “You’re a fucking legend. Let them see it.”
On cue, the stage lights cut out, and the crowd goes silent. A moment later, lightning flashes and huge fans turn on, the sound of a tornado blasting through the speakers.
The pre-recorded sound of my voice filters in. “Sometimes a tornado comes through, ripping your life apart…” There’s a crash on stage, sparks flying, and the crowd screams. “But we rebuild, and come back stronger.”
With the fading sound of my voice, the lights come back on. The stage now a wreck, the neon light of my name is broken in half, hanging by a cord, sparks continuing to go off every now and again. Scaffolding for the lighting is in precarious positions, all of course professionally staged.
The old me got torn up, it can never be the same, but that doesn’t mean we give up… at least that’s the message I’m trying to give.
Excitement washes over the audience, and they quickly return to chanting my name, urging me to take the stage.
I look down at my hands, at the mic. The nails are painted midnight, a last-minute Nash touch. They’re shaking, and it takes a second to realize they’re not shaking from fear—they’re shaking because I’m not afraid enough.
I flash to last year: the agonizing pain that led me to try to take my own life, the months of Tristan giving me hell, the never-ending bullshit with Dickless, the blank terror of never being able to sing again.
And then I think of who I am now. Of the person I’ve become born out of disaster. Of the relationships I’ve built.
Fuck, do I love my life.
“Ready?” Nash says, but it’s not a question.
I take a breath and step forward, the Survival logo burning against the back of the stage.
This is it. This is everything.
A white-hot spotlight finds me and tracks my every move, each of the guys having one of their own as they join me on stage.
The first downbeat hits like a bullet. Keaton’s snare, ruthless and surgical, splitting the silence into raw electricity.
It’s the count-in, the old reliable, the four-stroke gospel that’s gotten me through every show since I was sixteen.
By the third hit, Nash’s bass kicks in, so deep it rattles the hollow of my chest. It’s not only a rhythm; it’s a hand at my back, pushing me forward into the glare.
I step up to the mic. My boots are black and heavy, toes scuffed, the only thing keeping me rooted to the floor.
The new outfit is a dare—a tangle of black leather, rhinestones punched into the seams, and a crop top Nash made by slashing up one of my old concert tees.
I can’t feel the cold anymore, only the hungry pull of the spotlight, the world collapsing down to this one perfect point.
The band slams into the opening riff: Darius and Blake, a latticework of sound that’s sharp enough to draw blood. There’s a rush of air from the monitors at my feet, the first vibration in my lungs, and—
I sing.
The sound that comes out isn’t the perfect notes of an angel.
It’s lower, meaner, threaded with gravel and heat.
The old voice would have sweetened the melody, layered it in candy glass.
This one claws its way up the scale, each note a blade.
I almost flinch, but then I see the front row—girls in eyeliner and thrift-store leather, eyes wide, mouths open, hungry for what’s next.
I give it to them. I throw myself into the verse, every line a dare to the people who said I was done.
The lights rotate, blue into red, washing the band in a warzone glow.
Nash stalks the edge of the riser, headbanging so hard I worry he’ll shake the piercing out of his lip.
Keaton’s arms are a blur, sweat spraying off his knuckles every time he comes down on the crash.
Darius, eyes closed, hits the keyboard with passion; Blake’s face is rapt, his fingers dancing over the strings with a technical perfection that would leave his former instructor speechless.