20. Raleigh

Raleigh

20

Ezra is hypnotic on the stage. I’ve never seen anything like it, even back in Michigan when the boys would have their gigs in all the old bars and clubs around town, it was never like this. He was always confident on the stage, always knew how to command a crowd, but this is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

The bass drum rattles my chest as the sound of Jett’s guitar makes the hair on my arms stand up. But it’s nothing compared to the way Ezra sings into that microphone, and judging by the fifty thousand people in the stadium who can’t seem to take their eyes off him, they’re feeling it too.

He has a stage presence that rivals incredible artists like Michael Jackson or Queen, so alluring and capable of commanding the whole stadium. I always knew he could, but witnessing him like this is different, and as he gets further through the set list, I’m reminded of just how much I love him. Put all the pain and hurt aside, and it’s still right there, beating stronger than ever before, and as my gaze shifts to Dylan and Rock, getting to see them on the big stage for the first time, I realize just how proud I am of all of them, Axel included.

They worked their asses off to get here, and they deserve every bit of their success, and despite how happy I am in this moment, I’m also devastated that I could never put my pain aside for one single night to witness Axel perform like this. It would have made him so happy to see me standing in the crowd. God, the smile on his face would have split his stupid head in two, but it would have been worth it.

I’m not going to lie, being in his world like this has been crippling. Seeing someone else on the stage where he should have been guts me, and hearing the solos he created has tears welling in my eyes. But I stick it out for Ezra, knowing he’s feeling it just as deeply as I am.

I can’t believe I kissed him. I’ve waited eleven long years to feel the way his lips would move over mine, and it was everything I always thought and more. The way I melted into him, the way his arm snaked around my waist. It was like two broken halves finally finding one another and molding back together. In reality, that’s not at all what happened. We’re still just as broken as we always were, and despite how incredible that kiss was, it’s not enough to erase the pain he caused.

And standing here, listening to song after song, really isn’t helping.

His lyrics are deep. Some are ice cold, while others are warm and inviting, but no matter how they sound or the intention behind them, every single one feels like a knife to an artery.

The boys slow it down, and Ezra switches out his electric guitar for his acoustic before taking a seat on a tall wooden stool. The lights in the stadium fade out, and all I see is a single spotlight on Ezra as he strums his fingers across the strings.

My heart sings, reminded of the way he used to sit at the foot of my bed and strum his guitar as he worked out new melodies and tried to figure out how to fit the lyrics into them. I recognize the tune to one of the melodies Axel wrote right at the very beginning—before they’d even started doing gigs. This song was never released on the album, the boys wanted to keep it just for themselves, but when the massive LED screen lights up with a montage of my big brother, I understand why they did it.

Tears fill my eyes as I listen to the soothing sounds of Ezra’s voice while watching my brother smile at the camera. There are clips of him on stage from the beginning of the Bleed for Me tour, and then some from their earlier tours. As the song goes on, Ezra’s voice begins to crack, and I realize he’s about to break. It’s too much for him, and I silently will him to look at me, and then as if reading the very thoughts in my mind, his gaze shifts and lands right on me, and with his stare locked firmly on mine, he sings out the rest of the song.

When it comes to an end, he gets off the stool and makes his way across the stage, walking right over to me. He hands his acoustic guitar to his stage manager and takes the water offered. He tips the bottle to drink, but with every passing second, he doesn’t take his eyes off me.

“Rae,” he breathes, dropping the empty bottle and stepping into me, wiping the tears off my face.

“I’m good,” I tell him, capturing his hand and lowering it. “Just go. I’ll be okay.”

With that, he nods, and as he makes his way back to the stage, I realize just how unfair I’ve been to him. I’ve been so angry about the way they abandoned me and how they left me there at the hands of my father. I’ve blamed him for things out of his control, especially when it came to Axel. I begged him before he left to watch out for him, to keep him safe, and I realize now that I never should have done that. They were only nineteen when they left to chase their dreams, only kids, and Ezra was already dealing with the guilt of having to leave me behind. I never should have put that pressure on his shoulders, and afterward, at the funeral, I never should have told him he was at fault.

He couldn’t have seen it coming.

I never knew just how much the boys were dealing with until standing here in this stadium, never knew the kind of pressure they were under. In my young mind, they were just a group of idiots playing for their fans, but it’s so much more than that. They have the whole world waiting for them to fail, and when they do, the media is right there to splash it across every news outlet across the globe.

There’s no escaping it, and I haven’t made it any easier.

I’ve blamed him for things he never even knew were happening, and there’s nothing fair about that.

Guilt resides heavily on my chest as Ezra collects his electric guitar once again. He strikes the chords to their next song and turns to face me. My brows furrow, noticing the way Rock and Dylan both glance nervously at one another. This definitely wasn’t in the script, but as long as Ezra continues to play, so will the rest of the band.

Lyrics pour out of him about a girl he’d lost, one he broke into a million shattered pieces, but one that he vows to catch.

He tells me how one day, he will make up for the time they lost, how one day he’ll swim across every ocean to get to her, how one day he’s going to be able to love her the way she deserves, and it occurs to me that he’s taking his chance to make me truly hear him. To hear the way he’s longed for me, to hear the way he hurts, to hear how no matter what obstacles stand in our way, he will make this right.

And as he sings his sweet words to a packed stadium, he can’t take his eyes off me. Tears roll down my cheeks, replacing the ones he’d only just wiped away, and as I hold his dark gaze, I see the agony deep within his eyes, and I know that he means every last word with his whole heart.

“One Day” comes to an end, and as his attention falls back to his screaming fans, the music hitches up and turns into something a little more sexual, and as the dancers make their way back on the stage, a hardback iron chair is put out.

Ezra sits, lounging back with his legs casually stretched out, and as the lights fade out, I hear Ezra’s voice come over the speaker. This song is about pure, unadulterated lust. Wanting something so bad, it hurts, and as he sings in that deep tone I’ve loved since I was a girl, the dancers move up on him.

They roll their hips as Ezra moves his hand over their curves, one walking around behind him as the other drops down in front. She takes his knees and forces them apart before rolling toward him, her full tits rubbing against his groin. It’s the epitome of sex expressed in dance, and every part of me despises it.

Ezra doesn’t dare look this way, and as the crowd roars with excitement, whoops, and wolf-whistles, it spurs the dancers on.

They grind against him, taking liberties I’ve never had, and as Jessica looks this way and grins, I want nothing more than to gouge her eyes out of her fake-tanned face. She might be able to dance all over him for the world to see, but she’ll never have him, not like I do.

There’s no denying she’s a fucking bitch.

At the start of the show, she stood next to me and declared that my undying desperation for Ezra was too obvious, and I was embarrassing myself, and while that might be true on some level, she wasn’t the one kissing him right before the show.

She insisted that he could do better, which again, I’m sure is true, but when she told me that he’ll never want me the way he wants her, it became startlingly obvious that she truly has no idea who the hell I am. One quick Google search and she’ll know all about our history, and I’m sure she’ll be left feeling like an idiot. But her bullshit isn’t something I’m interested in, and all I could do was scowl as she sashayed to the stage.

Fucking bitch.

I have always prided myself on being a woman who supports other women, but then people like Jessica come along, and there’s nothing I want more than to bitch-slap her right across her fake titties. All I know is that the song he’s singing perfectly lays out everything he’s wondered about me over the years. The way I’d feel. The way I’d taste. It’s just another part of our story—the part we never got to explore—and right now, he’s allowing some skank to rub herself all over him while he sings about me, and I am not okay with it.

Call me a jealous bitch if you must. Actually, I know damn well that I’m a jealous bitch. I’ve been one since the second it occurred to me as a kid that I was too young for him and that there were so many other beautiful women out there who could give him exactly what he wanted without it seeming like a terrible scandal.

Yep. Even knowing he would never choose her over me, every bone in my body is full of jealousy, through and through.

Fuck this.

What am I even doing standing here and watching this? I know I’m a sucker for punishment, but this is too much. It’s not just making me jealous, it’s infuriating me. How can he sit there and let this happen knowing I’m standing right here? How could he have known about this during rehearsals and not even mentioned it in passing? Why would he try to blindside me like this?

I get it’s just a show, and it doesn’t mean a damn thing, but fuck. I hate this.

Feeling someone’s stare upon me, I shift my gaze to Dylan to find a sadness in his eyes. “You okay?” he mouths as he plays for his adoring fans.

I shake my head and hook my thumb around toward the exit. “I’m gonna go.”

Dylan nods. “Sorry.”

I give him a tight smile, hoping to convey that I’m okay, but he knows I’m not. There’s no hiding from these guys. I’m just as close to them as I was with Axel. They’re the only real family I have, which is exactly how I know that his apology isn’t just a sorry for having to see this. It’s a sorry that I didn’t warn you, sorry this is happening, sorry you’re hurting, sorry there’s nothing I can do to take away the pain.

Not wanting to linger on it, I turn my gaze back to Ezra and watch Jessica look my way again, her tongue rolling over her bottom lip as she tilts her head back and gasps, all while Stacey slides her hand up his strong thigh.

I can’t do it. I can’t stand here and watch as they tag-team my man.

Without a second thought, I turn on my heel and disappear, not willing to hear the rest of the song. Hell, not wanting to hear the rest of the show.

I weave my way through the backstage area, and with everyone already so focused on the show and being where they need to be, not a single person questions where the hell I’m going.

Making my way out into the cool Paris night, I start walking. If I were smart, I’d order an Uber, but like I said, I’m a sucker for punishment. The air is refreshing and helps to somewhat clear my head, and by the time I walk twenty minutes back to the hotel, all I want to do is forget.

Making my way to the elevator, I get in and reach for the button for my floor, when my gaze settles on the word heated pool. My brow arches, and having nothing else to do with the rest of my night, I press the corresponding button.

The elevator arrives in no time, and as I step out, I find a luxurious heated pool that looks out over Paris. Parts of the pool are indoors while the rest is outside. The lights are out, and as I gaze over the signage on the wall, I realize the pool closed a few hours ago, but my access card gives me and the boys full, all-hours access to every facility available in the hotel at any time we desire. I guess it pays to be rolling with the VIPs.

Calling down to the lobby, I order a bottle of champagne and strip out of my clothes. It would have been nice if I’d brought a bikini with me, but apparently, girls who live out of the back of their car simply can’t afford the luxury of owning swimwear.

Leaving my jeans and top on the bench, I roll my hair up into a bun and step into the heated pool in nothing but my black bra and thong. The city lights illuminate the pool, and as I wade through the water and out into the open air, my gaze lingers on the steam rolling off the top of the water.

This is perfect. Just what I need.

I make my way right over to the edge and prop my arms on the side as I gaze out at the beautiful Paris views. It’s insane to think this is where I am right now. Only three days ago, I was locked in a shitty motel room with the TV stand barricading the door, just in case anyone decided to pay me an unexpected visit. And now, I’m in a heated pool overlooking the beautiful Parisian city views. I can barely wrap my head around it.

And yet, a piece of me feels more pathetic than ever.

I was the girl he walked away from. The girl he never crossed the line with. The loser who waited years for him to come back to her. And now I’m here as his marketing manager, chasing him around the world like a lost puppy desperate for affection.

He never kissed me, not in the way I wanted to be kissed. Never touched me how I needed to be touched, and then he was gone. Just being here is a slap in the face, and yet, not a single piece of me could ever be convinced to go back home.

I’d rather be Ezra’s emotional punching bag than go back to living out of my car or being my father’s pawn to use and abuse.

The sound of people approaching has me stiffening, and as I glance back over my shoulder, I immediately relax, finding two of the hotel employees. One carries a bottle of champagne and a glass, while the other holds a perfectly folded towel.

“Miss Stone,” the champagne wielder says in a thick French accent. He bows his head, and I gingerly make my way to the side of the pool, watching him pop the top of the champagne and begin filling the glass.

He hands it to me, and I don’t hesitate to take a sip. “Shall I leave the bottle?” he asks as the other guy places the towel down on the bench next to my discarded clothes.

“Please do,” I say with a fond smile, more than able to get used to this level of luxury, but I suppose I shouldn’t become too accustomed to it. After all, the tour will be complete in four months, and after that, I’ll be back on my own. Though, I’ll have the funds to purchase my own home and make a decent start for myself. Unless Lenny decides I’m irreplaceable and sends me on the next tour with a band that won’t make me relive my agony every second I see their faces.

The man places the bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice by the side of the pool, and not a moment later, the two men scurry off, leaving me to my peace. With my glass in hand, I drift back through the warm water, sipping my champagne and taking in the night sky. Despite the pain from watching Ezra on stage, I think this might be the happiest I’ve been in the past eight years.

My champagne goes down like a treat, and before I know it, my glass is empty. As I turn around to go refill my glass, a wave of goosebumps rises on my skin. I lift my gaze, and there he is, sitting right there next to my clothes with his elbows braced against his knees and his heart hanging out on his sleeve for the world to see.

Ezra fucking Knight.

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