Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
GIA
My eyes pop open and slowly adjust to the light cutting in through the bunk curtain.
I slept like the dead, forgot about food entirely, and now I’m wicked hungry.
But food means leaving the bunk, and I’m not ready to face JC.
Or the boys. I can hear them all coming to life in the lounge, the smell of freshly brewed coffee making my stomach growl.
Just another day on tour.
Except nothing is the same.
It never will be.
Maybe I should’ve thought of that, but not a whole lot of thinking went on last night.
With JC’s mouth on my neck and my legs wrapped around him, nothing else existed.
It felt good to let go. To stop being in control for five goddamn minutes and just feel something.
And damn, I felt his erection pressing into me, like it could pin all my sharp edges down.
That’s the thing they don't tell you—sometimes the scariest part isn't crossing the line.
It's how much you liked it.
I grope for my phone, more than a little married to it. Powering it on, I prepare for the usual flood: messages, fan edits, and a few low blows from the old guard who do not get me. Instead, headline after headline smacks me in the face.
JC Trenton Steals the Spotlight in London Comeback
Is Pop’s Lost Prodigy Ready for a Full Revival?
Gia Barlow’s Band Brilliantly Powered by Former Teen Idol
My stomach twists. I scroll faster, hoping to find balance. A sentence. A line. Something. But the narrative is already rolling downhill. Article after article with his name in the headline and mine in the subtitle. I’m barely a footnote in my own tour.
I blink fast, trying to absorb it all.
Maybe I should be happy because the buzz is real, the show was insane. But all I feel is this dull thud behind my ribs, like I handed the mic to someone else, and they started singing my songs.
Tai’s roaring warrior laughter bursts out from the lounge. Then Brady chimes in, too loud, too Brady:
“Bro, JC, you broke the internet. And Shae said our merch was picked clean! New orders flying in. Ka-ching! We be rollin’ in it now, thanks to you.”
A flame of despair burns a trail into my heart.
I chuck the phone against the wall and sink deeper into the bunk, willing the foam mattress to swallow me whole.
For sure, they’re all reading what I’m reading.
The sting of tears hits, and I swipe at them, angry with myself.
I hate being this affected. But I've worked too hard to become invisible now.
I clawed my way here. This is my moment.
And, as if I needed to feel worse, it suddenly occurs to me that the photographer at the gala had asked if we were JC and Gia.
The photo of us that blew up online—of course, they picked that one—was JC, head turned, eyes downcast, like he was about to dive head-first into my plunging neckline.
Caption: JC Trenton Steals the Spotlight—and the View.
My fingers fold in and tighten, nails gouging into both palms.
This is the shit I have to deal with for the next month?
It’s like an entire alien force of Sawyers has infiltrated my planet, where men rule without question, and everyone accepts it.
But you don’t have to, Gia.
I crawl out of bed in my PJs. I can’t stomach putting on my dirty stage clothes again for the dart into the bathroom.
I lock the door behind me, crank on the shower, and run water until it's blistering hot.
Crouching in the tiny acrylic stall, I make myself small in the only private space available to have a proper breakdown.
Showers are supposed to be short to conserve water, but I will stay here until my skin turns blue from the cold.
Until my tears wash away the humiliation of the day.
“There she is.” JC’s smile warms as he takes in the cleaned-up version of me. He’s holding a novelty mug that says GIVE ME TEQUILA OR GIVE ME DEATH. “Coffee’s on. Can I grab you one?”
A fresh ache quakes beneath my ribs. Why does he have to be considerate and the same wild man who actually bit my fucking neck, moaning like I was a life-altering experience? Why does he have to be more talented?
“I’m good.” I cut my gaze to the door. “Heading out for breakfast.”
JC glances down at my laced Chucks. His smile falters. “Want company?”
Tai and Brady, locked in a heated battle to kill each other on the dual video game, barely clocked my entrance. Without looking away from the TV, Brady mutters, “Pretty sure the queen wants to hang with the new king.”
My chest puffs with indignation. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Tai says, “that maybe this band is about to break through to the next level faster than we ever imagined. We found the missing link.”
“You mean our temporary guitar player?”
It comes out with bite, more than I anticipated. JC looks at the other wall, a faint flush coloring his cheeks. I see it in his face: the flicker of uncertainty. We had no privacy last night after Brady and Tai interrupted our explosive roll on the floor, leaving us buried in unfinished business.
Brady levels a look at me over his shoulder. “Why don’t you take JC out for breakfast instead of being a solo bitch? Show some gratitude.”
“Hey!” JC’s voice cuts hot and sharp. “Chill, dude.”
I hike a stubborn chin. Now he’s coming to my rescue?
I can’t handle this morning. “I can stick up for myself, thank you very much.” JC blinks, surprised into a whole new line of confusion.
“And thank you for nothing.” I stick my tongue out at Brady, who rolls his eyes in that perfectly annoying Brady way.
“Maybe you two should have fucked last night,” he mutters. “You’d be in a way better mood.”
I swallow down a string of razored insults, spin around, and storm to the bunk to collect my phone and purse. JC follows me, cornering me into the kitchen at the rear of the bus.
“Hey,” he starts, reaching for my arm. “Listen…”
I shove his hand away. “No. I’m not listening. Not to you.”
The sharp edge in my voice hits him like a physical thing, pushing him a step back. “Is this about last night?”
“That was a big mistake.”
JC recoils. I see the hurt flash across his face before he reins it in. “If I crossed the line, I’m sorry. I thought…”
He trails off so mournfully, I want to scream Are you that clueless? Last night was everything! Can’t you see past my level of petty?
“Don’t overthink it.”
I try to shoulder past him, but he grabs my arm. “Gia. Stop. Look at me.”
A long silence, while things move behind his stormy pools of blue-gray. Something comes over me, but I will not break.
“What? I’m looking at you.”
I’m channeling a full-Italian diva: legs planted apart, fists parked at my waist. Wet hair, no makeup, eyes still puffy from crying in the shower. This is pathetic. I'm better than this. And JC counters my brittle behavior with a low, intimate tone that sends my insides sloshing.
“Fine if you want to eat on your own, but can we step outside and finish this conversation?”
“There is no conversation. We were both wasted. Shit happens on tour, right?”
I shrug, daring him to argue, and JC’s bewildered expression is like he’s expecting me to say this is all a joke. My face flashes hot, and I’m already demoralized on reflex—I am that bitch.
Before he notices the glimmer of unshed tears, I hurl past the boys and shoulder the bus door open to escape into the tart morning air. All of London is back to drab and barren, the brilliant high of last night only a faded memory.
Fuck!
It feels like a rock has formed in my stomach.
My body pulls in on itself, the thin, sour rain smelling like wet disaster.
I have no idea where I’m heading. The roads are stuffed with bumper-to-bumper traffic, and car horns bleat at yet another tourist who forgets to look the other way at every crosswalk.
I pass a Tesco, a McDonald’s, a hole-in-the-wall curry joint, but the idea of food sliding down my throat, the mere act of chewing, is a useless farce.
I want to shrivel up and die.
JC looked at me last night like I was the only person in the Royal Albert Hall, even while the crowd screamed his name. But it isn’t particularly useful to fall for a guy whose bright sun of accomplishments eclipses the moon.
In other words: myself.
Instead of scrawling my thoughts into the pages of a diary with pink ink, I sort the fucked-up pieces of me into lyrics and music.
Walk miles every day and usually feel better by the end, armed with a workable tune to tinker on.
But after an aimless morning that starts with bangers and beans and dissolves into walking in circles, I’ve got nothing.
Only nervous expectation.
I treated JC like a right twat, as the Brits say.
Too chickenshit to travel with my band to sound check, I hop a taxi and find JC on stage, dialing in his favorite VOX amp. An apology is the deeply meaningful thing to bust out, but for whatever unimaginable reason, I start with a punch in the face.
“So, about your song.”
He glances at me, eyes guarded. “Hi. And what about it?”
“Since you tapped out, it’s mine.”
I’m in no shape to process the storm that dances in his eyes. Or his curt reply. “Is that what last night was all about?”
“I’m just sayin.’ We laid out the terms of our dare in advance, and you–”
JC cuts me off with a firm grab of my elbow, steering me offstage into the wings.
I feel more trouble brewing instead of resolution as he blazes a look at me.
“What the hell is going on, Gia? This morning, you told me it was all a mistake. Now you’re hitting me with this?
Forget it. And do I really need to clarify what tapping out means?
Penetration. Insertion. Real, actual sex. ”
My chest pinches. “Are you saying what happened wasn’t real?”
He stares at me like I’ve sprouted two heads. “That was as real as it gets. For me, anyway.”
“Because you had an orgasm. I didn’t.”