Chapter 25
“ O w.” A red-hot burst of pain radiates outward from my tailbone. My teeth clacking together, I lose my grip on the stack of Tempest versus Brutal Strength T-shirts I was carrying to the merch booth.
“Clumsy owl,” Mark says, and his three friends who are all wearing football varsity jackets like him hoot as they stare down at me.
“Leave me alone.” I pretend to ignore them and gather the scattered shirts into a pile.
“You’re such a freak.” Someone spits on me.
As tears burn behind my eyes, I use one of the T-shirts to wipe the sticky spittle from my cheek.
“Loser.” One of the boys kicks my leg. I experience another burst of pain. This one takes my breath away for a moment.
“Go away,” I cry. Scrambling away from my tormentors, I stand while they laugh at me. They don’t care that they hurt me, that their words have crawled under my skin, releasing their toxic poison. To them, I’m barely a person.
“Not done with you yet.” Mark grabs my arm, nearly yanking it out of its socket.
“Don’t touch me.” I wrench my arm free. Hugging the T-shirts to my chest, my heart hammers in fear. I’m alone. Anyone who might help me is at the concert. Taking another step backward, I bump into one of them and get pushed forward. I stumble into Mark, bouncing off the quarterback’s solid chest.
“Your tits are the one nice thing about you, owl.” He cups my breasts.
“Don’t touch me.” I jerk away, bile burning my throat.
“Or what?” Stepping toward me, he takes away the freedom I gained.
“I’ll scream.”
“I like screaming. Didn’t your sister tell you?” He chuckles darkly and so do his friends.
Tears blur my vision as I shake my head. I wish I hadn’t come; wish I hadn’t worn my hair down; wish I hadn’t borrowed Harmony’s low-cut pink blouse.
“Clumsy of you to drop everything.” Mark roughly grasps my chin.
“Leave me alone.” I try to move past him, but he grabs my upper arm. His grip stings as he whirls me around.
“Know a good way to shut you the fuck up.”
I crash into him, and my breath rushes out of me.
“Oh, there you are.” Harmony steps out of the shadow of a nearby booth. She tilts her head as Mark shoves me away. “What’s going on?” she asks.
“Nothing, babe. Your sister’s clumsy. She tripped.” He gives me a threatening look on his way to her that isn’t necessary. He and his friends have been torturing me all year. I know to keep my mouth shut. Revulsion like a thousand icy needles stings my skin as he kisses her. I don’t know what she sees in him.
“Aren’t you expecting Bo today?” Harmony asks me as Mark tucks her into his side.
“Not sure he’s coming.” I avoid making eye contact with anyone but Harmony. Bo and I made plans to meet backstage, but that was weeks ago. “Gotta go. See you later.” I drop the T-shirts on the counter and run away.
When I reach the backside of Hope House’s vendor booth, my cell dings. I glance at the screen. My lips curve into a smile. It’s Bo. He’s here, and he wants me to meet him backstage.
Darting in and around people and vendor booths, my heart skips excitedly, but my progress is maddingly slow. It seems like everyone has chosen this moment to head for the outdoor amphitheater.
I’m sweaty and breathless by the time I finally arrive backstage. Searching for Bo amid hundreds of pieces of equipment and not finding him, my enthusiasm dwindles. I haven’t talked to him in weeks. Sure, I picked up the phone many times and started to call him, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to know how sad my life has become.
Setting all that aside, I find a place off to the side of all the activity, and I wait. I touch my glasses. Nervous, my heart flutters like it’s a baby bird trying out its new wings.
Can Bo and I pick up where we left off? Will he look at me like he once did? Or will he take one look at me and guess everything I’ve been trying to hide?
I reread his message.
Bo: Meet me backstage. We need to talk.
Maybe we aren’t picking up where we left off. Maybe he wants to tell me our friendship is over.
I bite down on my lip. Feeling anxious, I shift on my feet. I decide maybe I don’t want to see him at all. Drifting backward, I find a shadowed nook behind a stack of amps. Sliding to the floor, I bring my knees up to my chin.
Don’t be a baby, Peace. I swallow hard and blink back tears. After using my passcode to open my phone, I take my glasses off and put them in my pocket, then bring up my current book on my app and start reading.
Bo
“Why can’t I play onstage with you?” I ask my dad.
“You know why.” Dad folds his arms over his chest while roadies scurry around us.
“Because of school.” I frown.
“Because this is the second school that you’re in danger of getting kicked out of.” His mouth forms a displeased line. “Fighting again. When are you ever going to learn?”
“I didn’t start it.” But I know he doesn’t give a shit. He already has it all planned out; the even shittier place he wants to send me if the Academy doesn’t work out. He can’t fucking stand to have me around. Well, the feeling is mutual. Carson, the guys, and I, we have plans. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be on my own and completely out of his life.
“But you finished it.” His brows crash together. “Is that it?”
“Yeah, Dad.” My hands fist and my arms stiffen at my sides. “I’m not going to be the guy who constantly gets shit on.”
“If you lay low?—”
“You fucking told everyone I have dyslexia,” I cut him off.
“Mr. Jackson.” A tech wearing a black shirt with the Tempest hurricane logo appears. “Mr. Jinkins is asking for you.”
“Right.” My dad nods at him, then shifts to regard me. “I gotta go. We’ll talk more about this later.”
“I’ll come with you.” I don’t wait for his permission. I just follow him, hurrying my steps to keep up with his longer strides.
“You’re not playing with the band today, Bo.” He gives me a stern glance that makes me feel small.
“I hear you,” I mutter. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the loud static of his disapproval. “I’ll just watch the show.” Look for Peace and know she’ll understand the fucking irony of Tempest choosing “Listen” to compete against Brutal Strength. Listening is the last thing my old man or hers knows how to do.
As my dad and the rest of the band go through their preperformance preparation, I glance at my phone, but there’s no reply from Peace.
I’m irritated. I want to see her, but I pass time watching what’s going on. The taping down of power cords. The tuning of instruments. The mic checks. I’ve seen it before. This isn’t my first time backstage. What really gets me buzzing is the excitement. The anticipation of performing is almost as big a charge as the music itself, which is a thrill that shoots straight through the center of my black heart.
My focus lasers in on my dad as he takes his Les Paul from his guitar tech. With my fingertips burning, I long to pluck the steel strings, but I haven’t touched his guitar since Christmas when Peace and I got into all that trouble.
My gut tightens as Dad clips his guitar to the strap and King taps on his drums. It’s almost showtime and I haven’t heard from Peace. That makes me angry. We have that promise between us. I haven’t forgotten mine, but what about her? Where the fuck is she?
I move to another spot backstage. Making another sweep of the area, including the audience, I find her.
My heart goes electric. Wearing a hot pink sundress that matches her sunglasses, Peace is a thrill like no other.
But I wish I could see her eyes. The first time I met her, those expressive eyes were what I noticed, then she shared the rest of her, and I was hooked.
Peace Jinkins is smart, but she doesn’t treat me like I’m dumb. She’s sweet, not because she wants something, but because that’s just the way she is. Being with her makes me feel like I did on our last family vacation, the one before my dyslexia diagnosis. When I’m with her, I can almost feel the warmth of the sun on my skin and hear the soothing gurgle of the river as it flows over the polished stones. Peace smooths my rough edges.
Only smooth isn’t what I’m feeling as a guy takes the chair beside hers.
My gaze tinges red watching him reach for her hand.
Not only has Peace decided to ignore my text, she seems to have replaced me. Carson was right all those weeks ago. She has moved on.