62-Kit
The paint’s cold, sticky, still drying against my skin.
Alyssa’s halfway through my stomach when the door slams open hard enough to rattle the mirror. Seth barrels in, mask already on, heaving like he’s sprinted the length of the arena.
“She’s here,” he pants, voice cracking with urgency.
My heart stops, then kicks back in twice as fast. I step off the stool so abruptly Alyssa lets out a startled noise, her brush dragging a diagonal smear of red across my ribs. I don’t care. I’m already halfway toward the door.
Louanne is quicker, shooting up from her chair like a damn cheetah. She plants herself in front of me, palms flat against my chest, the contact leaving smudges on my wet skin.
“What d’you think you’re doing?”
My chest feels too tight to breathe; standing still isn’t an option. I try to sidestep her, but she blocks every angle like she’s guarding the bloody football goal.
“I need to talk to her.”
“Mate,” she says, grabbing my chin and forcing my gaze to hers. It stings, not physically, but somewhere deeper. “You need to give her space.”
“No.”
I pry her hands off and step around her, only to nearly collide with Greg. He fills the doorway like a brick wall, arms folded, expression thunderous.
“Oh, absolutely not,” he says, shoving me back into the dressing room with one firm hand. “You’re not going anywhere near her. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until I bloody say so.”
“Greg—”
“And funnily enough,” he cuts in, revealing a stack of papers from behind his back, “that’s why I’m here.” He shoves them at me. “It’s a compliance contract. Zach’s already signed it.”
“Compliance for what?” I ask, though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
“You two are not to be alone together unless there’s a camera on you and an interview being conducted. For the duration of the tour.”
“Bollocks.” I let out a short, humourless laugh. “There’s no way in hell she signed—”
Greg points down to a yellow highlighted line, and there it is. Her signature; the same looping letters she uses on the sticky notes she places around the van. I’ve memorised it without meaning to.
“We’re backstage,” I say, my lungs shrivelling up like raisins. “It shouldn’t matter.”
My stomach drops like someone opened the floor out from under me.
“There’s cameras everywhere,” Greg says, dragging a hand through his hair. “We can’t afford any new footage popping up online. She’s getting enough heat as it is.”
The room goes quiet. We’ve seen the comments. The videos. Heard the speculation. Heat crawls up my neck, prickling under the paint. The internet is dissecting her face, past, and bloody fucking worthiness, all because of me.
This is why Judas exists. I hide behind the mask so Kit Rotherson can stay in the shadows.
“I know you’ve got feelings,” Greg says, pointing to the red-horned mask hanging by the mirror, “But for the sake of everyone involved in this tour, you need to get your head out of your arse and focus. You’re the one who said you were nothing without music.
You’re the one who said you were nothing without that mask. ”
His words cut straight through whatever armour I’ve got left.
“Are you really going to risk that?” he continues his assault, chipping away my defenses. “Are you going to risk Zach? You gotta let her go, at least for the time being.”
Greg steps aside, clearing the entrance. “If you want to run past me and go find her, I’m not going to stop you. But trust me when I say this; if you do, you’ll dig her grave, and the graves of thousands of people counting on this tour. Counting on you.”
Seth, Silver, and Louanne stand behind him, silent, their faces full of pity. They know what I know. If I keep pushing, if I run past Greg and find her, she’ll remain a target.
The internet will devour her as the press hounds her. Our label will bury her so that she never works in the industry again. And the band, crew, and the thousands of others depending on this tour, will suffer.
Every comment is the same: She’s not good enough for me. She doesn’t measure up. She’s not pretty, famous, or perfect enough for Judas.
It’s always about Judas.
I’m the problem. So, I have to be the solution.
The truth settles heavy in my gut, undeniable and cruel. I close my lids, taking a long, shaky inhale. With a hand on my shoulder, Greg gently guides me back toward the podium—where Judas lives, and Kit doesn’t exist.
Where I belong.
His paint cools on my skin, hardening into the armour I begged and bled for.