September 1993
S?O PAULO, brAZIL
CLAUDIA
The stage floor shook beneath Claudia’s feet, even though the band had yet to go on.
It was the roar of over one hundred thousand people jam-packed into Estádio do Morumbi, the biggest crowd for which the band would ever play.
But it wasn’t anticipation Claudia felt as she stood alone behind a massive thirty-foot-tall screen set up at the back of the stage.
She wasn’t feeling the excitement of the pre-recorded hype music blasting through the stadium.
She wasn’t nervous while cartoon images flashed on the screens and caused the raucous fans to lose their minds.
There was no pre-show ‘I can’t believe this is my life’ euphoria while she waited for the guys to arrive.
They’d each appear at different entrances on the far side of the stadium (surrounded by security guards), then make their way through the surprised and delighted audience to the stage.
But Claudia wasn’t giddy for the crowd like she usually was.
There was only a deep sense of foreboding.
From the moment she got out of bed, everything had gone horribly wrong, culminating in a fistfight that would make headlines back in the U.S.
by morning. But the show must go on, as they say.
You can’t disappoint the fans, no matter how badly things are falling apart.
A few minutes ago, a vial of white powder had made its way around their tight circle, which Claudia declined.
Her heart was already beating impossibly fast. Adding anything to the mix would surely bring on a heart attack.
Instead, she had three quick shots of straight Cachaca to calm her nerves. (When in Brazil, right?)
They’d been on tour for close to four months already, and she hadn’t been able to get on stage sober yet.
A distant voice in the back of her mind told her this might be the beginning of a problem she didn’t want to have, but she wasn’t about to listen.
Not right now. Right now was about survival.
Performing. Earning her place in the band.
Finding a way to make the impossible work—loving one man with all her heart while being with another.
There was no way she could walk the tightrope of her emotions without a little help.
On the days when they didn’t have a concert, she was still staying sober, which to her meant she didn’t have a problem yet, but she was certainly dancing around one.
It had been an exceptionally rough day with Mike.
Rolling Stone released its June issue, with The Vows on the cover.
Famed photographer Fernando Ramirez had taken a series of pictures of the guys that included Claudia.
She fully expected the pictures with her in them to get cut or wind up in a tight corner of a page inside.
Instead, the editor featured her front and center on the cover, right next to Zane with the other three men in the background.
It was a silly photo, taken after an entire day of sipping champagne during outfit changes and lighting adjustments.
Their cheeks were pressed together, and Claudia had her tongue sticking out.
She looked gorgeous for once in her life.
The makeup artist managed to thin out her face, give her high cheekbones that weren’t nearly so prominent in real life, and remove the freckles that spattered across her forehead and chin.
She looked beautiful and fun and exciting, all the things she wished to be.
That woman belonged here, while the real Claudia was merely an impostor—a girl playing dress-up.
Only maybe it was her now. After all, here she was on stage as the sun went down. It was really happening.
She and Mike had gotten up at two in the afternoon, after a long night of travel from Rio (how could a country be so damn big?) They ordered room service—white toast with jam and a pot of coffee for Mike, and a bowl of oatmeal and tea for Claudia.
He was already on edge because of the size of tonight’s crowd.
His pre-show nerves had been a surprise to her.
She had assumed touring would be old hat by now.
But like many things in life, this had turned out to be the opposite of what she expected.
He was nervous and quiet and edgy when he’d wake.
The only thing that would help was a few bumps of coke and some whiskey.
No amount of affection or soothing worked.
It wasn’t merely his nerves that were creating a rift.
It was that damn song she had written. ‘If I Didn’t Have Her’ was becoming a fan favorite.
The crowds belted out the chorus with her and Zane each night as they sat side-by-side at the piano, glancing at each other with wide grins.
The sound of thousands of voices singing words she had written gave her a thrill like nothing she’d ever known.
Zane was right—it was better than sex. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t getting the credit or the huge payday.
Because each night the crowd reacted the same way—lighters in hand, swaying and singing.
Their voices vibrated through her, leaving her almost orgasmic by the time they played the final notes.
Her cheeks were flushed, her vision hazy, her body and soul satisfied in a way she couldn’t hide, even though she knew she should.
Mike was watching. Mike was sour. Mike was angry at the sight of his best friend and his girl singing about needing each other and wanting to break the rules like Adam and Eve.
But that afternoon, when Dean brought the copy of Rolling Stone up to their suite, she knew the trouble that had been brewing was about to boil over.
The second she looked in his eyes, she lost her appetite.
And when she saw the cover, her heart dropped to the bottom of her bare feet.
“Shit,” she whispered, staring at the photo of her cheek pressed up to Zane’s.
“Shit is right. Where’s Mike?”
“Shower.”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean said, “Maybe I take this away and we pretend it didn’t come?”
“Did you give it to the other guys already?”
He nodded.
“That’ll only make it worse.” Her gut ached, and she chewed her lip.
“The cover isn’t even the worst part. It’s the article that’ll really upset him.”
“Are you serious?”
He glanced at the ceiling and recited a couple of lines. “The sizzling chemistry between Zane and Claudia is palpable, raw—something not to be contained. If I were Mike or Sienna, I’d be terrified.”
Claudia’s shoulders dropped, and a wave of nausea hit her. “Oh, God, how could he write that? Doesn’t he know what that’ll do to us?”
“His job isn’t to care about you. It’s to sell magazines, and that shit’ll sell.”
The sound of Mike’s feet slapping against the tile floor caused Claudia to stiffen up.
“Oh! It’s here?!” he asked, hurrying over, bare-chested in a pair of loose jeans.
When he tried to take the magazine, Dean held it firmly. “Listen, you know that these guys like to stir the pot, right?”
Shrugging, Mike said, “Obviously. They always have to say something shitty.” He glanced at Claudia, then narrowed his eyes, his voice becoming deadly quiet. “Give me the fucking magazine.”
Dean handed it over and tried to step inside. “Why don’t I stay for a bit?”
“That would be great,” Claudia answered, her heart already pounding.
Mike’s skin turned dark red as he stared at the cover. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Look man, they’re trying to make something out of—”
Without looking up, Mike pushed the door shut in Dean’s face, leaving Claudia alone with an angry, hungover, emasculated, and jealous man.
ZANE
Zane woke that afternoon to a phone call from his pissed-off wife.
She saw the magazine before he did, which meant he couldn’t prepare for it.
His answers were sleepy and stupid and sunk him further into a hole he’d need to dig out of, but fast. The road was hell for a married man.
Simply being gone was cause for feminine rage, even though he was doing it for his family.
Not that Sienna would see it that way. Especially not now, after that God-awful article.
There she was at home, holding down the fort, taking care of every need their three children had while he was off with ‘her,’ cozying up on stage and doing who knows what with her behind closed doors.
He couldn’t explain it away. Not without seeing the damn article or the pictures himself.
But even if he had, he couldn’t have convinced her that there was nothing to it.
She knew him better than his own mother.
He was glad they were on the phone because every facial expression, even the slightest shift in his brow, imperceptible to anyone else, would speak volumes to his wife.
His feelings for Claudia grew steadily, the tour only serving to accelerate his attraction to a breaking point.
He was miserable. He couldn’t live without her, and he couldn’t have her.
Not without blowing up his entire life—his career, his marriage, and his reputation.
His friendship with Mike—the one person he’d counted on since he was a kid—would end.
So, Zane kept it all bottled up inside, waiting to get bored of her.
It’s not that he wanted to have a life with Claudia, because he didn’t. He still loved Sienna with his whole heart. But his soul—his creative center—wanted her. She had resurrected his career, as he knew she would.