Chapter 29
LARK
The small side stage is exactly that. Small. Set up near one of the main entertainment areas but not the huge stage where the headliners perform. The “emerging talent” stage, which is industry speak for “people will probably ignore you but we’re giving you a chance anyway.”
Through the gap in the curtain I can see the crowd. A few hundred people maybe, scattered around drinking, talking, scrolling on their phones. The sun is mostly down and everything is lit up like Vegas does best—neon and excess and way too bright.
Maya walks up as I’m hovering in the wings. “Alright, so you’re up in about two minutes. Remember what we talked about—big energy, really sell it. The executives are watching.”
My stomach churns. “Maya, I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait? You’re literally about to—”
“I can’t do the pop versions.”
She stops mid-sentence. “What?”
“The songs. The arrangements we recorded. I can’t perform them. They’re not me, they’re not even the genre I want to do.” The words tumble out faster now. “And if I go out there and do them anyway, that’s what I’ll be known for. That’s what people will think I am.”
Maya blinks at me like I just told her I’m planning to juggle fire on stage. “Lark.” Her voice is carefully controlled. “That’s not what we discussed. That’s not what the label is expecting to hear.”
“I know. And I know this isn’t professional, and I should have said something way earlier.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “But I can’t do it. I should have told you that a long time ago, but I think I only just realized it myself. I completely understand if you’d rather pull me from the lineup.”
Maya looks at her phone, then at the stage, then back at me.
Her jaw tightens. “We can’t have the slot empty.
You’re already booked, your name’s been announced.
” She crosses her arms. “Do what you need to do. But I can’t guarantee you’ll get the contract.
They specifically wanted to hear this sound.
So you might be losing everything here.”
The weight of that settles in my chest, but I nod. “I understand. I’m really sorry.”
“Are you sure about this?” She’s searching my face. “Because once you walk out there, that’s it. No do-overs.”
“I’m sure.”
She stares at me for another long moment, then sighs like I just made her entire evening exponentially harder. “Fine. It’s your career. Go tell the sound guy about the change. You’ve got ninety seconds.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She’s already lifting her phone back to her ear. “You might have just completely tanked your future.”
I catch the sound guy doing final checks near the stage entrance. “Hey, sorry, last minute change—I’m going acoustic. Just me and the guitar, no backing tracks.”
He looks at me like I just asked him to rebuild the entire sound system. “Are you serious? We set up the whole—”
“I know, I’m so sorry. Can you make it work?”
He glances toward Maya, who’s very deliberately not looking in our direction, then back at me with obvious reluctance. “Yeah. I guess. But you’re on in like sixty seconds.”
“Thank you so much.”
I move back to the wings with my guitar. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. The stage fright that’s been simmering all evening kicks into high gear now, mixing with adrenaline and terror and this weird sense of relief that I can’t quite explain.
I just blew up my deal with Tidal Records. Probably. Almost definitely.
And I’m about to walk out on that stage anyway.
“Next up, all the way from Washington State, please welcome Lark Reyes!” The voice booms through the speakers.
Polite applause. Underwhelming but expected. Nobody knows who I am. I’m background music while people wait for the race.
I walk onto the stage, guitar in hand. The lights hit immediately, bright enough that the crowd becomes shapes and shadows.
“Hi,” I say, somehow sounding steadier than I feel, which is a win considering I might throw up. “I’m Lark. Thanks for having me.”
Some murmurs. A little clapping.
A guy yells, “THIS BETTER BE GOOD!”
“Couldn’t agree more, pal,” I say into the mic. “If this sucks, trust me, we’re all gonna be disappointed.”
The crowd laughs and a few people are putting their phones down. The panic in my chest loosens slightly. Okay. I can work with this.
I settle onto the stool and adjust the mic stand. My guitar feels familiar and grounding, the one constant in this surreal situation. The stage fright is already bubbling up, that familiar panic that makes me want to run. But I’m here now. I made my choice. And I’m not backing down.
I start strumming the opening chords of “Wildfire.” Not the pop version. My version. The original acoustic arrangement I wrote in the aftermath of my divorce when I was so angry I could barely see straight.
The first note comes out clear and strong. Someone near the back whoops.
The first verse flows. My voice finding its center, my fingers remembering where to go. A few people near the front turn to watch.
By the second verse, more eyes are on the stage. The fear is still there, but I’m pushing through it. Note by note, line by line. People are actually listening now. The song ends and there’s real applause.
“Thank you,” I say, steadier now. “This next one is called ‘Burning Bridges.’”
My version again. The one with the lyrics I figured out at 3 AM, the bridge that builds instead of simplifies.
The melody that captured what I felt when I was finally angry enough to leave.
More people are watching now. Phones up, recording.
A couple near the stage stops talking to listen. A woman is dancing, drink forgotten.
When the song ends, the applause is louder, enthusiastic, with some whistles.
“One more song,” I say into the mic, and I’m smiling now despite the nerves still buzzing under my skin.
I was supposed to play “Late Night Calls” next. It’s on the set list, it’s what I practiced. Safe choice. Good energy to end on.
But my fingers move to a different chord progression entirely.
“This is a new one I wrote recently,” I hear myself say, even though I didn’t plan this, didn’t even consider playing it tonight. “It’s called Until You Say Stay.”
JACK
The hospitality area is crowded with sponsors and team personnel when I cut through on my way back from my final media obligation.
Guitar chords drift through the pre-race noise, a voice rising above the hum of the crowd.
Clear and compelling enough to make me slow my pace and turn toward the sound.
“This is a new one I wrote recently,” the voice says. “It’s called Until You Say Stay.”
The entertainment stage is set up across from the paddock, and there’s a crowd gathered at the railing overlooking it. People swaying with their phones up, filming. The voice draws me toward it like gravity, recognition dawning over me as I push through the crowd.
Lark is on stage with her guitar.
For a second I’m convinced I’ve finally cracked, that two weeks of thinking about her constantly has manifested some kind of fever dream. That my brain has decided to torture me by conjuring her image in the one place I least expect it.
But she’s here. The Vegas skyline glitters behind her under the floodlights and she looks ethereal on stage, like she stepped out of one of those dreams where everything feels too vivid to be real.
Every trace of the stage fright I’ve seen her battle has vanished. She commands that audience with the confidence of someone who was born to be on stage.
She owns them completely.
Lark
The second the words leave my mouth, I know there’s no taking them back.
This song. The one I wrote about Jack at two in the morning while crying at my kitchen counter. The one I’ve never performed for anyone. And I’m about to sing it in front of hundreds of strangers. With Jack somewhere in this same venue.
My fingers find the opening chords and my chest tightens, but I don’t stop. The first verse comes out raw, every word pulled from somewhere deep. The crowd has grown now, people drawn over by the music, and they’re listening. Really listening.
The chorus builds and I’m pouring everything into it. Every ounce of hurt and hope and confusion from the last two weeks. The way he made me feel seen and terrified all at once. The way I pushed him away because I was too scared to believe any of it was real.
People are swaying. Some are filming. Near the stage, a woman wipes her eyes.
The final chorus swells and I let my voice soar, every bit of longing and regret bleeding into the words. When I hit the last note and let it fade, there’s a beat of complete silence.
Then the applause erupts. People are cheering. Someone yells “YEAH!” from the back.
I did it.
I performed live without freezing up, without letting the fear win, with my own songs instead of the watered-down versions Maya wanted.
“Thank you so much,” I say into the mic, grinning now, adrenaline flooding my entire system. “Thank you, Vegas!”
More cheers, more applause. Then I’m walking offstage with my guitar and my heart pounding and this wild, electric energy coursing through me.
I feel powerful, like I just proved something to myself. That I could get on that stage and perform. That I could overcome the fear that’s held me back for years. That I could choose my own vision over someone else’s sanitized version of who they wanted me to be.
Brandon’s voice, the one that’s been living rent-free in my head for years telling me I’m too much, too loud, too ambitious? Finally quiet. Finally gone. And I know now that it’s never coming back.
I’ll find another way. Another label, another opportunity that doesn’t require me to sand down every edge that makes me who I am. And if that doesn’t happen, I’ll keep working at the Black Lantern, keep making music on my own terms until something clicks.
Because I’m done compromising. Done shrinking myself to fit into someone else’s box.
JACK