2. Ezra
Ezra
2
Rain pours over us, sticking my black button-down to my open chest, as the eager crowd roars, and I step back from the microphone before breaking into the guitar solo of our final song. It’s been a wild night. Hell, a wild fucking week, and now the rain only makes it better. There’s nothing I love more than a rain show, and the fact that we’re in Australia is the fucking cherry on top. These Aussies know how to go off. They’re always our loudest crowd, and performing for them always leaves me on a fucking high.
It’s the best type of chaos.
Tonight is our final show for the Australian leg of the tour, and while I live for this shit, I’m more than looking forward to the next two weeks of rest before we hit up Europe. Nobody ever warns you how exhausting these world tours are. Night after night, performing in a different city. Getting sick is not an option, and if we’re unlucky enough to fall victim to the common cold—tough luck—the show must go on.
The fans come first. That’s been our mentality right from the start, and fuck they’re loyal because of it.
Most of them have been with us from the moment our first single ‘Hypothetically Yours’ was released. It’s been a fucking whirlwind since then with our fanbase growing day by day. Our label saw the hype building around us, fast-tracked our album release, and within two months, we were told we were going on tour. And fuck, that tour was a mess. We were barely nineteen, most of us had never even left our hometown, and there we were performing for sold-out stadiums.
We had instant stardom, and honestly, most of us didn’t know how to handle it.
The girls. Partying. Drugs. Alcohol. Anything that was thrust in our faces, we took. Our faces were splashed across every magazine, our cell numbers were leaked by the press, our personal lives were exploited for entertainment, and once the fans figured out our home addresses, it was hell on Earth. For a while at least. It didn’t take long for us to put together a proper team we could trust, and after that, it was smooth sailing.
We lived it up like fucking gods, and by the time we were wrapping our first tour, not one of us recognized ourselves. But this tour is our third rotation around the globe, and we’ve learned from our mistakes . . . sort of.
Management caters to our needs and doesn’t allow us to run rampant like we did in our early days, and on top of that, we’ve learned how to say no. No to the media. No to management. No to assholes who use us for their own gain. It was a learning curve, but you don’t get to where we are by letting others walk all over you.
It’s a balancing act, and for the most part, it works. Though come tonight, I can guarantee that balancing act is going to be sent flying off course because I don’t intend to fly back to the U.S. without partying it up one last time with these wild Aussies.
Two and a half more minutes, and we’ll be done.
My fingers work madly over the strings as the sound of my solo breaks the fucking sound barrier. Okay, not really, but I like to think it does, and judging by the way the crowd screams for more, I like to think they think so too.
My solo ends, and not needing my electric guitar for the rest of the song, I whip it around to my back and toss my pick toward the crowd before grabbing the microphone and leaning into it.
The lyrics fall from my mouth like second nature, and I watch as girls scramble in the crowd, fighting over the pick I just tossed down to them. I can’t help but smirk. It’s the same everywhere we go. Any scrap of us they can get their hands on, they’ll fucking try.
Me on lead vocals and rhythm guitar, Axel on lead guitar and backup vocals, Dylan Pope is our bass man, and of course Rock Huxley on the drums. The four of us make up Demon’s Curse, and as of six months ago, we became the top-selling band of the century. Not going to lie, hearing that news right before leaving on a world tour might have been the highlight of my career.
I’m just entering the final chorus of the song when a woman sitting on her man’s shoulders rips her tank up, letting her big ol’ titties fly free, and just like every time we get flashed, a stupid grin tears across my face. It happens every show without fail, and yet every damn time, I turn to Axel and watch as he struggles to keep his composure.
What can I say? The man is addicted to tits. He’s like a kid in a candy store, and if he could, he’d crowd surf off the stage and motorboat her. But the moment his gaze lifts to mine, it’s fucking over for us.
We giggle like teenagers who’ve skipped out on third-period history, hiding behind the science building and looking at porn because someone said something about a rusty trombone, and you just had to figure out what the fuck they were talking about.
I try to remember that I’m supposed to be a professional, but I barely get the last few words of the chorus out. Anyone would think this shit would bounce off me by now, but apparently, no amount of years as a fucking rockstar and having girls throw themselves at me is going to keep me from laughing at a pair of jiggly tits.
Who would have known?
The show comes to an end, and after bidding farewell to our incredible audience, we finally put an end to the Australian leg of the tour.
It was amazing. Such a fucking rush.
Performing like this for sold-out stadiums across the world is more than just a dream come true. There’s only a small handful of people who get to say they can do this for a living, and it’s the best feeling in the world.
The guys and I stumble our way backstage. I can’t speak for them, but the rush of the show has left me feeling alive. It’s like inhaling a line of coke without having to deal with the comedown that follows. Though to be fair, coming off weeks of back-to-back shows always leaves me feeling hungover, which is exactly why these next two weeks of rest couldn’t come sooner.
My downtime is writing time, and with the tour wrapping in a few months, we’ll be heading back into the studio to work on a new album. When that happens, I need to be prepared.
I’m the only one in the band who writes. The others dabble from time to time, but they’ve never felt confident enough to put their words forward. So far, it seems to be working for us, and to be honest, I don’t think I’d be comfortable singing someone else’s words. When I write, it means something. They’re not just words on paper. Every song we’ve put out comes directly from my soul, and it’s the only way I’m able to find peace within myself.
I’m a fucking wreck. Have been since the day I packed my bag and left Michigan behind.
For me, writing lyrics and putting them into songs is my diary. Eventually, every thought and emotion that’s torn through me becomes part of a song. It’s my coping mechanism, and so far, it’s the only one I’ve found that works. The only issue is, there’s only one person who creates such a stir within me and is capable of bringing out those words, and the longer I go without seeing her, the harder the songs become.
It’s been six years, but there’s no turning back now. She needs a better man than me, someone who can give her more than just a headline in a bullshit magazine. There was a time I thought I could be that for her, but the realities of my life and how I deal with it made it clear that this isn’t what she deserves.
She should have so much more than a life on the road, being reduced to a tabloid story, being mistaken for a groupie, and missing out on normal school and college experiences. Rae has the potential to conquer the whole damn world, and I wasn’t about to subject her to a life of following me from city to city, being nothing more than my girl.
Crashing through to our small dressing room backstage, I go to grab my shit, more than ready to get out of here, when the rush of thoughts from back home has me reaching for my notepad. “Yo, wait up,” I tell the guys, searching every corner of the dressing room for a pen.
As if reading my mind, Axel pulls a pen from a bag and shoves it into my hand, knowing I won’t be able to relax until every word is scribbled into my notepad. It’ll be a mess of words tonight, but on the flight back to LA tomorrow, I’ll turn that mess into art, and by spring, every household across the globe will be singing these words.
Getting to work, I flip to a new page and scrawl the words across the paper while Axel peers over my shoulder, reading the jumbled mess. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, reading the overly sexualized lyrics. “This better not be about my sister.”
A grin tears across my lips. The poor fucker. He’s spent years performing my songs, and while there are a handful that are very clearly about Raleigh, like “Hypothetically Yours,” the rest he has no clue about.
I tell him stories, let him think they’re nothing more than random scenes that play out in my head. But joke’s on him because the truth of the matter is, every last song I have ever written is about her.
It’s always her.
Our first single off our current album, Bleed for Me, is our opening song for the tour. I told the guys that it was inspired by a wild night with a French woman, but in reality, it’s about physically needing someone so bad that you crumble because you can’t have her. It’s about not being able to breathe without her, desperately needing to hear her soft moans, her touch on your skin, her lips on yours. It’s about raw, passionate sex, and every word that comes out of my mouth when I first hit that stage comes from those lonely nights when I fantasize about having Raleigh in my bed.
Ha. The fact that it’s one of Axel’s favorites only makes it funnier. If only he knew he was singing backup vocals to a song about nailing his little sister. Not that we ever had the chance . . .
Rock moves in on my other side and glances over the lyrics before laughing at Axel. “Dude, that’s fucked up,” he says before crashing on the couch and kicking his feet up. “I don’t know how you do it, man. If this bastard was writing songs like that about my little sister . . .”
My grin widens as he lets his words trail off, and as I finish off the thoughts tumbling around inside my head, I do my best to zone out as the guys rave about how epic that show was. We’re all fucking exhausted, but that’s not going to stop us from heading out to the rooftop bar that looks out over the Sydney Harbour and making the most of our last night in this beautiful country. Just as soon as we get back to the hotel and have a chance to get out of our rain-soaked clothes, that is.
Content that I’ve gotten everything down, I grab my notebook and shove it into my bag, not trusting it with anyone. I take this notebook everywhere because I never know when the inspiration might hit, but having it everywhere often means leaving it everywhere. There have been multiple occasions when I’ve left it behind in a restaurant, a dressing room, a train, hell, even at a fucking urinal. But even those times when I’ve left it in another city, nothing has stopped me from going back and getting it. These words are liquid gold, and if it were just my career riding on it, I probably wouldn’t be so pedantic about it, but it’s all of ours. If I don’t write good shit, the boys will suffer for it, and we’re not even close to being done yet.
Leaving the arena, we make our way back to the hotel, and within twenty minutes, we’re ready to hit up the VIP party at the rooftop bar.
There are fans spilled out onto the road while security works overtime trying to keep them contained, and as our SUV pulls to a stop outside the venue, each of us plasters on our fake smiles. “Showtime, boys,” Dylan announces, being the first out the door.
The crowd roars for him, and I watch his performance as he strides toward the door. He’s the best at turning it on for the fans. We could have walked through hell and back, and he would still have the energy to engage with his fans.
Rock scoots out of the SUV next, followed by Axel, and then finally, it’s my turn.
It’s a short walk from the SUV to the venue entrance, but that short walk seems to take a lifetime. Girls weep as I try to engage with as many fans as possible. I sign autographs and instinctively lean in when people shove smartphones in my face.
Women hang off me, refusing to let go after they’ve had their photo, and when one woman screams directly into my ear, I call it quits and continue to the door where the boys are waiting for me.
We ride the elevator right to the top, and the moment we step out into the VIP party, the place goes off. The DJ welcomes us over the microphone, and the eager partiers lose their shit.
Dylan fucking loves it, putting his hands up and striding through the roaring crowd as our manager beelines for the bar, hopefully to tell them our drink preferences with clear instructions to keep them coming.
The music is loud, and I’m grateful the DJ steers clear of our songs. There have been far too many times that we’ve walked into a party, hoping to relax, only for the DJ to play our songs. I understand it, of course. Plus, the fans love that shit, but when I’m out at a party, I’m done performing.
We’re ushered into a private area that looks out over the incredible city, and Rock immediately flops down on the couch. “Fuck me,” he says with a heavy sigh, bracing his hand behind his head as he gazes out at the eager partiers. “I’m wrecked.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I drop down beside him as Axel and Dylan hover by the balcony that overlooks the city. They gaze out at the sight, and I can’t lie, it’s fucking beautiful. We’ve been in Sydney a handful of times, seen all the sights, and done all the wildlife experiences, but there’s nothing quite like the city lights at night.
When our drinks arrive, the boys waste no time diving in.
Dylan remains by the balcony but turns to take in the two girls dancing by us, and judging by the desire in his eyes and the way they look back at him, there’s no denying that he’ll be taking both of them to bed tonight. A smirk lingers on his lips. “What are the chances they’re down to get fucked up?”
Rock groans. “Just keep it private,” he says. “We don’t need pictures of you snorting coke splashed across the internet first thing in the morning.”
“Since when am I not discreet?” he questions, already moving toward them. “Don’t worry about me, boys. I always keep it classy.”
I roll my eyes and drop my head forward, and even over the sound of the raging music, I can still hear their giggles as Dylan approaches.
Management ushers a few women into our space, and while they immediately drop down beside me, it’s Rock who gives them the attention they want. “You wanna have a little fun?” the girl beside me whispers in my ear as she drapes half of her body across me.
I glance up at her, and the look in her eye suggests she’s not talking about a quick fuck. “What do you have?”
“Molly. Coke.”
Damn. It’s fucking tempting, but with so many witnesses here, I won’t risk it. Like Dylan said, we keep it classy. Most of the time. While in private at home or in the studio, that’s different. Usually coke is my go-to, ecstasy’s never sat well with me, and with that long-ass flight tomorrow, I don’t want to be dealing with the fallout that comes from that.
“Nah, baby. I’m good.”
“You know, if you’re not down for that kind of fun, I’m sure I could please you in other ways.”
“I’m sure you could.”
Her tongue rolls over her bottom lip, and for a split moment, I consider taking her into the bathroom and seeing what those lips look like closed around my cock. Only Rock’s arm flings out in front of my face, pulling my attention from the girl beside me, and leaving the thoughts of her mouth on my cock to fade from existence.
“The fuck are you doing, bro?” Rock questions.
My brows furrow, following his outstretched hand toward Axel on the balcony to find the fucker with his phone out, snapping photo after photo of the view below. A fond smile pulls at my lips. We’re not the kind of guys who need to take photos like this, so I understand Rock’s tone, but I also know exactly why Axel’s doing it.
“She always wanted to see the Opera House at night,” I respond before Axel has the chance.
The woman beside me looks my way, and I suddenly feel so fucking dirty for having her this close. “Who’s she?”
I don’t entertain her question. It’s none of her business, but it needs no clarification for Rock. The boys know exactly who I’m referring to, and I’m sure anyone who’s truly listened to my lyrics and followed the stories from our beginning would have been able to put the pieces together.
Getting up, I join Axel on the balcony and look out at the stunning view. It truly is beautiful.
“She would love this,” Axel mutters, a clear heaviness weighing him down.
“How’s she doing?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Honestly, I don’t know. She doesn’t really open up to me much anymore. She’s hurting, but she puts on a show.”
“Always trying to be brave.”
“You know it.” He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a heavy sigh. “I know those first few years were hard on her after we left, but I thought at some point she’d settle into a new routine and find her purpose. And honestly, I’m really not sure she did. I think she feels lost, and I think she still hates me for leaving her behind.”
“If she hates anyone for leaving, it’s me,” I say bluntly, repeating the words that have circled my head for six long years. Raleigh Stone, the other half of my soul, fucking despises me. “But you’re wrong. She doesn’t hate you. You’re her big brother, and she always looked at you as though you were larger than life. As for feeling lost . . . don’t we all?”
“I don’t know, man,” he says, sipping his drink. “This . . . It’s different. She hasn’t been the same since we left. We abandoned her, and it broke something in her soul.”
I nod, knowing it all too well, but I repeat the same old excuses because they’re the only things that help me get by. “She would have been miserable following us from city to city. This wasn’t the life for her. She needs to finish high school and college, and then she’s going to forge her own path.”
“Yeah, I hope so.”
“She’s always been strong, Ax. She’ll pull through.”
His gaze shifts back to the view, and our conversation falls silent, leaving me struggling to breathe. I’ve always told myself that we left her behind for good reason, but Ax is right. We abandoned her. There’s no other way to put it.
I abandoned the girl I always thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.
Fucking hell.
The realization is like a shot straight through the chest, and before I can even get a good conscious thought through my head, I turn on my heel and stalk back to the chick on the couch. “Yo,” I say, watching her head snap up. “You still wanna get fucked up?”
She nods and gets to her feet, and not a moment later, my hand is pressed against her lower back, leading her into a private room. My manager steps into the room, guarding the door, and just like that, she slips her hand into her bra and pulls out a small bag of white powder.
“You sure?” she asks. “You didn’t seem so down before.”
I nod, feeling the desperation gnawing at my chest.
I abandoned her.
“Just do it,” I tell her. “Rack me up.”