Chapter 32
HURT
I lead Devon into our changing room.
We have about ten minutes to cool off before we finish going through the rest of our set list.
I was going to wait until after the show to grow a pair and confront my best friend, but it’s eating me alive.
I’ve puked three times already since we left home, and that’s not even counting all the other times since that night.
If I looked at myself in a mirror, I’m sure I’d be sickly green.
Not trusting someone to come by and eavesdrop, I shut the door and lock it.
He arches an eyebrow when I face him.
My mouth is dry, nausea curdling in my gut. Every time I try to speak, words snag in my throat. I can’t meet his eyes, staring at his neck instead. The room spins, my hands slick with sweat, convinced they’ll drip soon. Fuck. Fucking fuck.
“I’m not mad,” Devon says when I don’t start talking. He sure as shit sounds mad to me. I would be too, if I were him. “If that’s what you’re worried about. Sure, it was a bit rougher than I’m used to, but I’m not mad.”
I’m going to fucking puke again. I can feel it rising up and up.
“Actually,” he says, glaring at me. “Maybe I am fucking mad. But not about that. Though that part was shitty, too. The real problem is this: you came into my house, cleaned my stuff, forced me to shower, and tried to fuck me. And on top of it all,” he growls, shaking, “you left me. Used up like a whore with a sore fucking asshole. What the fuck, Michael?”
Wetting my dry lips, I swallow the vomit scalding my tongue. “I’m not gay.” Saying it is the only way I can cope—the only truth I can think to defend myself with, even though I’m confused.
What happened the other night was…not me. I’m not that person. Not that way.
He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms. “Totally. Never would’ve even thought you were gay.”
“I’m not fucking gay,” I growl. “I’m…you…”
Why can’t I talk? Why can’t I look at my best friend?
You know why. You wanted it so bad you just had to take it.
I shake the thought away.
You aren’t a bitch, so you made him one.
My hands fly up to my head, knocking my hat off as I screw my eyes shut.
Just admit it, Michael. You’re a gay, gay man.
“Hey,” Devon says gently. “Shit, man. Look at me.” He touches my wrists, and I freak out. I shove him back, baring my teeth and snarling. “I’m not going to do anything, alright? I won’t say a word.”
My breaths punch out so hard and fast, I get lightheaded. “I’m not like that, Devon. I don’t…I can’t be like the rest of you. I’m tired of how people see us—how they see me. I just want to be seen differently, not lumped together."
He clicks his tongue. “People are assholes. It’s part of being an artist. Not everyone is going to like what we do.”
“They think I’m like Morgan. That I’m a fucking monster. A bitch boy. I’m not that way. I’m not,” I growl.
“Just because someone is queer doesn’t make them a bitch. Who the fuck even are you right now? You grew up with Phoenix! He’s gay as shit!”
I sound horrible. Monstrous. Vile.
I sound like my dad.
“Jesus Christ, Michael. Are you a fucking homophobe?”
“No,” I blurt out, desperate for him to understand me even if I don’t understand myself. “No! I…you guys are my family. My friends.”
“Friends don’t fuck their friends, run away, and then proceed to villainize them for their sexual orientation.” His eyes are alight with fury.
I hate how he challenges me sometimes. It’s like a switch gets flipped in my stupid caveman brain, and I have to put him in his place. To show him that even though he’s older, I’m stronger. I’m the fucking boss.
“Stop saying I fucked you! I didn’t fuck you! You’d know if I fucked you. You wouldn’t be standing right now.”
Devon’s entire demeanor changes. His hazel puppy eyes droop. Hooding. Flooding with something like fucking heat. “Is that a promise, Mikey?”
“You little shit,” I growl, cross the space, and scruff him. “Don’t push me, man. Wipe that look off your face.”
“Or what? You going to ‘not’ fuck me again?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him this is exactly why I haven’t wanted to talk to him about Germany. Devon can be so pushy. So damn demanding that I can’t deal with it. If I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.
“This is all your fault,” I whisper; it's nasty and harsh. I want him to feel how angry I am. “I was fine until you.” Grabbing the front of his throat, I force his chin up, needing to dominate him because it’s all I have left.
Devon is an inch or two taller than me, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m bigger, and I have to prove it. “You make me sick. Make me want to puke all over your fucking face.”
Devon flinches. I hate that I notice. I’ve never treated him like this. Like literal trash.
“Let me go,” he says. “Or stop lying.”
I’m not lying. I hate you. “Devon…I—”
He lowers his chin, looks me dead in the eyes, and cups my cock. I hadn’t even realized I was turned on until now. His big, calloused hand squeezes, and I bite my cheek hard.
“That’s what I thought.” He traces the outline of my shaft, readjusts, and starts…stroking. My grip tightens on his throat, and his eyes flutter. I hate that my hips grind into his touch. I hate that he looks devilish and smug.
A groan works up my throat, my vision zeroing in on his mouth. He’s jacking me off through my pants, and I’m letting him. “Fuck,” I grunt.
“God, you’re so fucking hot.” He kisses me. Just a peck. But it’s all it takes. I snap.
I slam him into the nearest wall, attacking his lips and humping into him like a psychopath. It feels fucking horrible and so damn good stars explode behind my eyes.
Spearing my tongue down his throat, I squeeze so hard I’m not sure how he’s still breathing.
I can feel him try to swallow. His hard cock bumps into mine, reminding me that I’m grinding into my best friend.
Kissing him like a savage. Wanting nothing more than to bury my dick into his tight fucking hole.
A knock breaks the fog. It’s loud and final. I jump back.
“Guys? We have to finish the set!” Phoenix says through the door.
Devon slouches against the wall. An obscene tent in his pants, lips swollen.
“Just stay away from me,” I croak, tucking my cock into my waistband and fleeing the room.
The lights are too bright.
The roar of the crowd punches through my earplugs.
Any other time, I’d be on cloud nine, dominating the stage. Devon would stomp over, rest his back against mine while we played the rhythm in unison. Oli has that role now. I shouldn’t miss the weight.
Our second guitarist lingers on the edge of the stage, shy even though he hasn’t missed a single note, and Jorge gives him moon eyes at every pause.
My fingers are sweaty.
There’s a sinking sensation anchored in my chest.
I know these songs by heart—could play them blindfolded. But every note feels strained. The air in my lungs is pressurized. If this nausea doesn’t go away soon, I’m going to end up hurling right into the crowd.
Do our fans know?
Can they tell?
Are those hungry, beady eyes there in awe or disgust?
Which one of them spreads those lies all over the internet? What would they say about me now?
I grimace, dropping my eyes to my fret board and shredding through a solo. The notes are wrong. The sharp ping of off-key notes jolts from the speakers. I focus, swiping and thumping my fingers over the strings.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
Cutting the solo too short, I launch back into the rhythm, sweat dripping down my forehead. If I look up, my band will know. If I look up, Devon will see how rattled I’ve become.
I’m going to fail. Fuck this up.
Jorge cuts through with brutal vocals. Phoenix’s bass drum is a second heartbeat. The empty space haunts me. Kelly’s keys accentuate the guitar crunch. The crowd sings along. Lights get brighter. My fingers slip, butchering the final verse. Someone boos. A beer can flies on stage.
Stop it. Stop it, now!
Some woman flashes her tits in the front row. A man crowd surfing loses his shirt. I can’t play the damn song because my hands are too sweaty. Bile travels up my throat. Stomach acid coats my tongue. I might pass the fuck out.
Thirty seconds left, and then the next song starts.
Twenty seconds.
Fifteen.
Keep going.
Another fuck up. Another slip. More boos. Phoenix fumbles his footing. Jorge’s growl is cut short.
Please.
I grind my teeth, breathe through my nose, and push through.
Nine seconds.
Eight.
Seven.
“Play the fucking song!” Some asshole screams, loud enough to hear.
Three.
Two.
One.
I mute my guitar and hurry backstage. Letting my instrument fall to my side, I snag one of the provided water bottles and chug. Water dribbles down my chin, and my vision goes spotty. I have to get back out there. I have to.
I’m not letting Oli replace me—can’t let him.
“Michael?”
I nearly jump out of my skin when our manager approaches. Lex. He places a gentle hand on my arm, his soft fingers burning a hole through my flesh. “Are you sick?”
Sick. Yes, Lex. I may as well be terminally ill. “Fine.”
Setting the empty water bottle down, I wipe my face with my arm and head back out on stage. Phoenix kicks off the next song, and I force myself to position my guitar.
Jorge silently asks a question, eyes confused and concerned. I nod briskly. I glance at Devon. His face softens. After what I’ve done, I can’t imagine how he’s capable of feeling anything but hatred. If our places were reversed, I’d hate him.
I’d fucking kill him.
Maybe that’s why this is eating me alive. I could be as rough, brutal, and uncaring as ever, and the man would still look at me like I painted the sky with stars just for him. How could I do this to him?
Dreadful wouldn’t be half the band we are now without Devon and his ear for unique sound. I don’t think I would’ve survived college without him, either. And how do I repay his friendship and loyalty?
A fresh wave of bile shoots up, soaking the back of my tongue.
I try to drown out the poison inside me with music. I tell myself that once this show is over, I’ll find someone to make me remember who I am. I’ll prove it to everyone that nothing has changed. I’m still Michael and not a monster.
My pick goes flying from my fingers, launching into the crowd. They cheer and scramble to find it. Plucking a spare from my mic stand, I struggle to slip back into the song.
Pulse after pulse of crippling guilt have my fingers glitching.
For the first time in my entire life, I don’t want to be a rockstar anymore.
For the first time ever, I want to listen to the voice begging me to disappear.