Chapter 33
SORROW
I know I shouldn’t, but I’m doing it anyway.
If Michael realizes I’m following him, he doesn’t acknowledge it.
After the show ended, he ran off stage. Tossing his guitar to one of the roadies hired by Kingsport, he bolted past me.
I waited about three seconds before tailing him.
He bypasses the dressing room and heads towards the back exit.
The venue is on the smaller side, but there could be a swarm of people already outside. He’ll get swamped with fans.
Maybe that’s what he wants?
As their manager, it’s within my right to tell him he played terribly.
I don’t think that’s ever happened before.
Michael never misses a note, let alone as frequently as tonight.
Devon didn’t come near him either. They’ve always had this chemistry on stage—consistent and beautiful to see.
The loss of that magical buzz didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of the band or the crowd.
Dreadful got booed.
Fucking booed!
Social media will spin this into a conspiracy about trouble in paradise. Bands riding too high often break up. It’s a tale as old as time. I won’t let that happen.
Michael stops just shy of the door instead of leaving the venue. He leans against the wall, pulls off his hat, balls it in his fist, and swipes his free hand down his face and growls.
“Michael?”
He stiffens. “Go away, Lex.” There’s no inflection in his tone.
I quickly debate how to handle this.
You could work on your delivery…
Blowing out a small breath, I step forward, closing the gap between us and deliberately keeping my hands at my sides. I tried to touch him before, and he jerked away as if I’d hurt him. “You told me that you’d handle this,” I start, keeping my voice even. “I’m starting to think you can’t.”
Is he going through withdrawals? Is this an alcoholism thing?
He keeps his eyes on the ground. I notice his jaw clenching, and his cheeks are pale. “Please go away,” he whispers. “Please.” He starts to shake. “For fuck’s sake, Lex. I don’t want you to see me like this.”
Well, I can’t look away. Not now. A single tear slips loose, sliding down his face and disappearing into the corner of his mouth.
Every instinct inside is shrieking, claws digging at my chest, begging me not to leave him alone.
Something is wrong, wrong, wrong—an icy dread tangles deep inside, twisting my nerves.
“Why aren’t you gone already?” he chokes out. Another tear falls. “Fuck off! Leave me be! I’m good, okay? I’m good!” His voice breaks as he crumbles before me.
His shoulders jerk and shake, his stomach sucks in as he hangs his head and cries in the dim hallway.
“You didn’t leave me alone, so I’m not leaving you,” I tell him.
He cries harder but silently. His hand covers his face as he ducks his head and drops his hat. I pick it up and clutch it to my chest. My skin itches to comfort him—a buzzing I feel in my bones. The issue is, I don’t know how.
What does Michael find comforting? What does he need?
My brothers are poster children for toxic masculinity.
They never openly show any emotion other than the stereotypical anger and aggression.
My dad pretends not to have a heart. But I’ve seen my mom rub his shoulders when he’s clearly having a bad day.
And the few times I’ve gotten emotional after an intense hook-up session, I wanted to be held.
None of those seems to fit this current moment, though.
While I watch him cry, I think about all those moments in the dark. The ones you pretend never happened—the ones no one ever gets to see. I’m purposefully invading one of those.
Everyone experiences those blips in time. We tell ourselves that no one cares or would care. If anyone knew how low we’ve fallen, they wouldn’t see us the same anymore. We’d be broken and weak. We’d fracture the perfect picture they have of us.
In our most vulnerable moments, we convince ourselves that we want to be alone. But deep down, most of all, we are hoping someone finds us and pulls us out of those black waters, drowning us from the inside out.
We want more than anything in the world to be found and saved.
With careful hands, I straighten his hat and inch closer.
He flinches when I pop his personal bubble, but doesn’t move away.
Swallowing hard, I gently place the hat on his head, the bill facing backward.
After a few beats, I slowly pull his hand away from his face, keeping my touch soft.
Bloodshot eyes meet mine, a furrow forming between his brows, and a question lingering.
It’s the first one I’ve ever been able to decipher from Michael.
What are you doing?
“You need someone to have your back. I’d…like to be that person, too,” I tell him, reciting the exact quote he said to me months ago. Amending it by a single word because I know that spot has been claimed already.
It stings, knowing that. Knowing that this man has something I covet, even if he doesn’t realize it.
The apple of his throat bobs roughly, his blue eyes glittering behind unshed tears.
“It’s okay if you don’t want me to, but I’m offering all the same.
” I squeeze his wrist slightly, hoping he can see the sincerity on my face.
I’m not sure if it will work or even matter to him, but I have to try.
If it can work on a cold-hearted, tiny tyrant from hell, it might for Michael. “Can I give you a hug?”
There’s instant resistance, his gaze becoming guarded. He searches my face, sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it. He holds it for so long that I’m worried he’ll pass out. Long seconds pass before he exhales. “That’s not a good idea,” he says, voice rough.
My face scrunches up. “Why not?”
He laughs bitterly. “You shouldn’t trust me, Lex. I’m…,” he trails off.
Frankly, I don't care about his reasoning. A chasm is spreading between the band. If I don’t bridge the gap, Dreadful will fall apart.
I might be jealous, struggling, but these people need each other more than they need me.
If it means hurting myself to keep them safe, I will.
I muster all my strength and hug the man who holds Devon’s heart.
A heart I want.
A man I need.
I hug Michael the way I think Devon would. Firm, uncompromising, and present.
If I’m fire, he’ll get burned too. I’ll brand him, too.
Michael inhales sharply. His arms hover above me. My arms are steel bars, sealing our fronts together. My head is pressed against his firm chest. The scent of his sweat and cologne fills my lungs. I slam my eyes shut, ignoring the warmth slowly building inside me.
He isn’t pushing me away.
“Let me be here for you, Michael,” I whisper.
He sighs in defeat and lowers his arms slowly. His embrace feels familiar enough to shock me. Behind my closed lids, my eyes bounce. It feels good and terrifying to hold him. Good, because I think it’s helping. Terrifying, because I’m too comfortable in his arms.
The spell breaks, though. He clears his throat and murmurs, “You can let go now.”
“Sorry,” I chirp and pull away. His deep blue eyes bore into me, searching again. I gulp and gesture behind us. “I should probably…”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“See you on the bus?”
Nodding, he folds his arms and chews his cheek.
Okay. Well, I guess I did what I set out to do. He’s not crying anymore. If anything, he looks wildly perplexed. I nibble my lip, squirm in place. “Thank you,” I say after too long an awkward silence.
His frowns. “For what?”
“Letting me show you that you’re not alone.” I offer a soft smile and turn away.
My head is a mess, and I know if I linger, I’ll only confuse us more.
We are back on the road. I’m holed up in the suite, chewing my nails to stumps. I haven’t done this since I was a kid. My thoughts won’t stop ping-ponging in my skull. There’s no point in trying to get any work done. Now that the concert is done, everyone tucked away for the night, I’m spiraling.
Everything that’s happened with Devon…and my awkward moment with Michael.
I can’t help but feel the same as I did when I all but ran away from Chicago. My heart tells me I can deal with being second best—after all, that’s what I’ve always been. If all I’ve ever known is being a placeholder, how bad could it be? Especially if it gives me what I want?
But what do you want, Lex?
Sex?
A boyfriend?
Love?
It all seems unreachable.
My entire adult life has been spent putting aside my desires. Some call it selfless. I see it as self-preservation. The evidence has proven to me that when I go for it, really let myself believe I have a chance at obtaining something just for me, it’s ripped away.
How hard is it to be seen like Devon sees Michael? When do I get that?
When will someone notice I’m afraid to smile? To laugh? When will it be my moment to have something soft and good?
Moisture drips onto my lap. I swipe my cheeks and sniffle loudly. It’s pathetic. How I can’t accept this is how it is for me. I’m not like my brothers, folding into a perfect mold for my dad. I’m not like the band, safe and comfortable in their skin.
Devon texted a while ago, asking if I was awake and if he could come back here. I didn’t open it. All his pretty words mean nothing when he looks at Michael like he hung the moon in the fucking night sky.
I have to get it together—and fast. If I stay up all night crying, my eyes will be red and swollen in the morning.
They’ll know I’m miserable, unlovable, and a mess.
It’s ironic. That whole internal speech I gave myself while comforting Michael earlier. People cry alone, hoping to be saved. But no one is going to save me. No one cares enough to wonder whether I’m okay or need a friend.
Hugging myself, I allow a few more minutes to ache. About thirty seconds into my full-on sobfest, the flimsy door to my suite opens. A shadow appears in the doorway, backlit by dull light.
I try to smother my cries and pretend I’m asleep. The door shuts, and the bed dips towards the foot.
“I can hear you crying,” he says.
Michael.