45. Phoenix St. Pierre #2
I nod. My throat closing. Words lost to the way he’s trying to comfort me.
“You’re on!” Hannah says. I’m not sure when she slid up behind me. But she places my drumsticks in my hand and gently pushes my shoulder, urging me on the stage.
I give Tom one last look. Kiss him, my heart begs. I can’t. Even if Hannah has seen us slipping in and out of each other’s bunks on the bus, there are other people backstage that aren’t a part of The Carraways crew.
“I know,” Tom tells me into a nod with an arresting smile. “I know.”
I nod back, adjusting my IEMs. “See you out there,” I say, and our hands brush as I leave.
He hooks my fingers for a short beat, then distance tears us apart.
Adrenaline already courses through me. I walk into the gray lights and fog rolling across the ground.
The chants cut off to shrill, ecstatic screams.
Everything about the show goes well tonight.
Tom was right. We turned it around somehow, and the performance was electric. Every thump against the snare felt more emotional. More savage. And when he sang, it was soul-fisting.
So as soon as we finish our encore songs and I’m heading to the edge of the stage—I think I’m over the hurdle.
Nothing’s going to go wrong.
I toss one drumstick out into the crowd like I do every night. Then the other—and I hear a sharp, brutal fucking scream.
I squint through the crowd, and when I see a tall girl holding her nose, blood pooling between her fingers, I connect the dots.
My drumstick hit her in the face. I can’t even tell how hard I threw the thing. I’m strong but fuck.
I’m not thinking. I jump off the stage, then hop the barricade. Fans let me through, but they’re also grabbing onto me, snapping photos. My ears are ringing as I’m moving through the crowd. The last time I was down here—nothing good happened.
That’s a fucking understatement.
The worst night of my life happened.
I can’t breathe. My vision tunnels. I’m just trying to make it to the girl. The crowd parts a little for me, and I see her. She has her hair up in two buns tied off with metallic silver scrunchies. She’s crying through the pain. Blood soaks her purple The Carraways tee.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Elsa.” Her hands are trembling, her eyes watering.
“Can I pick you up?” I ask. “I can get you to medical.”
She nods over and over. “Yes, please.”
I scoop her up from underneath and brace her back with my other hand, cradling her.
I find her friend, and we’re making our way toward the barricade and out of the general admission pit.
Somehow, I pull this off. It feels like an out-of-body experience.
Once I’m backstage, there are so many voices.
People scrambling and barking into walkie-talkies.
By the time I blink, I’m back in the green room with Elsa, and she’s getting checked out by a medic. Her friend holds her hand on the couch. I apologize to Elsa a couple of times, then sign some band posters for her and her friend.
Afterward, I look for my singer, but he’s not in the mix of people milling around. I head out to the backline area. Still no Tom.
My stomach churns, and I spot Delia and catch her before she can leave. “Where’s Tom?”
“Outside,” she says. “You might want to give him a second. His bodyguard wouldn’t let him follow you off the stage.”
Good. Good.
He’s pissed, I’m sure. I imagine there’s a screaming match with Ian going on.
“Okay,” I breathe out. “If he asks where I’m at, can you tell him I went to the bus?”
Delia nods, and she touches my arm in comfort. “It happens, Phoenix. You’re not the first drummer to hurt someone with a flying drumstick.”
That’s not it.
I must look as wrecked as I fucking feel.
The bus is quiet. Crew take longer to break things down, which gives me time alone. I slump on the couch in the front lounge and press my forehead to my knees. The urge to vomit flares my nostrils. I don’t know how long I sit alone before the bus door swings open abruptly.
“Phoenix?” Tom’s panicked concern jumpstarts my pulse. He hurries up the steps and skids to a stop when he sees me. His hollow gaze pins to my chest, and I glance down at my skin. My bare chest is smeared in blood.
“It’s not mine,” I say.
He sinks down beside me, his eyes scavenging my body for harm. “I’m sorry I didn’t come down in the crowd with you. Ian—”
“Did the right thing,” I interject. “Don’t be mad at him. His job is to protect you.” I wring my hands together. My breathing hasn’t steadied.
Tom puts a palm on my jostling knee, and it barely stops. “I talked to the medic. They don’t think you broke her nose. It might just be a contusion or ruptured blood vessels…something like that…” He tilts his head. “Yay?”
I can’t say anything. My throat tightens up.
He frowns in confusion. “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t about the drumstick?”
“Because it’s not. Not completely.” My mouth is so dry, swallowing hurts. My tongue feels thick. “I promised you I’d tell you about it once we make it through the tour.”
He lifts his hand off my knee. “No, you promised you’d tell me about what happened with your ex and ‘Tragic Hold.’ What does tonight have to do with that?”
“Everything,” I say, but I know that’s not good enough. So I tell him, “Being in the crowd brought back a bad memory. It was the worst night of my life, honestly.”
“Does it have to do with your arrest?”
I nod.
“Then why’d you jump down there?”
“Because I hurt someone tonight. And it felt like the right thing to do at the time. I wasn’t thinking how it’d just…pummel me.”
He scoots closer and puts an arm around my waist. I lean into him. And then I rotate more and he pulls me into a tighter hug. His hand claws into my hair, and I feel his lips press to my head. I’m not sure I deserve it.
I’m not sure I deserve a lot of Tom’s love.
But I think I’m going to keep trying to be someone who might.