Chapter One Violet Two Years Later
Chapter One
Violet
Two Years Later
Don’t choke.
That’s what I tell myself every time I get ready to step out on stage. I’m not sure why I do it. It always psychs me out and makes my insides churn. I should give myself a better pep talk, but I guess I’m a glutton for punishment.
The worst part? It’s not the stage fright that has me feeling like my burp will land on the floor.
It’s the thought of my shimmery, silver mask slipping, my platinum blonde wig coming off, or my makeup getting smeared enough to show my face.
I fear any part of my fake exterior breaking, leaving the real me to show through the cracks.
Being seen for who I am is what makes my heart stutter.
I wish I had my worry stone so I could at least have something to do with my hands, but of course, it’s in my jacket. This costume didn’t exactly come equipped with pockets.
The bottom of my skin-tight bodysuit rides just to the top of my thighs, leaving a nice teaser of creamy pale skin between the suit and my thigh-high white boots.
Everything shimmers, of course, which matches the masquerade-style mask that hides the top half of my face, leaving only the deep purple of my colored contacts showing through.
Bright red lipstick coats my pouty lips; that, combined with my purple eyes, is the signature look of my Solace persona.
Adjusting the bottom of my bodysuit, I grab the microphone from my stage manager, Michel, catching a whiff of his cologne. In return, he gives me a wink and a quick swat on my backside.
Normally, someone touching me would leave them staring at the business end of a temper tantrum. Luckily for both of us, my tight ass isn’t what pitches his tent. I’d have to have a bunch more plumbing in my front region, if ya know what I mean.
The crowd cheers as soon as my boots hit the same stage that Billy Joel has performed on countless times. With as many shows as I’ve performed, I’ll never get over the idea that I step onto the same walkways as the big stars.
Even if Solace is one.
“Hello, New York!” I shout into the mic, dragging out the words as I extend my free hand into the air.
The sound is almost deafening with a sold-out show in Madison Square Garden.
I feel my cheeks brush my mask as my smile widens.
Even though I find it hard to believe sometimes, I’m beyond proud of myself as my eyes scan the thousands of faces surrounding me. Those who want to hear me sing.
Good thing they like me. Could you imagine stepping out onto this stage in front of twenty thousand people who hate you?
Or worse. Twenty thousand zombies?
I’m still not convinced they won’t take over the world someday.
“SOLACE. SOLACE. SOLACE.”
The crowd is chanting my alias, which is in giant glittery letters behind me on stage. I wonder what it would feel like to hear them yell my true name.
“VIOLET. VIOLET. VIOLET.”
But that’s just a pipe dream. They would find me if I shared my real name.
Being a singer is all I’ve wanted since I was a child, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone take that away from me. Hiding my identity is the only way to continue chasing my dreams. Thankfully, I have a damn good team keeping it an ironclad secret.
When I was growing up, my mom worked two jobs just to get me to and from singing lessons. Even though she doesn’t know I am following through on that dream as an adult, I refuse to throw it all away.
So, here I stand, performing as the face that everyone wants to see. The face of Solace.
The music picks up, and I start the intro of my number one hit, Shadow in the Spotlight.
The stage lights make me shine bright as the words pour from my bright red lips and into the surrounding air, enhanced by the speakers and the echoing crowd.
One of the more powerful lines from the song is sung back to me by the fans who are now on their feet, shining their phone flashlights.
“I’m shining for the world, but nobody sees the dark behind my glow.”
The crowd erupts as the song concludes, and I slide into the next song on the set list. The sound of the crowd floods my veins throughout the show, the same energy reverberating toward the stage as though I’m not Solace, but Elvis friggin’ Presley.
How is it that my words have affected this many people?
Imposter syndrome, perhaps?
As I’m belting out one of the highest notes in my entire discography, I hear shuffling to my left and feel arms being wrapped around me as I’m dragged off stage.
“Solace,” someone yells, but I don’t hear anything else as my hands hold my mask in place. “We’re getting you out of here!”
“Wha—”
It’s Michel. He’s dragging me off stage and through the hall toward my dressing room, where we run into the journalist I promised I’d give an interview to last week. I’ve been really bad at remembering all the reporters I've made plans with lately.
I don’t ask Michel any questions. I know what this means.
Someone wants to hurt me.
Once I’m tucked inside the only safe space here, my changing room, I try to make out the sound of muffled voices in the hallway. Michel and a few other guards.
Shooter. Take down. Solace. Safe.
Once they’ve gone back and forth a few times, there are two knocks at the door, followed by a low voice. “Sally the camel has…”
“Three humps,” I reply, using our code that lets me know it’s Michel and it’s safe for him to come in. He slips inside, his shoulders slump as he closes the door, and looks at me. The room fills with the scent of his cologne. Citrus, with a hint of lingering smoke.
Michel’s dark olive figure is slim, precise, and tailored down to the last cuff. While the rest of the world has security details built to block doors, Michel is built to control a room without touching it.
He’s not imposing in the obvious way, no bulky frame or aggressive stance. He’s composed with shoulders straight, chin slightly lifted, his deep brown eyes scanning like he’s already three steps ahead of whatever might happen next.
“It’s all right, Solace. We’ve apprehended the suspect, and security is engaged in crowd control as we speak.
” Michel’s face is his usual stone, not a hint of emotion anywhere.
A complete opposite of his husband, Tommy, who occasionally comes to my shows as a full-fledged fangirl.
His words, not mine. Michel is always a mystery, while Tommy is an open book, which makes sense since he’s an elementary school teacher.
I don’t respond, but he can see it in my eyes.
“Vi,” he whispers. My real name spilling from his lips is always a sure sign he means business when he’s talking. “This isn’t a prank. It’s a walking, breathing threat.”
“The show must go on.” I quote every famous person from history who has ever said those words.
“We’re getting a feel for the situation before we take the next step.” He knows I hate to interrupt a show for any reason. Fans pay good money for these tickets, and I don’t want them to miss out.
Michel’s calloused hand reaches to his earpiece, a sign that someone is talking in his head.
He doesn’t like it when I ask what “the voices” are telling him to do, but I usually do it anyway.
His dark eyes meet mine as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, so I throw him my best innocent smile and wait.
“The suspect—”
“What is their name?” I interrupt.
Michel stares at me like I have three heads. He would run his hands through his hair if it wasn’t cut so close to the scalp.
“The suspect’s name?” I repeat, slower this time, like I’m talking to a preschooler who won’t hand over a permanent marker.
“Beckett,” he says, studying me. “Were you expecting someone specific? Should I extend the search?”
I shake my head. “I just needed to know the name of the person who put me and my fans in danger. They don’t get to hide behind a mask.
” My eyes drop to my feet as the guilt of my hypocrisy threatens to drip from my eyes.
I wipe away the single tear, shake the emotion from my voice, and then look back toward Michel. “Was anyone hurt?”
Michel shakes his head and reaches for the electronic voices again. His eyes narrow, and he holds a hand toward me to keep me from cracking a joke. That means it’s not over. He was just given further information.
“They’re evacuating the building.” He adjusts the hidden pistol he carries on his hip, a little Smith & Wesson, but any bullet going through skin is enough to slow down a person, I suppose.
No, Michel doesn’t let me shoot it.
Yes, I’ve asked him before.
“I’m guessing that means the party is over.” I sulk, sinking into the couch on my left, my blonde, bob-styled wig bouncing around my shoulders.
Michel’s lips form a thin line like he’s confirming and apologizing in one quick movement.
He slips out the door, and I hear him instruct the three guys guarding my room to get me out of the building safely, which means they are to take me to the designated meeting place, then Michel will get me home safely.
I exhale, waiting for my next move, until I hear the word accomplice.
Beckett wasn’t working alone. Someone else is looking for me, and it could be one of them.
The Long Island village where I live is quaint, and I love that.
I could live in a mansion or on a secluded beach if I really wanted to, but I’ve always found it best to be subtle about my lifestyle.
Thankfully, my boyfriend agrees, especially since I don’t want my professional life to collide with my personal one.
Theo, my boyfriend, is the only person, aside from Michel, my agent, and my best friend, who knows that Solace and Violet are one and the same.
All four people having signed NDAs is what keeps my mind at ease, that and my shark of an agent.
Ollie all but threatened to cut off Theo’s dick if he even breathed a word about who hides behind the mask of Solace.
He’d lose his position as an NHL hockey star, and that’s the last thing he wants, as his career path is taking him to the Olympics this month.