The Only Thing That’s Real (Only In Goose Hollow #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Knox

T he last note of “Goodbye” reverberates through the stage floor as darkness engulfs the arena, the only illumination coming from the thousands of phones capturing the moment.

I’m dripping in sweat and anxiety. My mind is on an incessant spin cycle, that causes my nerves to fray.

But not due to the usual spike of adrenaline I get from a live show.

I’ve been on autopilot for the last few weeks.

Most nights, I don’t even remember how we got through our set once it’s over.

Nobody seems to notice I’m going through the motions, wanting to be anywhere but here.

The banter I throw at the crowd between songs is well-rehearsed and inauthentic, but no one cares.

Not the band, not our manager, not the fans who spent their hard-earned money on a ticket to the show.

Don’t they see I’m drowning? Maybe they do, but they need me to be okay.

I’m their puppet on a string put on stage to entertain and give them someone to worship.

However, those kneeling at my altar don’t know what a worthless piece of shit I am. If they knew the real me, they wouldn’t be screaming my name. Feeding me their adoration. If they had been on the call with my brother and his girlfriend just a few short months ago, this building would be empty.

The numbness that usually carries me through my performance has become a cocktail of shame and disgust coursing through my anxiety-ridden veins.

The stage is where I’ve always been the real me . The only place I allow myself to be vulnerable and proud of the person the fans scream for.

But not tonight.

Tonight, vulnerability would mean being stripped bare and exposed as the fraud I am.

The concrete arena walls close in on me while the sweat coating my skin sends shivers scattering up and down my body.

I’ve never had a panic attack, but something tells me that’s what this is.

I have to get off this stage. Away from the crowd worshiping the false gods they’ve put on this pedestal after years of off the chart record sales and sold-out concerts.

The fans go into a frenzy screaming for more as I run off the stage. Our fans are the reason I get to stand in front of twenty thousand people doing what I dreamed of as a kid, but no performance is ever enough. They always want more.

Not stopping behind the stage where the band meets during our break before the encore, I run through the dark bowels of the building until the bright lights leading to my dressing room finally appear, lighting the way for my escape.

As I close the distance, the lights turn blinding.

My head pounds along with the thunder in my chest. Bile rises in the back of my throat.

I’m not sure if this is a panic attack or a heart attack. Either way, I need to get away from people. Away from this life that feels anything but real anymore.

In the distance, I hear my name being called.

I know we still have an encore with three more songs to perform, but I don’t stop until I’ve pushed through the metal door of my dressing room.

I can’t face the greenroom we all share.

The greenroom filled with people. Friends, the rest of the band’s family, staff, and those who want something from us.

Because there are always people wanting something from us. Always.

Right now, I just need to be alone.

Taking a seat on the first chair I see I try to take deep breaths, but there isn’t enough air to fill my lungs. I drop my head in my hands, focusing on the ground a moment before the door slams open.

“Dude! What the actual fuck?” Sean, the band’s drummer screams, invading my space.

Without lifting my head, I tell him my truth. “I’m done for the night.”

“I didn’t realize you got to make that for call for the four of us!”

I don’t bother replying.

“You know there is no show without ‘Settle Down . ’”

“Well, if you want to sing it, knock yourself out.”

Matt storms into the room next. He’s our guitar player. “What the hell is going on?”

“Would you all leave me the fuck alone? I need some damn space and I’m not getting back on that stage tonight. ”

Our manager, Trevor, pushes past my bandmates, his face red from running to catch up. “Knox, I don’t know what’s going on, but the twenty thousand people out there who have afforded you a house on each coast don’t care. They want what they paid for.”

I try to speak up, but he has no intention of listening to what he thinks will be a bullshit excuse.

“You only have to make it through fifteen minutes more. Not only do these Chicago fans deserve an encore, but Ryan Staley is out there.”

“Who? And why do I care?”

Sean and Matt curse under their breaths. Trevor stares at me, dumbfounded for a moment before answering. “You don’t remember the journalist from Vanity Fair who is joining us for the remainder of the tour?”

“Shit, that’s right.”

“Exactly. Tonight, of all nights, Knox, you have to push through. ‘Settle Down’ is non-negotiable . If you want to skip the other two songs, so be it. Just get your ass out there for that one.”

He’s right. They all are.

Miraculously, the clarity of doing what’s right for the band, my best friends.

.. my family... brings back the numbness.

The autopilot I’ve been functioning on kicks into gear and with nothing more than a nod of my head I walk at a steady clip along the same path that got me here, back to the side of the stage where our bass player, Jay, is waiting patiently.

“You okay, brother?”

He doesn’t know what a loaded question that is, but I latch onto his calm demeanor. He’s the thoughtful one of the group. I can’t bring myself to lash out at him, but I’m also not answering his question. I mean, where do I even begin?

“Let’s get this over with.”

Somehow, I made it through all three songs. I threw up when I got off the stage, then made a beeline to the bus.

When we worked out the logistics of this tour, we knew it would be our last chance to be together like this.

We were excited. Not thinking clearly when we decided to share a bus like we did before everyone started procreating.

Granted, we have a caravan of buses, that include one for each family, but nights when we hit the road right after a show the five of us ride together.

We still take the jet over long distances and have our own hotel suites once we get to our destination, but we’re usually still amped when we climb on the bus after our set.

It takes a good couple of hours to float back down to earth from the adrenaline rush of performing for thousands of people.

Tonight, I regret that decision.

Forgoing the meet and greet with fans, I’ve commandeered the room at the back of the bus, grateful for the peace and quiet that’s rare when touring with three families and hundreds of crew members.

Of course, it’s short-lived. Much sooner than I had hoped, the door to our hotel on wheels slams open, causing the knots in my stomach to tighten as I wait to see who came to bitch me out.

“McKinnon, you back there?”

Somewhat relieved it’s Trevor and not one of the other guys, I open the door from my place on the edge of the bed in answer.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

Trevor opens his mouth to speak, only to close it when the approaching steps of the rest of the band and their families halts him.

“Let’s just get to the plane so I can take a nap.”

“Sorry, bud, but you won’t be locking yourself away tonight. The Vanity Fair journalist is joining us on the plane.”

“I can’t. Not tonight,” I say, quietly pleading with him.

“Nothing I can do about it. Ryan will be with us until tour’s over.”

That wouldn’t be until mid-August. Shit. It’s going to be a long couple of months. “Whatever. The rest of the band can deal with it. Please. Just let me sleep.”

I made a point of being the first on the plane to not only avoid the invasive reporter who was thankfully on one of the other buses, but also to claim the bedroom.

I locked the door and myself away from everyone.

Unfortunately, my attempt at sleep was futile.

My mind shutting that idea down and never relenting.

Staying in my imposed prison the entire flight, I waited until it sounded like everyone was off the plane before daring to show my face.

And wouldn’t you know it, when I crawl out of my cave, Trevor is sitting in one of the cream leather chairs facing the door to the bedroom, making sure he’s the first thing I see.

“Let’s talk.” He isn’t asking, and he isn’t going to let me off this plane without some answers.

Of course, Trevor waited me out. He’s not just our manager; he’s the fifth member of the band and he’s one of my best friends. He and I, both being single, end up spending a lot of time together on the road, while my three bandmates spend time with their families.

Reluctantly, I tell Trevor everything. He swears he’ll do what he can to keep my shitshow under wraps, and I promise to keep my shit together and get through the next couple of months. However, he won’t let me off the plane until I agree to meet with Ryan Staley first thing tomorrow morning.

Relenting, I agree to the sit-down, and Trevor and I take the vehicle waiting for us on the tarmac to the hotel in silence. My mind whirls, wondering what he must think of me and the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

I’ve really fucked things up this time.