Chapter Fourteen #2
She throws her hands up, then slaps them down on the kiosk. “He’s right, you know? Your voice instructor said you need to practice with large crowds. At least this is better than his idea of performing in Central Park!”
I mentally cringe at the idea. That’s a definite no. “Getting me to cover entertainment isn’t much better.”
“Please, Rosalina!” Damion pleads as he holds his hands up in prayer. “I’m grasping at straws here!”
“I think you should do it,” Charlie shrugs with a small smirk before dragging our coworker into it. “What do you think, Steph?”
The server turns, a small smile playing on her pouty lips. “Rose! Rose! Rose! Imagine the crowd cheering your name.”
Damion cups his mouth, mimicking a roaring crowd. “Rose! We love you! Encore!”
“Rose! Rose! Rose!” Charlie begins a chant as she pounds her fist in the bar. Everyone around us joins in, and I narrow my eyes at the regular down the bar who’s also banging his fist in encouragement.
“Not you too, Howard.” I groan.
He raises his brows as he pounds his fist harder. He rallies a few other regulars into their weird chant until the whole floor is filled with men hooping and hollering like it’s a concert.
I close my eyes, my face screwing up. “Fine! But if I pass out, I want extra pay.”
“Yes!” Damion pumps his fist. “I’ll do you one better. Extra pay for performing your little heart out. The stage is already set up—”
“Yeah, yeah,” I wave him off. “I know how it works.”
He makes a sound of glee before gliding back into the kitchen to alert the rest of the staff of the changes. Meanwhile, I feel like I’m going to hurl.
“My best friend is going to sing!” Charlie shakes my shoulders, jostling my stomach further.
“I hate you,” I mutter past the building, saliva in my mouth.
“No, you don't,” She winks. “I’m going to record it for Dad.”
“Great. Evidence of me passing out will go a long way in court.” I’m being pessimistic, but can anyone blame me? Performing in front of a crowd is like a living nightmare to me. The last time I attempted this was months ago, when I had every intention of delivering my valedictorian speech.
A horrible reminder of my bullies resurfaces, tugging at the part of myself that can't seem to stop thinking of my past. I know all three boys were shipped off to basic training, thanks to Charlie, but a small part of me wonders how they're doing.
I loathe them. With every fiber of my being, but I can't seem to quiet the part of myself that's hopeless and always looking for the brighter side of things. That fragment of myself always yearns for the best, even if I wish the three boys who tormented me would choke on their own saliva.
I wouldn't wish what happened to me on anyone. My therapist says empathy is a good quality. I say she's giving me too much credit because, despite hoping they're okay, I want them to suffer in the military.
Charlie helps me get set up on the stage, and the whole time we work, I play the last months of my time in Mystic on loop in my head.
I don't know why I can't stop thinking of the pain, but it consumes me in a way nothing ever has. It’s a distraction from what I'm about to do as my friend pulls up her playlist.
“Do you want something upbeat?” She asks, scrolling through the thousands of songs she has saved on her phone.
I think for a moment, my hands halting as I reposition the mic. “Yes. Put on a pop song.”
What better way to get my head out of the darkness than to force myself to sing something bubbly? At least then I can pretend I'm not drowning in the agonies of my past.
“Oh!” Charlie shows me a new song that's been making its rounds on the radio. “That’s different from what you’re used to, but it's a hit.”
I stare at the overwhelming amount of likes on the song. Over one million people have labeled it a top seller. “That’s the one.”
She connects her phone to the speakers as I situate myself behind the mic stand. The stage lights burn my eyes, cutting into my deepest fears as my heart thumps painfully in my chest. A few locals are staring at me with raised brows, but no one questions as I take center stage.
“Close your eyes,” Charlie commands softly.
I do as she asks, settling into the darkness. The sounds around me are heightened—a bar stool scraping across the ground, a few people conversing at a nearby table, and the sound of blood rushing past my ears.
“Stop focusing on everything else, and feel, Rose.” My friend whispers.
Roman’s final expression comes to mind first, the hint of regret I saw etched into his brow like a sculpture as I fell down the stairs.
Then Maddox’s silent shock, his dark eyes wide in disbelief as he centered his focus entirely on me.
Next, Kairo’s wide-open mouth, as if he intended to yell something as I tumbled down the stairs.
It all bleeds together, making me feel something.
Resentment. Shame. And pure fucking rage. I wish them all well. In hell.
I grab the mic as the instrumental begins to flow from the speakers.
While I can sense the audience’s eyes on me, it takes a backseat as I let every ounce of trauma and pain fuel my song.
When the first lyric hits, it rushes from me like an ocean crashing over the sands—beautiful but devastating.
I pour my very being into the mic, letting my past fuel my present like some sick coping mechanism that's all mine.
My therapist is going to have a field day with this…
“You talk like heartbreak is some big revelation, but baby, I'm the main temptation. Oh, I'm your favorite contraction, sweet addiction that leaves a taste lingering on your tongue. You can try to forget me, but you can't erase chemistry.”
The chorus picks up, engrossing me as I focus entirely on my pitch and the sound flowing from me. I register a few claps and some whistles, but none of it matters. Not when I'm here.
“I’m pretty when I cry, every tear is a little cinematic. Got the world watching me, and your new fling too. How’s my success taste? Better than you.”
There’s a feminine shout over the crowd, causing my eyes to tear open. A blonde stands near a booth, her friends dressed in sequins and cut-off shorts surround her as they watch me. They’re young, maybe around my age, and look like they're having a night out on the town.
The blonde cups her hands around her mouth before shouting at me. “Get it, girl!”
My lips twitch as she gets a few side-eyes from the quieter patrons who linger around. She doesn't let their displeasure dampen her mood as she and her friends pull out their phones and start recording me.
The next chorus of the song shunts me into action, and I nearly miss my part because I'm focused on the small amassing crowd that's trickling in from the busy sidewalk outside.
I recognize a few people among the newcomers as Juilliard peers, and quickly regain my composure as I step forward and grab the mic stand.
The last thing I want is to embarrass myself in front of these people. Feeling the stand beneath my fingers is grounding, and I let the next part flow from me as my pitch rises with the high note.
The nerves seem to melt away before my very eyes, and I can't help the infectious smile that tugs at my lips as people cheer. There’s the occasional whoop from the crowd, and I'm so lost in the music that I don't notice how packed the bar has become until the song fades and I take a breath.
Applause and screams cause me to jump, and I'm completely unprepared for the sea of people watching. There are phones recording, men and women pushing to the head of the crowd, and Charlie screaming in the background as she cheers me on.
It’s overwhelming and shocking to see. That feeling from before—the power and control—returns like a welcoming hug. It settles deep into my fibers, rewiring and resetting my system in a way that no amount of night terrors or trauma can. It reshapes, remolds, and rebirths.
Something mended in me that day, and it was only the beginning.