by Shey Stahl
I go for a run.
That doesn’t work either, and before I know it, I find myself at a bar, standing at the entrance. I don’t walk in.
I walk home and find myself staring at that goddamn cover art again. It’s probably the hottest image I’ve ever seen of her. And that includes that photograph from Rolling Stone with her face eye level with my cock. Thinking of that leads me to the shower and then you know, that leads to my hand finding its way south and I don’t stop thinking about her until I’m finished. Believe it or not, I haven’t fucked a girl since her. Despite me constantly trying to talk him out of this arrangement, my cock apparently made a friend for life and only comes to life for a feisty redhead.
To be honest, and you knew it’d happen, but I’m asked constantly about my relationship with her and if we’ve spoken or plan to. We haven’t even seen each other face-to-face and our relationship is the topic of every interview and every paparazzi who corners me. And her.
True to form, I avoid.
Deter.
Distract.
Lie.
It’s what I’m good at, but deep down, I’m terrified about seeing her again. Red… she doesn’t comment either. She smiles politely, teases them with snarky comments. I like to think I taught her well.
I knew eventually we’d run into one another and it becomes real in February when the Grammy Awards approaches. A year after the concert where I destroyed everything. I’m not sure my attendance is welcome. I’m warned not to make a scene, or how I feel about it, and I don’t particularly want to attend. I don’t want the first time I see her again to be at the fucking Grammys.
About two weeks before the show, Liz sits me down while we’re planning out the next tour.
“You look good,” she tells me, smiling.
I roll my eyes. “I always look good.”
“Still the same old Rev, even after rehabilitation,” she teases, curling her legs underneath her on the large sofa in the studio. “I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
Turning in the chair, I push away from the table, facing her and hold my hands up in defense. “I didn’t do it.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “What?”
“I haven’t left this studio in months. I haven’t fucked any women or touched drugs.” I grab my water bottle. “And this is fucking water, I swear.”
“Not about that. You didn’t do anything wrong, that I know of.” Her eyes narrow, then soften. “But the Grammy committee reached out to me this morning.”
My breathing changes and I’m not entirely sure why. “Do they want me to leave?”
“No, the opposite. They asked if you would play ‘Roses of Revenge’ at the awards. All the songs of the year are being performed so they’re coming to you first because you own the rights to the song.”
My jaw clenches. “That’s bullshit. I only did it that way so her fucking asshole of a father didn’t see any royalties from it.”
I’ve tried to get my label to change it, but they won’t so instead, I have the checks sent directly to her. Not once has she cashed them. Can’t say I blame her. “I know you’re upset about that. I’m working on it, but do you want to perform it?”
I raise my eyebrows, the beating in my chest suddenly kicking up a notch. “With her?”
Liz nods and searches my face for a reaction, waiting.
Do I want to perform with Red? I’d give anything to see her again, but I’m not sure she feels the same. We haven’t spoken other than those two text messages. What am I going to say? I’m an asshole. She knows that already.
I bite the inside of my cheek, my knee bouncing. “What did she say?”
“I haven’t gone to her yet. I wanted to see how you felt about it first.” Liz watches me, her voice lowering when the guys return with lunch. “Have you talked to her?”
I shake my head, unable to say it aloud.
“How do you feel about it?”
How do I feel? Anxious. Worried. Scared. Nauseated. The list could go on but not a goddamn chance in hell I’m telling Liz or anyone else that. Clearing my throat, I lean back in the chair, relaxing and putting up the front I’m so good at. “I’ll do it if she will. It’s up to Red.”
She nods. Look at her face. I’m transparent. “Okay. I’ll reach out to her manager.”
Three agonizingly long days later, I’ve barely eaten, had a few hours of sleep, and amazingly, despite many trips to the bar where I stand and curse the door out, I’m still sober. That’s when Liz calls me while I’m in Los Angeles with Cruz and Deacon filming the music video to our single “Lucifer.” I don’t think I need to tell you what that music video will look like, but we’re all zombies. You didn’t think I got soft just because the wolf fell for little Red Riding Hood, did you? Fuck that. I may be in love, but creativity should never be held back by one’s inability to lose their mind over love. Not a goddamn chance. Hardin’s black eye is a testament to that. He popped off with a comment about Red’s cover art and how it’s spank bank material. Though I know how very true that statement is, and I’d bought all the local copies there were to buy, I didn’t appreciate his comment and let him know. With my fist.
Liz starts out with small talk. I don’t, nor have I ever, enjoyed that. Finally, after three minutes of that bullshit, I sigh into the phone and snap, “Did you ask her or not?”
“Yes.” She has the nerve to laugh. “I got her assistant.”
“Why don’t you just say Cruz’s baby mama. It’s a lot less complicated.”
“It’s extremely complicated, but yes, that. Anyway, Tay’s out of the country and won’t be flying in until the day of the Grammys so rehearsals are out of the question, but. . . .” There’s a definite pause, too long for my liking before she adds, “She’s agreed to perform it with you.”
I don’t say anything. I think my heavy sigh of relief says enough.
“Are you sure about this?” Liz asks. “You can still pull out.”
I laugh, humor returning to my tone. “I’ve never been good at that.”
“Stop it. I’m serious. Think about this. You haven’t played together in over a year, and you haven’t rehearsed it.”
“We don’t need to,” I tell her confidently. “That chemistry, you don’t forget that.”
I’ll be honest, there’s a good part of me that’s hoping when she sees me, she’ll remember our connection and take me back. Fuck you, rehab. You turned me into a goddamn pussy.
WILL HE SHOW?
TAYLAN
I know what you’re thinking, or maybe I assume I know. You think I didn’t reach out to him for an entire year. To be fair, I sent him a text message on his birthday, to which he responded for the first time in his life. But other than that text message, and the one he sent me on my birthday in May, no contact.
He released an album with Revved. Ruins. I like to think I know the meaning. I listen to the entire album but it’s a one song, “Addicted” that I realize how deep his scars run.
I got these fresh stitches from these cold bitches
With mad addictions from bad decisions
You try to fucking hide away
But these scares are as deep as ever
I’m stuck in a life living for the light from a place of darkness
But tell me, these fools really got you entertained
My heart breaks for him and our love. It’s deep within the track “Haze” that I know our love at least has a place in his angry heart.
You knew exactly what you were doing when you invited the wild in
See the spark, the red, the frosty words, you crave the sin
I warned you to stay clear
I’ll only gut you if you come near
Hold that smoke in now
I’ll keep you safe as I watch you bleed
Trust me, princess, away from me
The haze starts to make sense
His words, his voice, it’s so powerful that I gasp, and it’s as if my soul is pulling me in the oth
er direction, away from everything I know I need to stay away from. The haunting reminder of our love, our very unstable and unpredictable love. . . it’s too much, and I only listen to the song once.
Did I want to reach out to him after I listened to the new album?
Uh, yeah! I wanted to reach out the day he was released from rehab, but I knew I couldn’t. For me. For him. For so many reasons. I knew when the timing was right, we’d find our way back to one another. When it’s true love, when two people are really meant to be together, it’ll happen. When it’s not forced. With Revel, I want it to work so badly. I didn’t pry, or push, or rush it. I’ve let it happen naturally.
And maybe that time is tonight. I don’t know for sure. All I know is I haven’t eaten all day due to nerves, and I’ve been carrying around a vomit bag in my clutch.
Do you see me there stepping from the limo? I’m wearing the black dress. Oh heck, everyone at the Grammys is wearing black. I guess maybe I should be more specific. Look at the woman with the black hair.
Did you gasp? Ha. No, I didn’t cut my hair. That’s Bella, silly. Look behind her. Now do you see me? Dramatic red curls just a smidge above my waistline, my freckled skin glowing and the soft smile. Do you notice that girl?
She’s older, wiser, and now squinting from the hundreds of lights flashing in her face. The Grammy Awards is the recording industry’s most prestigious awards with around 25 million people watching.
With a shaky grip on my sanity, I’m rushed through preshow interviews, cameras flashing, with celebrities and reporters who all want to know, “Have you and Revel performed since the tour?”
I smile at all the interviewers, and politely say, “No, but it’ll be flawless.”
Despite being unsure, I don’t have any doubt in my mind our performance of the song will be flawless. It’s what my heart might do that scares me, or what he might say to me. Admit it, you’re nervous too.
I run into Breckin, and Hensley, to whom I smile politely but say nothing to either of them. My dad is there, naturally, and again, I don’t speak to him. Since the day I told him I was no longer signed with his label, I haven’t spoken to him very much. He and Mom divorced that spring and she now owns half of Ash Music Group. The worst part?
He’s here with Hensley. Did you throw up in your mouth?
I did.
“I swear to God, if he doesn’t answer his phone soon, I’m going to strangle him,” Bella says, scowling at her phone in her hand.
I smile, thankful for the distraction she’s providing by being with me today. “Knowing Cruz, he’ll enjoy it.”
Bella’s fighting with her boyfriend, if you can call him that. She refuses to actually date him, and he’s too much of a child to pull his head out of his ass and propose like I know he wants to. He’s totally, 100 percent in love with her, and my second cousin, the cutest baby in the world, Axl. He’s seriously the most adorable baby ever with jet-black hair and huge blue eyes. I spend hours just holding him and wanting a baby of my own, but I know, you don’t care about any of that, do you? You want to know where Revel is, don’t you?
He doesn’t show up.
At least not during the preshow. It’s just like him to make a dramatic entrance.
Have you ever heard that saying your life is a series of moments divided into two categories? The before this and the after this.
There’s another one. Everything can change in an instant.
Everything.
And there is only before and after.
Did I lose you? I think I might have lost myself there for a second, but the truth is, every time you don’t get what you want, you grieve.
I’ve grieved. His words. His presence. His love. Nothing is the same without him. I can’t let myself lose track of what he did for me. Who I was when I was with him, and who I became without him. A princess fully capable of giving herself the fairy tale.
I’ll tell you something else about those princess fairy tales. Those women in them?
Lady bosses all the way.
Take Beauty and the Beast. Belle stands up to Gaston and basically tells him to fuck off. She even puts up a fight with the beast.
Rapunzel? Let’s be honest, I feel like I know her the most. She’s trapped by the woman who stole her youth.
Cinderella? She runs an entire house by herself. Enough said. She’s like the boss of all stay-at-home moms and doesn’t even have children.
Jasmine from Aladdin? She has a pet tiger. What more do I need to say?
And my personal favorite, aside from Merida from Brave because hello, the hair, but Nala from The Lion King. She doesn’t stand for any of Simba’s excuses. She doesn’t let his pride stand in the way of him helping the pride. And because of her, Simba realized what he needed to do.
I had a Simba in my life and letting go of him, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I haven’t forgotten him, impossible, but what he taught me in those three short months….
I had to give myself time to find me without the influence of anyone else.
I have a voice. It’s not my dad or my label. Taylan Ash, she was formulated to be a pop star from birth. I had a diamond-plated microphone in my hand before I could walk.
“Are you scared to see him?” Bella asks, sitting next to me in the front row.
“A little,” I admit, checking my clutch to make sure the vomit bag is still there.
Bella rolls her eyes. “Liar.”
“Okay, a lot. What if he doesn’t want to see me?”
That one earns me a laugh. “Are you kidding me? The album, being here, it’s all for you.”
I think about the one song on the album, the one he refuses to discuss—“It’s Over”—and the line everyone loves to talk about. “No one can replace the crown she wore.” Had he been talking about me?
“Girl,” Bella continues. “Revel doesn’t come to these events. He came for you. To sing “Roses of Revenge” with you.”
“He hasn’t shown yet,” I remind her.
“Yet.”
The next hour goes by excruciatingly slowly, but then the time comes for me to perform and I’m ushered backstage during an intermission. I’ve been performing my entire life and the only times I’ve ever been truly nervous on stage is when I’m sharing the stage with Revel. I don’t know what it is about him that draws it out of me, but he does, and I don’t even know if he’s here.
This is crazy. Why did I agree to this? What was I thinking? Where’s the closest garbage can? My stomach rolls and if I had to guess, I probably look something like a ghost with fire-red hair.
I run my sweaty palms over my dress and then shake them out, drawing in deep, calming breaths. It doesn’t work.
“It’s time,” the stage manager tells me, a smoky lit path behind the stage in front of me.
“You got this, babe. It’s going to be great,” Bella tells me, rubbing my back.
“What if he doesn’t show?”
“He’s here. I assure you. Cruz told me.”
“You told me not to believe anything he says.”
Bella snorts. “That’s when he’s telling you he’s going to be somewhere at ten and it’s more like three in the afternoon when the bastard shows up.”
Cruz, Hardin, Deacon. . . they’re out there already in place, and I’ve spoken with all of them tonight but Revel, I haven’t seen him. Truth is though, I know he’s here, in the building, his presence turning my heart into a fevered beat.
I take a breath, then another.
The band is hidden as smoke machines hiss out layers of what looks like fog rising from the stage. When the opening riff begins, I step forward and close my eyes, taking a deep breath and when I open them, I can vaguely make out a figure on the other side of the stage in the shadows.
Oh my God, it’s him. My heart leaps into my throat, my stomach knotting anxiously. He steps onto the stage into the shadows, and my breathing accelerates. I don’t have to make out his face to know that walk. At first, it’s
like he’s not real and I have to blink a few times to make sure I’m not imagining it.
Nope. Totally real.
Darkness surrounds us, the only lights the glow from the catwalk to keep me from falling on my face, but the smoke makes it impossible to see where you’re going. Each step is excruciatingly longer than the next when his voice fills the space between us. “If I’m being honest.”
The sound of his voice, the distinct baritone, it hits my heart like a spear. I gasp out loud at the way his voice carries through my entire body. I feel it everywhere, a reminder that everything I ever felt for him is still very much there.
Everything from his shoes to his tie is black, like his heart. His hair is the same, long and shaved clean on the sides, swept to the side but falling into his eyes. His features seem softer, less sharp than the icy chill I saw in the hotel room the day he left. So many times I wanted to reach out to him over the last year but seeing him now, like this, means so much more.
Bringing the cool, bumpy metal of the microphone to my lips, I slowly walk toward him. “I saw it for what it was,” I sing. At first sight, when his face finally comes into view for me, tears roll down my cheeks.
With one hand tucked in the pocket of his black suit, he steps out of the shadows. “Lie to me if you want.” He notices my tears first, his chest rising and falling just as quickly. His hand holding the microphone shakes and he looks as nervous as I feel. The usual cold, calm façade is no longer there and I want so badly to reach for him, but I wait to see what his reaction will be. I search his eyes and see only blue, no black, no bloodshot eyes, just clear blue shadowed by thick dark lashes. “The truth comes out eventually.”
His wild hair is in his eyes, his lips pushed against the microphone, but I see it. He winks at me. And it’s like the entire world stops and everything that happens next, happens in slow motion. Underneath that rugged handsome face I still adore, he looks. . . sorry. Like he missed me and wants to say so many things to me but doesn’t know where to start. And we’re performing together so it’s not like we can say anything. I hate that this is the first time we’re seeing each other. Damn it, why had I waited so long? Why didn’t I call him?
