by Lisa Suzanne
Some medic takes a look at my arm and helps me sit up. Someone brings us a bucket, and he nods toward it. “I need you to keep your arm in here for the next five minutes.”
My brows furrow. “I have to finish my set.”
He shakes his head. “You need to keep your arm immersed in cold water for five minutes.”
“Then can I finish my set?”
“Maybe.” He proceeds to ask me a hundred questions. The shock wears off completely and the intense ache settles in until it becomes a part of me as I answer.
“It looks like a superficial burn,” he says, assessing the situation.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“First degree. You got lucky. The flames went out right when they touched you. It’ll be painful until it heals, but you won’t have any permanent damage.”
“When will it heal?” I ask. I haven’t moved my arm from the bucket, but my hand is really fucking cold in there. I’m shivering.
“Seven to ten days.”
“Can I still play?” I ask, inclining my head toward the stage.
“It depends how you feel,” he says, his eyes on my arm in the bucket. “Obviously resting it is the best idea. It may swell, and the forearm is a tough place for a burn because it’s close to major joints. Keep an eye on it and if it gets any worse or swells, see a doctor.”
I glance around the circle. Mark, Steve, and James are at the forefront hanging on the medic’s every word. Their wives stand behind them with nervous anxiety clear on their faces. I wish Maci was here. Chuck stands a few feet away beside Vinny. Vick is close by, too, as are some of our roadies.
And suddenly, just like that, I don’t feel so alone.
This is my family. These people care about me, my well-being—and not just because they rely on me to keep the beat on drums. Anyone could do that. Well, any professional drummer with some talent could do that.
I’ve lived my life oblivious to the fact that I might have other qualities to contribute to this group of people, and even though I felt like they all turned against me the other night when I drummed a shitty set, they didn’t. That’s a real part of relationships—getting angry and forgiving. Moving forward. They’re here now. They’re worried about me and they want to make sure I’m okay.
I just wish she was here, too. Then my circle would feel complete.
I look at Mark, whose gaze on me is one of extreme concern.
“Speaking of joints...” I say.
He holds up his hands and laughs. “He’s gonna be fine, everyone.”
I raise a brow to indicate I’m not kidding. People talk about the medicinal benefits of pot all the time. Time to try it out for myself.
“I can get you a script for medical marijuana,” the medic says. “I have my RN.”
I nod. “Do it and get it filled. Then I’ll finish the set.”
The guys surrounding me laugh.
“You sure, man?” James asks. “That looks pretty bad.”
“Wrap it, get me something to take the edge off the pain, and let’s finish,” I say. “People paid to see a show, and we’re not leaving without playing our whole set for them.”
My best friends look at me like I’m crazy, but before any of them have the chance to challenge my sanity, a voice screeches, “Where is he? Where the fuck is he?”
I glance up, and when my eyes find Maci, panicked as her head whips around to find me, everything else falls away. My angel is here, an immediate balm to salve the pain.
“You fucking idiot!” she says, rushing up to me and smacking me on my right arm. She kneels between my legs, close enough for me to pull her into my arms if one of them wasn’t still sitting in a fucking bucket of cold water.
“Nice way to greet a burn victim,” I say wryly.
“Are you okay?” she asks, looking me over. Her eyes land on my arm in the bucket and widen.
“Been better,” I say.
She looks away from my arm and into my eyes. Hers are full of alarm, and it leaves me a little breathless to know how much she fucking cares about me. Me. The idiot who certainly doesn’t deserve her.
“We need to get you to a hospital.”
“I’m fine, babe. If someone would get me a fucking blunt so I could smoke, I’d feel a whole lot better,” I say, looking up at Mark as I drop yet another hint.
“Dude, calm the fuck down,” Mark says. “I’m on it.”
“Get on it faster,” I mutter.
He laughs. “I need to go stall,” he says, and he disappears to the stage. He says some words to the crowd, but I can’t make out what they are. I hear the audience cheer, and then he starts singing a song a cappella. I recognize it as the song he wrote for his wife when they first met.
“What happened?” Maci asks.
“My bass tipped over at the end of my solo.” I try not to sound like an idiot since it was avoidable—and totally my own fault.
“It tipped over? Don’t you have shit in place to make sure that doesn’t happen?” she asks.
“I hit the cymbal too hard. It’s never happened before.”
“And it never will happen again.”
“Accidents happen,” I say. “There’s not much we can do to stop them.”
“We can take precautions.”
I blow out a breath of frustration. I love her, but I have to draw the line at letting her tell me how to do my job. “We did.” The cold from the bucket rockets through me, and I start to shiver uncontrollably.
“What’s wrong?” she asks with alarm. “Seriously, we need to get you to a hospital. You’re shaking!”
“The water in this bucket is fucking freezing.”
She lets out a soft chuckle then maneuvers herself so her legs are wrapped around my middle and her arms are wrapped around my shoulders. I immediately warm and stop shaking, and now I’m feeling a little dizzy because all the blood is rushing from my brain to another part of my body.
“Is that better?” she asks.
I shift my hips. Everyone’s still watching, so I’m not going to hump her on the floor backstage, but I move enough to let her know what she’s doing to me. “Much,” I say softly.
Her eyes meet mine, and I know mine are full of mischief. Hers, however, are full of love, and it’s overwhelming.
“Here you go,” Chuck says, handing me a rolled joint. Shit that happens backstage stays backstage. I should probably go into a private room to smoke, but there are enough people circled around me that no one back here will even notice what I’m doing—and if they did, they wouldn’t say much. I have proof from a medic I can use it for medical reasons, and while smoking a rolled joint might not work that way, I don’t really give a fuck right now.
I take it in my hand, and Maci backs away from me. I feel cold again, but I’ll be warm soon. I shouldn’t do this in front of her, not when she can breathe it in, but I need this right now. I take a long drag and blow the smoke away from Maci. I take two more drags before the calming effects rush over me.
The medic finally removes my arm from the cold water. He dries it carefully, applies some ointment, and wraps it, all while I continue to take deep drags from the joint.
“Can I get back to my set now?” I ask the medic. Mark’s doing a great job stalling, but this whole thing has taken at least ten minutes, and crowds don’t want to wait that long for their next song.
“That’s not a good idea,” Maci says before the guy I actually asked the question to can respond.
“I’m not trying to be a dick, babe, but I’m going back out.”
“Then I can’t stop you,” the medic says. “You’ll be fine. Just take it easy for the next couple days.”
He helps me to my feet. I still feel a little dizzy, but it’s mostly gone now, replaced by the calming sensation marijuana routinely gives me. I pass the joint to Chuck, and Maci rushes toward me and wraps her arms around my middle just as James and Steve run back out to the stage. I should be right there with them, but Maci’s got me locked
in.
“Don’t be a goddamn hero out there, Ethan,” she says into my chest. “If you’re going to go out there, play your set and get back to me in one piece.”
“I promise,” I say softly. I kiss the top of her head and detangle myself from her arms. I start toward the stage, and then I turn back to her. “You’re holding my thread. You’ll pull me back.”
Her eyes soften, and then I run back out to the stage. The marijuana took the edge off, but it didn’t take away the pain completely. It’s manageable, though.
My drum kit is set back into place exactly as it should be. I sit on my throne, the actual name of the stool I perch on in front of my drum set, and grab a spare set of sticks from the custom pouch attached to the side of my cymbal stand. Mark looks up at me from his spot center stage, and I give him a slight nod of my head. He sets the mic back on the stand and grabs his guitar, and that’s my cue. I wait until he’s ready, I check Steve and James, who are both in place, I glance at the set list taped to the floor next to me, and then I hit the pedal for the bass drum and tap one of the toms at the same time to start our next song.
For all intents and purposes, I get right back up on the horse. I play my heart out for the three songs we have left before our encore. Someone turned the flames off, which would’ve pissed me off an hour ago but now just makes me feel like everything’s going to be okay. The burn hurts like a motherfucker, and each tap of a drum with my left hand only makes it throb. But I’m here to do a job, and a little fire on my skin isn’t going to stop me.
I must wince in pain when Mark comes up to grab a quick drink of the beer he keeps on the platform next to my drums. “You okay?” he yells to me out of the mic’s range.
I nod and focus forward. It’s hard enough to play when I’m high, but if I let myself focus on the pain, it’ll be near impossible. I won’t do that.
We finish the first part of our set and run off the stage to gather before our encore. The crowd is going wild. Mark didn’t mention anything to them about what happened, so to anyone who hadn’t seen us on this tour before, it might’ve just looked like a long break in the show.
“Can I tell the crowd what happened?” Mark asks.
I lift a shoulder. “It’ll be all over tomorrow anyway.”
He nods. “You okay for all three songs?”
I glance over at Maci. She looks so worried, and all that anxiety and fear is because of me.
“Let’s cut it to the final song. Just OFTR.” I lock eyes with Maci. “That okay with you?”
“OFTR?” she asks.
“One for the Road,” Mark clarifies.
“I’m ready,” she says. She clears her throat and hums a scale, and I blow out a breath. One more song, and then I’m done for the night. Then I can rest for twenty-ish hours, pending my interview schedule and other shit we have to do, before I have to do it all over again. And hopefully I can do it all with Maci in my arms.
Chuck comes through with another joint. I take two drags and run back out to the stage. We play our final song, and every time I want to wince in pain from the burn, I look over at Maci. She’s in her element as she struts around the stage and sings with Mark, and I can’t wait for the studio to get our song mixed and back to us. It’s gonna slay, I just know it.
We take our final bows, I toss a few sticks out to the crowd while the other guys throw out picks, and then we wave as we walk off the stage. I’m ready to just collapse with a tall glass of whiskey and my girl in my arms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
MACI
I have to tell him.
I almost lost him tonight.
Maybe that’s dramatic because it was just a surface burn, but it could’ve been worse. I could have lost him, and just the mere thought of that drills an intense ache through my entire being. I can’t lose him. I won’t.
And that’s why I have to be honest with him. I’ve known since I realized I’d fallen for him that he deserves the truth, but I kept pushing it off, afraid of his reaction.
We can’t move forward to a future together if we have secrets between us, though, and so I’m going to tell him tonight.
As I watched him from the side of the stage tonight during the final few songs they played after the burn, I knew tonight would be the night.
I have no idea how he’ll take the news.
I run back to my bus as soon as I finish singing “One for the Road” with Mark. I pull off my Maci Dane outfit, the one I wore on stage for that final song with Vail, and I grab my comfiest sweatshirt and yoga pants. I think about taking out my contacts—really making myself Dani again for this conversation. I don’t do that, though, because I’m not Dani anymore. For as much as my life has been a lie, I’ve grown into the woman Maci Dane is. The innocent girl may still be in there somewhere, but what I project to the world isn’t just a façade. It’s me now.
Somewhere along the line, Dani Mayne became Maci Dane. We’re one, and what happened with Ethan tonight was just another example of how life’s short.
I’ve wasted half my life with this stupid plan, but I won’t do it any longer. Starting today, I vow to live my life for this baby and for Ethan.
I pictured this revenge coming out a hundred different ways, but never once could I have imagined it would end like this—that I’d confess the truth to him because I wanted him to know all of me, that I’d push it behind me because we’re having a baby together, that I’d want to find my happy ending with him.
I’m nervous as I think about what I’m going to say. My instinct is to talk to Griff about it first, to practice on him...but it’s not fair for me to rub my personal issues in his face when he’s just getting something new off the ground with someone else. Besides, he’s still backstage doing some post-show shit.
After I change, I walk through the forward cabin of my bus and stop on the step. I turn back to Tony, my driver. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat with a book. We’ve barely exchanged more than a few words, but I remember the day we met. I remember thinking it would be nice to have a father figure on this tour with me.
He glances up at me when he feels my gaze on him. “How has your night been, Miss Dane?”
I sit on the top step and lean against the doorway. “Hectic.”
He closes his book and sets it beside him.
“What are you reading?” I ask.
“Some thriller. I’m in the middle of a car chase.”
I giggle. “Don’t let me keep you from it.”
He shakes his head. “It’ll be there later. Are you enjoying the tour so far?”
I lift a shoulder. “Yes and no. It’s been a hell of a ride and I’m about to go talk to someone about something I’ve been avoiding for a long time.”
“And you’re thinking it’ll be a hard conversation?” He takes off his glasses and sets them on top of his book.
I nod but don’t say anything.
He clears his throat. “The hardest conversation I ever had was when my ex-wife told me she didn’t love me anymore. Sometimes it’s harder to hear the things than it is to say them.”
“That’s why I’ve been avoiding this. I have no idea how he’s going to take it.” I shift my gaze so I’m staring straight ahead of me at the other side of the doorway.
“If you need to practice on someone, I can lend my ear.”
For some reason, his words speak directly to my heart. I know I can trust him—he signed an NDA that said I could—but the kindness in his eyes and the willingness to listen is something I’m lacking in my life.
I miss my dad.
I miss my mom, too, but she’s gone. My dad isn’t. I can still forge a relationship with him.
It’s just that there’s so much between us and so much time has passed. How do I just show up out of the blue and try to start over?
The words start to tumble out of my mouth as I wring my hands together. “I’m not who he thinks I am. We have a history, and I’m going to tell him about it. I’m going to finally be ho
nest. I’m just not sure whether the news is going to break him.”
I glance over at Tony. The kindness in his eyes hasn’t changed. “I applaud you for trying.” His words are so simple, yet they mean so much. They give me the exact bolster I need to go do what I need to do.
I stand and rush toward him, throwing my arms around his neck. “Thank you, Tony,” I say.
He chuckles and pats my back, and then I skip down the steps, head over to Ethan’s bus, and wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ETHAN
I take a quick shower after the show, and then that same medic comes to my room to rewrap my arm. He gives me some more instructions on how to care for it, and then I head back to my bus.
Maci’s waiting on it. She’s in sweatpants and a huge sweatshirt, her legs curled under her on the couch. She looks nervous as I step onto the bus, but I feel so much calmer finding her here. She’s reading the sheet of paper I left out on my table earlier.
“Is this our song?” she asks.
I nod. “It’s my part. We still need you to finish yours.”
Her eyes soften. “I love it.” She smiles weakly, and I can tell something’s off. Especially after the night I’ve had, I’m not sure how to handle it or how to get a clear read on her.
“You can keep that copy. I typed it up this morning. Are you going back to the hotel?” I ask.
She nods and twirls a chunk of hair around her fingers, a habit I’ve never noticed before. “Can we talk first?”
“Of course,” I say, and she pats the couch next to her. I grab myself a glass of whiskey first then sit beside her.
“How’s your arm?” she asks. She looks at my arm instead of my face.
“I’ll live.”
“Does it hurt?” Her eyes are still on my arm and she tugs at her twirled hair.
“Like a motherfucker.” The pot has worn off and the pain has become more acute. It’s like the worst sunburn I’ve ever had in my life but amplified times a thousand.
I place my fingertips on her chin and urge her to look at me. Her eyes are wide with fear. “What’s going on, Mace?”
