by K. S. Adkins
All she ever wanted to do was perform. Outside of that, she kept to herself and gave no one grief. She never wanted the drama or the whackjobs and couldn’t handle that part of the gig. When Guy suggested an entourage, I refused. I was what she needed. I watched her back. I kept her calm. I kept her safe. Until I walked away, that is. Since then, Guy has been attached to her morning, noon, and fucking night. And still, no entourage. Proof Guy doesn’t like to share either.
“She needs you,” he said standing. “And you can call bullshit if you want, but you need her, too.”
“She’s got you,” I shrugged.
“I’m not you, never will be you.”
“Seems to me like she’s dealing.”
“You’ll see,” he said, heading for the door. No doubt to run after her because that’s what he did. Guy lived to baby her. “She’s not dealing; she’s suffering.”
Slamming the door on his way out, I opened the envelope and really wished I hadn’t. Guy was right, she was in danger, serious danger and nothing brought out the beast in me like protecting Tempest did. I’ll be goddamned if any motherfucker got his hands on her twice—myself excluded.

I was sitting at the picnic table, staring out into nothing with my hands in my lap, when Guy sat up high behind me. We did this a lot. Sometimes we talked; sometimes we didn’t. What was said never mattered, being close mattered. Which got me thinking that whoever stole his heart would be one lucky woman. The man was sensitive and attentive. He listened; he heard. Guy was beyond attractive. He was so sexy he actually smoldered. Just at six feet, he was lean and graceful. But it was more than his looks. Guy was genuine. Very slow to anger, the first one to smile, and the last one to judge. He did nothing in a hurry, always took his time and thought things through.
Chevy and I let emotion rule us, always had. He used my emotions against me if it got him what he wanted and I let him because I loved reaping the benefits. It drove Guy nuts that Chevy was so hard on me and often played mediator. Guy treated me with kid gloves, and I didn’t have it in me to tell him to stop. While I was sensitive I wasn’t a total baby and trying to balance us out often bit me in the ass. Because Chevy and Guy were total opposites.
Chevy was a bulldozer and Guy was calm. A few years ago, I started calling him Captain America because he could be Chris Evans’ twin. Plus, everything about Guy was good and right. From his heart to his intentions, I loved all of him and made sure he knew. Through good times and bad, they always put me first. Always.
Pulling me between his legs, he rested his arms over my shoulders staying quiet. Out of habit, I slung my arms over his thighs and worked toward calming down. I sucked at calming myself, by the way. Guy knowing this, wrapped me in a hug.
I was in fifth grade when we met. One year older than me and the big brother I’d always wanted. I met Chevy a few days later when he socked a middle-schooler for making fun of me for singing Queen at recess. Two years older, arrogant and aggressive, he declared himself my protector and Guy his brother. Chevy and I didn’t fall in love because the second I saw him, there was no fall to be had. As if he were sent to me, he held his hand out to help me up, found his place in my heart, and has been saving me ever since.
Guy was with us through every high and low, the peacekeeper, our voice of reason. We needed Guy since Chevy and I lived to fight. Or rather, Chevy lived to annoy me.
Over the years, Chevy had been everything to me. Best friend, boyfriend, bodyguard, bandmate, and I truly thought, soul mate. He was the best kind of trouble. He was my first, my last, my only. But when my career took off, so did his temper. He became even more volatile, and the limitations my anxiety issues put on us drove him nuts. In truth, it drove a wedge between us.
He would bitch that I needed to get a hold of it, control my reactions to certain situations; which was ironic considering the same could be said for his temper. But I never battled him when it came to this. We’d fought enough as it was, and though he didn’t believe me, I was trying.
Everything changed a year and a half ago when he confronted a pushy paparazzi who was blazing me in the media. Chevy turned away for just a second, but the crowd shifted and I lost my grip. The sea of faces, loud voices, and the hands reaching for me… I couldn’t even place where I was when a man grabbed ahold of me.
What did I do as he pulled me down the sidewalk? Nothing. Panic had absolutely seized me. My mind couldn’t fathom someone literally trying to take me during the day and succeeding. The lesson Chevy taught that nutjob was one I’d never forget because had the police not intervened, I had no doubts he would have killed him.
It was Chevy for the save once again.
After he was released from jail, he chewed my ass out for clamming up. Every word he’d hurled at me I deserved for once; I hadn't yelled back. It didn’t matter he’d taught me how to defend myself. When the time came, my mind blanked. All I could see was Chevy’s back and all my arms could do was reach for him.
The worst part? I didn’t even scream. I didn’t do anything.
After that, Guy wanted me to have a security detail, but Chevy refused and I had agreed. Having security brought up an entirely new set of problems. From payroll to trusting strangers. While my fame was growing, it wasn’t out of control yet, so I promised to get better, to stay on their heels, and never let anyone get that close again.
I felt safest with my guys who loved me. I didn’t want to put my safety in the hands of others and begged Guy to understand where I was coming from. We’d fought over the incident for months. My anxiety was always the root, the meds Chevy didn’t think I needed, and my inability to fix myself. Chevy was pissed and disappointed in me. Guy was pissed and disappointed in Chevy, and I blamed myself for putting them at odds once again.
As if dealing with fame wasn’t hard enough, the Tempest-nabbing incident skyrocketed me from semi-known to insta-celebrity. The very people who took my photo and wrote articles about me, basically turned on me and continued to stoke the flames. There was no putting it behind me when the damn story didn’t die down. If anything, my refusal to talk about it after the trial caused it to pick up speed. Gossip hags had a field day at my expense. Management handled it horribly, essentially using a shit situation to their advantage, and before I knew it, it was out of my control.
Slowly, Chevy started pulling away.
When they couldn’t get a story from me, the media turned their focus on him. Digging up his background; his penchant for violence. Anything to keep the public interested. Our relationship, while public, was also very private. Because of the nonstop gossip, he was quicker to anger, quicker to react to any situation. Because he had no filter and didn’t give a fuck, he became news. None of it good either. Day after day it escalated. And when it was clear they wouldn’t give us peace outside, I began staying inside.
My agent, Rick, wasn’t pleased about the attention it brought me. Not that I was surprised, really. Rick and Chevy hated each other. Rick made it clear he believed him detrimental to my career. I was encouraged to cut ties with Chevy or risk losing my contract. Everything in this business was about publicity, and I understood that. However, I didn’t lose sleep over what the public thought of me and never would. When I stepped out on stage I made a lot of people money. I gave the audience a good show. Which meant I didn’t much appreciate Rick’s tactics. And I sure as shit wouldn’t allow idle threats. He even claimed publicly Chevy was bad for my image. I told Rick privately he could shove his opinions up his ass. I made it clear that I chose him, would always choose him. That if it wasn’t for Chevy I wouldn’t be where I was, and I owed him my loyalty in all ways. Family before fame was my motto.
A year ago we shared a two-bedroom duplex and used a minivan for tours. I remember sailing up the steps to announce I wanted to fire Rick only to find the room I shared with Chevy empty.
His things—all of his things—were gone.
When Guy came home it was to me curled up on the step bawling my eye
s out. He even called Chevy, demanding an explanation, but all he got was, “I’m done.” I won’t sugar coat it, I didn’t leave my bed for two weeks. I didn’t eat, wash my hair, or sing.
From there, Guy stepped in to take care of me, seeing as I was unable do it myself. We left the duplex, sold the minivan, and bought the RV.
For the last year, he’s been the one helping me recover, trying to give me new and better memories. Unfortunately, I didn’t make it easy for him. These days, I was afraid of my own shadow.
My label’s owner, Arthur, did exactly what he promised. He’d made me famous. Not just here in Detroit, but worldwide. I was being asked to travel to shows outside the United States, but I always declined. Jesus, I couldn’t even go to Target by myself. There was no way I was traveling to Germany or even fucking Canada for that matter. The only way I would ever step foot on another plane was if I owned it. And while I made money, I didn't make buy a jet plane money. The saddest part was if I wanted to, I could. All I had to do was say the word.
It was bittersweet getting everything you ever wanted only to realize you’re not cut out for it. But it was brutal losing what you needed.
“You blindsided me,” I whispered through the pain lancing my chest. “Not you, Guy. Not you, too.”
“There is no one else I trust with you, Tempest.”
“I won’t recover from this.”
“You’re stronger than you think.”
“I’m not strong at all!” I argued, giving him the hello, I’m a hot mess look.
“You are the strongest woman I know,” he said, kissing the top of my head. To my knowledge, I was the only woman he’s known all his life so this did squat for me. “When we discussed coming home, you promised me you could handle it.” Okay, ouch. And another thing, Guy had the memory of an elephant. “We have a situation that requires attention and diligence. I can’t be in two places at once, Tempest. We need Chevy’s help.”
“Not if I quit,” I huffed. “Boom, problem solved.”
“You’re not a quitter,” he smiled. “I know this because show after show you go out there and play. They never know how hard it is for you to do it. But you play for them, for us,” he said softly. “You still play for him, too.”
“Please,” I resorted to begging. “Don’t leave me now.”
“He can heal you,” he said gently.
“He’s the one who broke me,” I felt important to remind him. “You can’t heal a shatter like that. I can’t believe you put me in a position for him to finish me off. Who knew you had a secret love for horror movies?”
“Chevy left, that’s on him,” he whispered. “But you gave him the reasons to do it.”
“Hey, while you’re behind me, mind pulling the knife out?”
“Tempest,” he sighed. “No one is perfect. We all make mistakes. Placing blame never solves a problem and holding onto the hurt only prolongs the pain. He came home for you, remember that.”
“Oh, I’ll remember,” I mumbled. “And while we’re at it, when did you become a shrink?”
“You need to trust me,” he said, moving me forward so he can, in fact, leave. “I would never put you in harm’s way, you know that.”
“You did when you called him to come back.”
“Tell him,” he said, hugging me from behind.
“Hell no.”
“Tell him, Tempest. He has the right to know.”
“He has the right to rot in hell.”
“He’s already there.”
Then, true to his word he left, and I had to sit on my hands lest I latch on.

No one adored Freddie Mercury more than Tempest. Every show, the opening song was a tribute to her idol. Tempest does a rendition of The Show Must Go On that could bring even the strongest man to his knees. A year ago, I was convinced that song was a testament to pushing past her anxiety to give her fans what they wanted despite her fear. A year later, I’m convinced it’s come to mean something else altogether.
Because I went to her shows, I saw it for myself; I saw it for what it was.
A cry for help.
The show must go on, inside my heart is breaking, my make-up may be flaking, but my smile stays on.
Tempest always did what it took to get the job done.
No matter how difficult, or the toll it took on her, she walked out on that stage and gave it her all. Show after show, I stood by the curtain watching her, feeling so fucking proud of my girl. When she exited, I was always there to catch her when she fell into my arms. Tempest hasn’t fallen into my arms in a long time.
Her last show was three weeks ago in Chicago, and the first time she had ever covered Save Me. That track was gut-wrenching and sung for the man she didn’t know was in attendance. To her knowledge was never in attendance.
From my place in the crowd, I watched her cry through the entire thing. As she screamed out her pain, begging for relief, wailing on her guitar in pure anger. The audience, loving how raw she was, not seeing she was dying inside. Swear to God, I was dying right along with her.
Now, I stood here watching her, wondering how in the fuck I ever managed to walk away from the beauty of us. I also wondered how the fuck I was going to get her to forgive me for doing it. Despite our current situation, the show must go on and we both knew it. As for me, I wanted us to do it together. As we were meant to do.
As I promised her we always would.
But she’s been glued to that picnic table for hours since Guy left. She didn’t stay out there waiting for me to come and talk to her. Tempest truly wanted to be left alone.
Some women played on men’s emotions, not her. When she was able to be still, she stayed that way until whatever issue was resolved in her head. Ordering her inside or interrupting would only piss her off.
From the RV, I read her body language with Guy. I didn’t need to hear what was said to know she wanted me gone and him to stay. The pain in my jaw was proof enough that she hated me, and further proof she wanted him was sitting her on her own goddamn hands. Tempest forced herself not to tackle Guy.
While her beauty couldn’t be disputed, she was different now. The change wasn’t physical—in that way she was still Tempest. As she stared out into nothing looking so lost, I had no choice but to acknowledge that I had, in one selfish act, broken a part of her.
Night was creeping in, and I wasn’t leaving her out there alone. This was about her safety. This is why I was here. Yes, she was avoiding me, and no, I couldn’t blame her, but Tempest and I needed to clear the air. This meant I needed to make the first move.
The woman I knew her to be wasn’t always withdrawn like this. There was a time she loved loud and embraced everything about life. She used to say, ‘I love hanging out with me. Hello! I’m a fucking party!’ But the constant demands of the public encroaching on her personal space, then the threats to her safety, caused her to retreat. Not just a little, a lot.
For a long time, I had kept her level, grounded.
But as her fame grew, so did her anxiety. When Tempest lost it, she lost it. She completely shut down, she was crippled by it, and I hated it. I had been slowly losing my girl to it.
But when she wasn’t terrified of the world around her, she was, hands down, a riot. She was unique, too. She had a love of opera that could only be matched by her love of metal. Tempest blended the two beautifully and became known for Op-Rock.
Not that she was the first to do it. Starting out, Tempest never intended to do more than Queen covers in small venues. It was because her style was so raw, so unexpected, that people showed up. The same people who kept showing up, desperate to see her, also spread her name.
Show after show her audience grew. With our encouragement, she even started featuring her own material. She was truly shocked when it was well-received.
It was hard for her to accept anyone would like music she wrote. Music that didn’t come from her idols. Because Tempest was self-taught, she used to worry she wasn’t doing
it right. We convinced her to embrace the praise, and not a day went by that she didn’t try to better herself. Tempest spent the bulk of her time honing her craft.
She didn’t just sing. She played piano, guitar, and violin. She made op-rock, live music, a truly tangible thing. She pulled you in slowly with the violin, mesmerizing you with her voice, her presence, but when it all came together it was a show that electrified. Awed. Changed you. Tempest gave you something very real to hold on to. A part of herself.
Her discovery was completely by accident, too. She and I had been in Times Square before an opera show. It was my birthday gift to her. Surprising her with the trip and show was a highlight for me. Keeping it a secret had been a fucking miracle because she was a nosey little thing.
We’d been walking down the street when she’d heard two musicians playing drums on buckets and went over to listen. Back then she was fearless and loved crowds. So when they started to play We Will Rock You, Tempest began to sing uncaring of her audience. She belted every lyric, hit every note perfectly, and her voice carried for blocks. When it ended the crowd went nuts, the musicians among them, and we hadn’t made it far when an exec handed us a card. I encouraged her to make the call and she did. A man named Arthur flew to Detroit so she could audition for him privately. Of course she’d nailed it, he’d become instantly smitten and offered her a deal.
She already had a following, but the one side of the business we never had the resources to cover properly was publicity. We always had venues booked for her, but they were small and we had never mastered cornering a specific market. At the time there wasn’t a market Tempest fit into. But Arthur had a vision the moment he heard her voice. He knew once the world heard it her life, our lives, would never be the same. Tempest was not just insanely talented, but beautiful and humble.
