Where am I?

Crouched over a toilet, heaving my guts out.

I slump back, fairly disgusted that I’m on this nasty floor, but too weak to get up.

A faint knock sounds on the door.

“Go away. Forever,” I add with emphasis.

But the door opens. Footsteps echo. A pair of worn, black boots appear on the opposite side of my stall. I would think it’s Killian, but I know his stride. The man walks with a swagger, as if he’s making room for that heavy, long dick he’s packing in his pants. This walk is much cleaner, but just as confident.

However, the last person I expect to hear is Jax. “Do I need to throw you a life raft? Or is your head finally out of the toilet?”

“Har.” I wipe my mouth and curse the gods that Jax, of all people, has found me in such a low state.

Slowly, as if expecting another round of vomiting, he opens my stall door. I glare up at him, misery weighing me down. His expression, as usual, is placid. He hands me a frosty bottle of ginger ale. “Drink up, chuckles. You’re on in twenty.”

I take the proffered bottle with gratitude. The soda goes down cold and wonderfully refreshing.

“I want to die.” I glance at him. “I don’t even care if lobbing death jokes your way is in poor taste. That’s how serious I am.”

He laughs, short and dry. “I like you more for not curbing your jokes for me.” He offers me a hand, and I take it, letting him pull me up.

I keep gulping the ginger ale as I make my way to the sink. Jesus. I look strung out—totally haggard and slightly green. Setting aside the soda, I wash my hands and pat cold water on my sweaty face. “So why are you here,” I ask him. “You lose a bet? Draw straws?”

A soft snort echoes in the room. “I volunteered.”

I stare at him in the mirror. “Well…that’s new.”

Jax’s reflection shrugs. “The rest of them would just baby you. We don’t have time for that.”

Time. Right. My time is almost up. The sound of Not A Minion finishing up and the subsequent roar for Kill John is hard to ignore. The whole room hums with suppressed energy, as if a great beast is waiting to be let out of the gate. The Animal. That’s what Killian calls the crowd. I understand that now. Too well.

Cold sweat breaks out along my back.

“I can’t do it,” I blurt out. “I’ll barf on stage. I know it. I told Killian I was defective this way. Shit. Shit.”

Jax leans a shoulder against the wall and watches me. After a moment, he pulls out a packet containing a tiny toothbrush and a little tube of toothpaste and hands it over. “You know why I have these things?”

“You’ve got magic wizard pants on? Is there a tent in that pocket too?”

“Not now,” he says with a small smile, “but maybe later when a couple of eager female fans drop on my lap.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Gah. I set myself up for that. Unclean!” I shove my new toothbrush in my mouth and brush with vigor.

He chuckles. “I have these things because I was just in the little boys’ room doing the same.”

I freeze. “You?” I squeak around the brush in my mouth, toothpaste foam bubbling on my bottom lip.

“Me,” he says, frowning at my display. “Every freaking show.”

I quickly rise and grab a paper towel to pat dry. “Seriously?” I mean, Jax Blackwood having stage fright?

He shakes his head as if I’m being ridiculous. “It happens to a lot of performers. Barbra Streisand quit doing live shows because she had it so bad.”

“I have to pause here,” I say. “You, Jax Blackwood, Mr. Too Cool Rocker, just referenced Barbra Streisand.”

He pulls a face. “Smart ass. She’s a legendary singer. Of course I know who she is.” His lips twitch, but then he’s calm again. “Would it be better if I’d said Adele? Because she’s been known to puke beforehand too.”

“Marginally,” I grump.

He rolls his eyes. “If you go out there and hurl on stage, we’ll talk. Until then, buck the fuck up, drink your soda, and be on cue. Got it?”

“No.”

His eyes narrow to icy green slits. “Killian put his ass on the line for you. He believes in you, which means I have to too. Do not make him look the fool.”

Of all the things Jax could have said to snap me out of my fear, that was it. I kind of hate him for finding my weak spot so easily. All I can do is salute, unable to resist sticking one finger up slightly higher than the others. “Got it.”

“Good. Twenty minutes!”

Yep. I’m going to die.

 

Killian

 

I love playing at Fenway. It’s historic, filled with quirks. Legends have performed here, and it’s imbued with the soul of baseball. Even though I’m standing under the burn of electric lights, I swear I can smell baseball—a faint aroma of hot dogs and beer, grass and sun. The stadium isn’t huge, but it feels that way. Walls of fans rise almost straight up around us. The floor is a vast sea of writhing bodies. In the distance, I can just make out the baseball diamond, protected from fans by metal fencing.

My body vibrates as I finish singing and step back to take a drink of water. My hand shakes just a bit. I’m nervous. Not for me. For her.

Whip and Rye keep up the beat, doing a jam solo that will lead into the next song, “Outlier.” It’s Libby’s first song with us.

I see her hovering in the wings, her face pale as death. My poor girl, torn up by stage fright. Jax offered to talk to her. Seeing as he’s been a grumpy pain in the ass about her until now, I was more than happy to let him go. Maybe they can form a friendship. Something I’d love.

I catch her gaze and give her a slight nod and a smile. You got this, baby doll.

Like a good soldier, she straightens her spine, slips her guitar strap over her head, and takes a visibly deep breath. God, but she glows with an inner light as she strides out on stage.

The Gibson L-1 open body practically dwarfs her small frame. She’s wearing another silky sundress, this one white with big red poppies all over it. Chunky black boots grace her feet, just like the first time I met her.

Rye picks up a fiddle, and Jax switches out his Telecaster for a mandolin. Last week, we toyed with “Outlier” and “Broken Door,” finessing the sound. Now it’s perfect. John, who’s in charge of all my equipment, hands me my Gretsch, and I walk to the mic.