First Chance

Natalie

“As I lay dying…”

I hear his throaty, aggressive rasp. It’s sexy as hell and all man. My mind does not want to be attracted to this voice. My body has other plans, and my ears are taking it all in.

This man can sing. Enjoy his songs, I do not. But goddamn, I could listen to his voice a cappella all night.

If I mentioned one word about this to Layla, she would never let me live it down. I am not a fan of change, and I would never voluntarily listen to this band.

I’ve heard a few of their songs on the radio. Enough to remember who it was and then change the station. Not without Layla displaying those pouty eyes, trying to beg me to keep it on.

Whoever said every band sounds the same live as they do on their albums was a liar. I have never heard an artist sound so much better live on stage than they do on their songs.

His voice is knocking me down, breaking my musical barriers. Then he opens his mouth to speak rather than sing and slowly ruins every thought I just had.

“Honey?” I hear rather than see him. It would be pitch-black in here if it weren’t for one solo light. That’s currently shining on me. I look around, hoping, praying.

Surely, he isn’t talking to me.

Anyone else but me.

“Yes. You,” he yells.

The lights come on, and he’s staring right at me. I stare back. He is pissed. What could I have possibly done to piss off a complete stranger so much?

“Why don’t you get your ass up here on stage?” Not asking but demanding.

I see a few people walking toward me, his self-appointed minions. I look behind me, to the door. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it out before they reach me.

I look back at the crowd. Layla is on the outside barrier of people, still with Benjamin, her eyes currently pleading with me to just do as asked. She wants me to go.

Fight-or-flight.

I choose fight. No one is carrying me; I’ll walk willingly. I put my feet down flat on the floor and stand up. Looking him in the eye, not to show submission, but to show that I am an equal.

Making my way to the stage, the crowd of people part a path for me to walk through. I feel eyes on me and look up to confirm whom they belong to. It was as I thought. Steele.

Glaring holes right through me, a tight smirk playing upon his face. What game is he playing? I ponder maybe this is part of their show, randomly calling out women from the audience.

So, I walk slower. He can wait on me.

I study his face. He is what I would consider beautiful.

My heart is pounding erratically. He runs his hand through his jet-black hair. It’s falling in cascading waves, slightly shadowing his eyes. Eyes that I can partially see staring back at me.

A color so magnificent, an ocean blue, but obviously laced with pain. An emotion so intense I can almost feel it pouring out of him and embracing me.

With an overwhelming sensation, my breath hitches.

I reach the stairs, one step closer to confronting this brooding stranger. I walk up the steps one at a time, as slowly as possible.

He reaches his hand out; I reluctantly grasp it and let him pull me up. Stumbling, I fall into him. He catches my fall, my chest landing against his. I can feel he is as affected as I am by this.

His heart is pounding, slowly matching the rhythm of my own. Calm the fuck down, Nat, I tell myself.

Correcting myself, standing upright quickly, face reddening, I look behind me and realize that I forgot the large mass of people is also witnessing my humiliation.

Not only at me falling into his embrace, but that I was ordered to stand up on this stage.

I glance at the band with a “help me” look. They do not seem surprised I was called up here; they know exactly what’s about to happen.

This gorgeous specimen of a man interferes in my space, grabs my hand, then leans his head into the side of my face and whispers in my ear, “About time you came up here.

“I’m Steele. You know, most women would have run up here.”

I take a step back, withdrawing my hand from his, bewildered and angered by his presumptuous tone that I should be honored to stand next to him.

I look around, searching for someone who isn’t okay with this. But everyone, including my best friend, is begging, pleading for something to happen.

Well, fuck it. I’ll give them what they want, then I’m fucking gone. I stare at Steele, right into his tormenting eyes, and say, “What do you want?”

He and I are the only ones who can hear what is being said. Thank God.

“You obviously weren’t enjoying the show, so I thought I would make ya part of it, Minx.”

“Tell me, Steele,” I hiss, “how did you figure that my being up here is going to make me enjoy your show?”

“Well, honey, it’s going to work because you’re going to be singing a song with me,” he states with confidence.

“You’re delusional. Lyrics? I don’t know one word to any of your fucking songs,” I say hysterically.

This guy is fucking crazy. He starts laughing, putting his right arm over his stomach, bent over gasping for breath because he finds my predicament so hilarious.

“I don’t think this is funny.”

What seems like minutes later, he stands upright and wipes the smile off his face, replacing it with a no-nonsense, downright dangerous glare.

“Now, why are you going to lie to me like that? I highly doubt you haven’t heard any of our songs, for fuck’s sake. You are going to college for music.

“Let’s get this fucking moving. You’re singing. With me.”

“What song?” I ask, resigning myself to this. If I just sing this goddamn song, then I can leave.

“‘Used By You.’” He smirks.

What a bastard.

“I’m not singing that song with you. It’s about cheapening the meaning of love and the degradation of women. An example of everything I despise in mainstream music.

“No, I’m not going to fucking do it,” I snarl.

“Ha! So, you do know one of our songs!” he exclaims—quite happily, it seems.

I’m defeated. I just want to get this done and over with. This is probably the only song I know well enough to attempt singing, and as soon as I do this, I won’t have to see him again.

At this moment, leaving is all I want to do. The only reason I am still standing right here on this stage is because I am about to knock him on his smug ass.

Unbeknownst to him, I can sing. I’ve been compared to some of the best female voices of all time.

“Well, let’s get this moving,” I say.

He turns to the band members; they all take their place. Unfortunately, Steele and I have to share a microphone.

The song starts with the drummer hammering on the snare and bass drum. The bassist and guitarists both start in on the same cue, making this earth-enchanting rhythm, almost hypnotizing.

The stage is vibrating beneath my feet. Shaking me to my core.

Looking into Steele’s eyes, and he into mine, together, we start to sing every verse, harmonizing.

“When I first met you, you were fucking crazy

“Maybe that’s why your pussy didn’t faze me

“So used and abused

“Unconscious and boozed

“Sharing yourself with everyone

“You couldn’t make me cum

“Clothes tattered and torn

“You were screaming out for more…”

The song ends. I scan the audience, seeing that they are pleased. I run down the stairs of the stage, out the auditorium. Out of the college. I run. I keep running until I am gasping for air.

My ribs are screaming out in pain, but I don’t want to stop. Not until I am home, where I can think about what the hell that just happened and the consequences of my running away.

So, I keep going. For over five miles, I run as if the grim reaper himself is chasing me, claiming me for death. As soon as I get home, I race to my bedroom and lock my door.

No doubts as to whether or not Layla is going to want to discuss this. I know sure as hell I don’t want to. I sit on my bed and place my head between my knees, breathing in and out.

I can feel a panic attack coming on. The slight dizziness in my head, the drink I had earlier fighting its way out, every muscle in my body tensing.

This point in the anxiety game is when every single one of my fears laces together and runs amok in my head.

I feel as if I am held hostage there, having to bear witness to every possible worst-case scenario that could ever conceivably happen to ones I love, ever loved, or even myself.

My fears, they bridge, forming one piece. Pain and death. I’m forever fighting to keep people out because, at any moment, anyone can die from anything, and I never want to feel that pain again.

My breath, stolen from my lungs, and my heart breaking into a million pieces. I was the one left alive, knowing I would trade my life for theirs. But it’s impossible.

Death is final. There is nothing I can do to change it now.

It’s been years, and I still feel that void that will never fill. I’m frozen. Nothing and no one can ever relieve the emptiness inside my heart.

For the attack to subside sooner, I have to let the reins loose and my battle to maintain control down to a minimum. I just have to go with it. Face it. And eventually, everything will be all right.

My mantra I keep telling myself repeatedly: It will be all right. One day, I will get over this. These feelings will not have a hold over me. Maybe then, I can let someone in.

Slowly, my thoughts became my own, and any fears I had are thrown to the back of my subconscious.

The door slams. I jerk my head out of my lap. Who in the hell is that? I ask myself. I run out into the living room and see Layla and Benjamin.

“As your best friend, I’m going to ask, are you all right?” Layla says in a controlled manner while Benjamin acts as if he would rather be anywhere else in the world at this precise moment.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just full of nerves and didn’t want to be ambushed by all the crazy fans, ya know.”

“Yeah, YEAH! Nat, I completely understand how you fucked this up for YOU, for US. Ryan Fucking Steele asked you—YOU!—to come up onto his stage, and what do you do?

“You hightail it out of there before he could get your name, let alone speak to you!” she yells, punctuating each and every word.

I underestimated her anger.

“I hope you’re joking right now, Layla. I mean, you are joking, right?” A hint of anger laces my voice.

“I’m not playing,” Layla says, annoyed.

“I know you wanted me to go up there. You were practically begging me with your eyes. But I was humiliated. He did it on purpose,” I snap back.

“You didn’t hear our conversation. He was taunting me; he was making an example out of me because I wasn’t enjoying their goddamn show.” At this point, I am yelling.

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is you could have learned from a legend. His entire empire is made up of THE BEST in this business.

“Instead, you have to fuck up every single good thing you have coming your way.”

Instantly, I retort, “It wasn’t what—”

She cuts me off. “I don’t want to hear it. I’m done discussing this. I’m going out with Benjamin. I won’t be home until Monday for class. We just came back so I could grab a change of clothes.

“Think about what I said.”

And with that, she just walks away. I can’t even speak. Layla and I never argue. We may disagree on a few things here and there as they come up. Ultimately though, we always just let the other be.

We’ve never fought about each other’s actions or choices.

Flabbergasted, I decide to hide out in my room until they leave.