First Chance

Natalie

Overhearing Steele ask one of the roadies where I was, I cowered against the wall, hoping to make myself disappear from his view.

He is way too intense. Every time our eyes meet, his emotions flow out and push into me, holding me captive whenever we are within the vicinity of each other.

It is best if I stay out of his way. This attraction that I feel is only lust; nothing good can come out of it. Ryan Hurst, a mystery I want to investigate and unravel…

Denying myself an interaction with the man of the hour, day, week, and the next two months, I run off back to where I entered only moments before: the crowd.

Not a fan of strange hands groping my ass, I usually stay in the back. Yes, even when I am an obsessed fan of the performer.

I need to hide though; I do not want Steele spotting me in the audience. The first place he would look is in the way back.

So, I hide right in plain sight, in the pit, promising myself I won’t linger too long. I pull my hood up on my sweatshirt to hide myself from view and blend in.

I missed the opening acts. It wasn’t as crowded as it is now. I figured it was best for me to join when everyone was mashed into one another.

As the lights dim down, one by one the guys take their places on the stage.

I’ve spent the better part of today with them. From what I’ve seen, Steele is the leader, and there’s no question as to why or how that came to be.

The man is demanding and domineering. From my experiences to date, he is like that in every aspect of his life.

I see Ryan take hold of the microphone and say his intro, causing everyone in my area to start jumping, some asshole spilling quite a bit of beer on me before snapping it back upright in his hand.

I can’t even hear what he’s saying because everyone is screaming back, mostly obscenities, even including some sexual offers.

I slide out of the spot I was in, not wanting to take a chance on drenching myself in alcohol even further.

While pushing through other concert goers, they start their first song—one I haven’t heard before.

I end up in between a woman who’s jumping up and down and waving her arm back and forth, her elbow coming pretty damn close to my face each time…

And behind me is a guy with the body of a defensive linebacker. Let’s hope he decides not to mosh. It certainly wouldn’t end well.

When the woman isn’t jumping around like a goddamn kangaroo on crack, I end up with a pretty decent view of the stage.

Taking Layla up on her advice of opening my mind, taking advantage of the opportunity that was forced upon me, I listen.

I close my eyes and just take it all in, allowing Steele’s voice to take me to the emotions, the place he is singing about.

His song—it must be his. Sung with such strong conviction about loneliness, desperation, hate. Such contradiction.

I wonder what situation he was writing about in his life to have written this, doubtful anyone but him wrote it. No one can sing a song with such raging passion if they don’t own it.

And owning this song is exactly what he was doing on that stage when I opened my eyes.

Wrong. I was wrong about him. I do not have to be a fan of his music to appreciate his artistry. Writing lyrics is an art—an extremely hard one.

You bare your soul, allowing strangers in, allowing them to understand what you have felt at some point in your life. If the song weren’t yours, everyone would see past the façade.

It won’t sound real; a fan cannot connect to something unreal.

Disconnecting myself from his words, from his soul-weakening voice, I untangle myself from the crown and run back to the tour bus.

Rather than be around when they get back from the meet-and-greet, I decide to hide in my bunk. Steele will know when he sees me that I heard.

Once, I was told my eyes were an open book. Try as I might to lock myself into a box, I am forever failing at concealing my emotions. I need time—time away from his demanding, prying eyes.

Lifting my pillow up, I lift my iPod out from under my pillow and unravel the earphones, hoping I won’t even hear them come back before I drift off to sleep.

Hitting shuffle, the most poetically beautiful voices start singing: Mumford & Sons.

“Ghosts That We Knew” is such an emotional song. One filled with pain and courage. I close my eyes to just listen and feel the music that’s pumping into my ears.

Wiping tears from my eyes, I hit repeat and let the song play over and over, until I fall asleep.

Waking up, the earphones must have fallen out; I overhear the guys talking. They must have come in not too long ago.

Trying to maintain the appearance that I am still asleep, I eavesdrop on them. I recognize Steele’s voice, but there’s another one.

I haven’t officially been introduced to him, but I know his voice. It’s Zepp.

“I don’t fucking care if she’s sleeping, Zepp—let me the fuck through! She could have gotten herself hurt with that childish act she pulled out there!” Steele screams.

Shit. How could he have seen me? I made sure to blend myself in, only staying for one song.

“Ryan, go calm yourself down. This is something we can discuss in the morning, help her understand why it isn’t safe for her to do something like that.

“Raging at her like a goddamn bull will not help. Come on, man, you remember when we would sit at the fucking bar while our opening acts would perform.

“We had to go with the changes; she’s not used to this,” I hear Zepp argue back.

I cringe inwardly, closing my eyes, hoping Zepp doesn’t let him go, only for him to confront me.

I hear the door of the tour bus open then shut with a slam. Suddenly, my curtain is slid open. It’s Zepp, a hard glint in his eye.

“I’ve held him off for as long as I can. When he comes back in here, no one else, including me, will be able to stop him.”

He must have noticed how tight I was clutching the blankets underneath my body.

His face softens. “Just stay in here, get some sleep, and, Natalie, please don’t pull a stunt like that again.”

With that, he slides my curtain back to closed, and I hear his footsteps retreat and then the bus door shut gently.

Unlocking my iPod, I check to see what time it is. 11 p.m. He must have run right off stage as soon as they closed out the show.

Fortunately, the meet-and-greet is now, and from what I’ve heard they should be gone for quite a few hours. Putting the earphones back in, I drift off to sleep.

I run to the door, wondering who would be knocking this late at night. Layla right behind me, I open the door to a police officer. He asks my name, then Layla’s.

His name is Officer Petty. He tells us to get our shoes on and to join him outside.

“It’s an emergency,” he states.

Instantly, my palms start sweating and my body starts shaking, uncomfortable about the unknown. And right now, there is something definitely wrong.

When Layla and I go outside, the police car is already pulled up, officer behind the wheel. We just get in, not asking any questions. I can tell he doesn’t want to speak.

Maybe trying to put off the inevitable, not wanting to irrevocably change our lives.

I know that this is a dream, my body still in a sleep haze. I feel as if I am a third person looking in from the outside. Watching myself, watching my life about to crumble.

Everything I ever thought I knew about life was about to change forever.

Body still asleep, my mind still awake, I try to push through this. It’s a dream, a recurring one, actually—more like a nightmare.

I relive this memory quite often. I have lost count of how many times I’ve had this same exact nightmare, hating that my mind is stuck in limbo.

I can hear people around me awaken. I can smell food cooking—eggs and bacon. All I want is to wake up fully, so I try to push through the haze of distant memories.

Try to clear my mind, to fly away from this dream and push that tragic night back into my subconscious mind.

Embarrassing myself, I awake with a scream. My curtain is thrown open, and Steele’s face is in mine, checking me over. Prying into my personal space.

I’m speechless. My body is shaking. From the embarrassment or the churning of my gut, I haven’t decided yet. I shove Steele out of my way and jump off the bunk, running to the bathroom.

My body smashes into another body—this one hard. It knocks me on my ass.

I don’t even glance to see who it was. I pick myself up and scurry to the bathroom. Locking the door, I lift the toilet seat, pull my hair away from my face, and vomit.

I vomit until there is nothing left, my abdominal muscles cramping because of the heaving, my eyesight sprinkled with white dots from lack of oxygen.

Sweat dripping down my face, I stand up and turn the faucet on at the sink. Cupping water in both of my hands, I splash the water on my face, letting it run down, mixing with my sweat.

Looking in the mirror at the stranger I see, the sadness that consumes me, I know she is me. But I do not recognize her—not anymore.

Forcing myself to ignore my reflection, I spy someone’s toothpaste sitting on the small counter.

Since mine is currently in a zip-lock bag in the back bedroom, I squirt a little onto my finger and rub the toothpaste along my teeth and over my tongue.

Spitting out the toothpaste, trying to wash away the acidic taste in my mouth, I hear someone start pounding on the door.

“Who is it?” I ask.

No answer. The pounding resumes.

“What do you want?”

No answer.

Fuck this. I am the only woman on this damn bus. The least they can give me is some semblance of privacy.

When I whip the door open, the hand still in a fist, pounding ferociously, stops inches from my face.

“What? What is such an emergency you could not wait until I was done?” I groan.

He doesn’t say a word. He shoves me back—far enough back in this cramped bathroom that he can fit in here as well.

Shutting and locking the door, he looks at me, eyes hard, with not a trace of his usual smirk.

Clueless as to what I could have done, I start attacking. “You have no right coming in here, assuming you had permission. Who do you think you are?”

There’s nowhere to move. I’m stuck. My back is up against the wall, the shower on my right, toilet on my left. He is near the sink, about a foot away from me, and he’s inching closer.

I’m stuck watching his feet and waiting for a reply. I’m doing all I can not to look up.

I don’t want to know what he has to say. With the look he had on his face last night, it can’t be anything good. His feet meet mine, and it’s as if I have no control over myself. He does this to me.

I look up, into his eyes, no longer filled with anger, but…lust? I shoot my eyes back down to the ground, to our feet, where our toes are meeting. It’s impossible.

There is no fucking way he is looking at me like that right now.

My body reacting, I feel goose bumps sprout all over my skin, my breathing picking up, and I can barely disguise it. He angles his body even closer, still not touching.

I feel his breath on my ear.

“You, my minx, would do well to remember that this is my tour bus, so wherever I choose to be, whenever I want to be, I can.”

I shake, anger replacing the hormonal reaction I was previously having. This man must truly believe he is God, the al-fucking-mighty. I’ll be damned if I let him think he can walk all over me.

I remind him I am not another piece on his long list of property. “Oh, Steele,” I say with a flirtatious roll of my eyes, drawing him in.

I align my lips with his ear and whisper, “Babe, it really would be best for you to remember, you are the manipulative asshole who forced me to be here.

“Just because I am here does not mean, in any way, shape, or form, that I want to be here. That I want you or at any rate even like you. Just leave. Me. Alone.”

He stands still, processing what I said. I shimmy against his side and leave the bathroom while he will still let me.

Keeping my emotions under tight rein, I put a smile on my face. The façade always holds people back from asking questions—not that anyone ever truly cares.

It’s a show, allowing some to put on an air of generosity and fake sincerity for caring what happens to me. No one gives a shit about the fucked up half-life I have lived for the past five years.

Truth be told, I fare pretty well with that.

It could be the guard I have around my heart that only Layla has ice-picked her way into.

Entering the back bedroom, I lean into the closed door, allowing myself to have a temporary mental breakdown. Tears begging to be released from my eyes, I permit them.

Clutching the door as if it’s my life raft keeping me uprooted from falling to the floor in a severe panic attack, as the shuddering of emotion leaves my body, my tears slowly start to form.

I feel pressure against the door. Someone is trying to enter the room. I’m praying it isn’t Steele. Not now. He would only stampede over my feelings. He’s not caring of anyone else but himself.

I wipe my tears on the sleeve of my shirt, just hoping my eyes aren’t as puffy and swollen red as they feel.

I recognize the face that slowly enters the door, almost with a question as to whether he can enter or not. But as soon as he sees my face, he grants himself that permission.

Slowly closing the door behind himself, he turns around to face me. He’s gorgeous, and I laugh out loud at the irony of it all. Meanwhile, I probably sound like a damn fool.

What are the chances? Here I am still recovering from an emotional overload, crazily laughing, and in walks the angel of sin in all his glory.

Showing pity and kindness in his hazy green eyes, he holds out his arms to me, offering comfort. Without thinking, I wrap myself up in him, relishing in the comfort.

Layla would usually be the one to hold me. But for now, he will do. Anchoring me down with his muscular arms, I snuggle my face into his shirt, breathing him in.

He smells of cinnamon and warmth. I wrap my arms around him as far as I can reach and hold him tightly.

We say nothing to one another, an air of understanding interlacing between us. He holds tighter, squeezing me so tight I don’t know where I end and he begins.

We stand there for a while, giving each other our strength and holding our own weakness.

My head resting on Sin’s shoulder, the door is thrown open, and my eyes interlock with none other than Steele’s.