6. Phoenix

Phoenix

Hanging On

F ive songs.

We’ve played four already.

For an opening band, it’s a decent amount of time. I’m not tired, but I’m sweaty. This venue is smaller than the others so far. I quickly chug some water from the bottle I keep behind my stool, sneaking glances at my bandmates, who do the same.

Jorge works the crowd after he’s done, getting them hyped for the song I know they came to hear. Isolated keeps gaining more traction. Even some of those people on YouTube who do reactions are making videos with the song. I hated making that music video, but thankfully, the director, Trent, was kind enough to have only minimal shots of me. And even those only showcased my hair.

I glance at Kelly, who is observing the crowd and tweaking her keyboard in preparation. Her eyes round briefly, and then she glances at Michael next to her. He pivots his face back at me, and I mouth what’s up? Both he and Kelly say nothing but quickly whisper to each other. My gut bubbles uncomfortably, but I ignore it. I’m sure whatever it is, they’ll tell me when we’re done. It's probably that Jorge’s mic isn’t loud enough or something. Quickly wiping my face and pushing my hair off my arms, I grab my sticks, adrenaline fueling me.

Last song.

Devon’s mohawk is drooping a little from the humidity, so it flops forward when he bends to check his peddles. I’ll be sure to tease him about it tonight when he’s cursing his hairspray. The smallest of smiles forms on my lips while I think about it, and then—like fucking lightning—my heart jackhammers in my chest.

Between my cymbal and high tom, I catch movement in the front of the crowd. Bodies part as someone presses through. The lights shining on us cast most of their faces in shadows, but I see a flash of pink on a pale neck.

I interrupt Jorge, who announces the song, beat down on my kit, and kick off the song. The rest of my band catches on fast, Michael’s fingers gliding over the fretboard. Jorge flips around to study me for a second or two then starts singing. The crowd goes nuts, singing along. I keep my eyes glued to my kit while my throat seizes shut.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

I hammer the bass drum, alternating through each drum and cymbal while holding the beat with perfect timing, fueling my emotions into the best I’ve ever played.

What the fuck is he doing here? He’s had a week of shows to come and burst my bubble but hasn’t. Why now? Keenly aware my lucky socks are dirty, I curse myself and keep playing. It doesn’t matter. Let him watch. Let him see how great I’m doing without him.

I’m perfect.

Totally fine.

As the song transitions into the breakdown, I bang my head, knowing the beat by heart. I could play with my eyes closed while sick as a dog. I’m not doing this tonight. Every nerve in my body fires off, my feet moving almost too fast for the song.

Fuck him. Fuck him.

I lose myself in the last thirty seconds, time seeming to stand still. He’s right there, watching me like he’s never seen me before. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he was always too fucking high. Jorge does his final growl, the stage vibrating with its sheer force, and I slam my hands down as hard as I can with the final note. The screams and cheers are muted. I take a breath, eyes bouncing everywhere.

“We’re Dreadful. Thank you for coming! Let's hear it for Headhunter and Dark Wing!”

I shoot out of my stool. They will need me to break down my kit so Headhunter can come on in fifteen minutes, but I need a moment. I wave to the crowd without looking, darting backstage with speed. Leon and his singer chat over on the couches while their guitarists tune their instruments. I rush to the bathroom. Locking the door behind me, I slam my back into it, raking a hand through my sweaty hair. I have to go back out there. There is no time for me to have a mini breakdown. Fuck do I want to, though.

Growling low in my throat, I dart over to the sink, wet my face, and then head back.

It’s bright now that the show is in between bands. People flood outside to smoke, the floor clearing out just slightly while people buy t-shirts or go piss. I don’t look out there. Terry, our driver, and one of our fans rush out onto the stage to help me break down my shit. I don’t remember the girl’s name, but she smiles sweetly and gets to work. The entire time, I feel eyes on my back, like clawed hands scraping my skin. I grind my teeth, not wanting to admit how much I like it.

“Some guy is staring at you. Like…creepy,” the girl murmurs, squatting down beside me. “Do you want me to finish up?”

I sigh a little, shaking my head. “Probably a fan. It’s fine.” It isn’t fine. Eli knows what he’s doing. Taunting me, letting his presence be known without fucking doing anything about it. With his new boyfriend ten feet away from me, completely oblivious.

“He looks…mad. Fucked up, maybe?”

My hands pause in their movement. He’s mad ? Nope. I don’t care. Whatever his issue is, it isn’t my problem anymore. He dumped me . Left me . I go to instruct her how to get the snare stand broken down because it’s janky and I need a new one, but she gets over-confident, brushing my fingers instead of waiting for me to finish. One of the legs snaps clean off, and my drum goes rolling.

“Shit! I’m sorry!” She moves to get it, but I stop her.

“It’s alright, help Terry, yeah?”

Steeling myself, I get up, face the crowd, and my stomach plummets. Eli is palming my drum to keep it from falling off the ledge. Several people watch us, and then, just like last year, someone recognizes him.

“Holy shit! It’s the camboy!” The guy is drunk, wobbly on his feet, while he pulls out his phone.

I snatch the drum from Eli, our eyes locked in a two-second, heated exchange. “Hi,” he says.

I don’t answer him. Instead, I set my drum behind me, turn around, and hike my fist. Jorge is on me before I realize it. “Woah! Chill, man. Chilllll,” he holds the drum and ushers me away. “Devon!”

I’m shaking horribly, unable to swallow, and I keep trying to get back over there so I can fuck him up.

I don’t know why I’m so angry. Maybe it's because I'm being recorded again? Maybe because he showed his face? Maybe because he has the audacity to fucking do this to me and then stand there like some goth prince ready to make it all right again with his magic dick. I want to cry. I want to throw up. I want to run back home with my tail tucked between my legs and sleep with Helios for another year, wishing it’d all go away.

Jorge gets me safely backstage while I seethe, teeth bared. He grabs me by the back of my neck and forces our foreheads together. “Breathe. Breathe with me, okay? Can you do that for me?”

I am breathing but like a bull. I nod fast, following his lead as he works me through my anger. “This is why you can’t bottle shit up,” he tells me.

The entirety of Headhunter is watching us—my chin trembles. “I’m good,” I yell, shifting away from him. “I’m good , Jorge. Fuck.” I rip myself from his hold and storm off.

T here wasn’t anywhere for me to go, so I ended up sitting outside the venue near the bus.

I’ve been on this curb, smoking my vape, for easily fifteen minutes, trying to decide how I want to handle my current situation. The easiest solution would be to ignore Eli because giving him any attention is sending the wrong signal—even hitting him. He’s the kind of person that craves it. I don’t think what kind of attention matters either. I’m not stupid. I’ve seen the scars and haunted looks he would get, so I know there’s some shit going on beneath the surface. But the one thing he made clear from the get-go is that we aren’t those people—the kind that talk.

Back then, I guess I was okay with it because I’m not a huge talker. I will , under the right circumstances, but with Eli, I never had to. He knew what I needed, and I knew how he wanted me. Looking back, that shit wasn’t healthy. Nothing about our relationship was. It was like drinking poison and convincing yourself it’s just soda. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t all in. That doesn’t mean I didn’t try my damn hardest to make it work. I’ve never had that kind of lust-love before, and I got sick with addiction from it.

I’m still sick.

I glance at the streetlights, my chest is hollow yet somehow tight. People say you can’t understand crazy—that there’s no point in trying to put logic to it because crazy leaves no room for logic. I don’t know if that makes me the crazy person or the logical one. Most days, I think I’m crazy because I’ll lay awake at night, wishing that he’d reach out, hoping that he’d say all the right words and we’d go right back to before. Other days, I try to understand him. Why did he say all the wrong words that night—why did he shove me away?

As hard as I try, I can’t make it make sense. It all fell apart so fast.

And now here I am, attempting to survive this tour, knowing he will be around every corner, down the block, a tour bus behind. Does he even know how shitty that is? Does he even care? All he has to do is sit around, get his dick played with and look pretty. Meanwhile, I have to juggle keeping my head straight, my family drama, the band, and ensuring I don’t fuck up on stage in front of hundreds—if not thousands—of people. Is he really that selfish? I rub my eyes with my thumb and index, knowing the answer.

Nyx says I fell in love with a narcissist. But I’ve googled it, and Eli doesn’t check the boxes. My baby sister is trying to rationalize it all, too. She may be the youngest of us, but she’s fiercely protective. I love her to death because of it.

I wonder if this is how Oliver’s exes feel. Do they hate him? Sympathize? Or hold out hope like a pathetic fuck that he’ll one day get his shit together and seek them out? He’s only three years younger than me but looks older than Darien. It hurts to look at him sometimes—even before Eli.

There’s a deep resentment inside me towards my brother because instead of dealing with his issues like the rest of us, he took the coward’s way out. Relying on any drug he could get his hands on, stealing from us, and lying to our faces. I wonder what happened to him. What made it all go wrong? I don’t think I’m all that messed up—maybe a little —and I’m not an addict. At least, not with anything illegal. I’m addicted to my drums, my vape… my cat.

And before this last year, I was addicted to a man I should’ve never met. But fate is a tricky bitch.

The cool air hits my face as I calm down enough to know I won’t go back in there and get in a fight. The last thing I need is that shit ending up on TikTok. Been there, done that. A shiver runs down my spine, probably because the sweat on my body has dried, and it’s hitting me that we’re in the Midwest in the middle of November. I should grab a jacket. Standing up to do just that, I walk over to the bus, pulling out the key I swiped from Terry before coming here. I get it in the lock, fingers gripping the handle, when I see movement in my peripheral.

Black jeans, slip-on black Vans, and legs that look longer than they are approach me. I close my eyes, feeling his on me like lasers. Not now. I jerk the door open, ready to slam it in his face, but he speaks.

Soft, barely there, he says, “Phoenix, can we talk?”

My back stiffens as I pivot just enough to see his face.

The whites around his dark blue eyes are red. His skin is lighter, more sallow. I spot the purple bags telling me he’s not sleeping. With his hands in his pockets and his black hair pulled into a low bun, I know he didn’t plan on doing this. If he had, that hair would be down and blowing in the wind because I'm a whore for men with pretty hair. No, this shit was a spur-of-the-moment idea. I doubt he even knows what to say to me, not after this long, not after a year of fucking nothing.

I stay quiet, my grip on the handle tightening. I need to get inside this bus. I need to walk the fuck away. But my legs won't budge. I hate that I want to hear what he says, even if it is nothing.

The two rings on either side of his bottom lip glisten as he swipes his tongue over them. “How are you?”

I blink, my brows wanting to furrow, but I keep my face blank. How are you? Seriously? Narrowing my eyes a touch, I almost laugh. God, how fucked up is he right now? “Perfect,” I bite out, then escape into the bus. I slam the door, flipping the lock, and glare at him through the little window.

His eyes harden, rejection not something he’s used to with me, and he spits on the ground. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, never breaking our stare-down. What does he want? Why is he out here playing this game when his new guy is back inside?

“I can wait out here all night,” he muses, blowing out his smoke. I don’t reply, so he continues, “I did you a favor, so stop acting like some victim.”

I catch myself looking at the tattoo on the right side of his neck. The pink flower petals were deliberately tatted there to look like they were blowing away right off his skin. He notices. Even high, Eli can be observant, and it’s annoying. “He kisses them, too.” Tilting his chin up so more of the tattoo is visible, he taps it lazily. “Just like you used to.”

Move. Walk away. Get to the back where he can’t see you.

I’m rooted on the step, slightly hunched due to the shallow roof in this spot of the bus. “It all worked out, though. Didn’t it?” He’s determined to get a rise out of me again. He wants it that badly. “Everyone forgot all about it. I’m working like it never happened. You’re on tour with fans ready to worship you. Wasn’t such a big deal.”

Biting my tongue so I don’t speak, I simply stare at him. Every inch of me is wound tight. Walk the fuck away .

He ashes his cigarette, looking up at the sky and spinning in a slow circle. “It’s pretty out here.” His eyes drop back down to mine. “ You’re pretty.” I watch his throat bob.

Yeah, I'm not doing this.

“Bye, Elijah,” I say loud enough that I know he hears it, and then I disappear.

Falling into one of the benches set up like a couch, I hold my head, breathing all jacked up. A few times, he’s done shit like this. Usually, after he’d vanish for a few days, he would send me a text or request a video call. If I didn’t respond, he’d send a video. And, of course, I’d watch it. He’d tell me that he missed me, that he was sorry, that it wasn’t a big deal. I’d hear the added rasp to his voice, see the hunger in his eyes, and cave. I always fucking caved. I grab at my hair, my gut sloshing with unease. The dead, rotting chunks of my heart are trying to string back together like a zombie because he’s right outside. I want to run out there and touch him.

I want to be that guy again.

But I’m not that guy anymore, and I certainly won’t be him while Eli is fucking someone else. So I stay holed up on the bus until the rest of my band comes, and we pack up and leave. Eli didn’t stay out there all night like he threatened, and I knew he wouldn’t. It’s all a game to him. It's a way to see if I still want him. Or worse, he’s trying to make me truly hate him. To sever the bits and pieces of my love for him that I still cling to. That thought eventually carries me to my bunk, sleep never coming.

I toss and turn, the soft hum of the bus engine doing nothing to recreate the white noise of my fan at home. All the therapists in the world couldn’t explain Eli’s behavior tonight, and not a single one of them can fix me either. Before him, I thought I was pretty normal. A bit weird, but normal. After him, though, I know that I’m not. Normal people would’ve moved on. Normal people wouldn’t have let him speak, let alone gawk like I did.

What the hell was I thinking looking there? Giving him another knife to stab in my back.

Of course, Leon kisses him there. It’s his fucking neck. But there’s no way in hell that he kisses each petal to hear the breathy moan Eli makes. Or run his tongue over every one because he likes how Eli’s skin tastes. And what about the other tattoos? His scars? Does Leon kiss those? Does he whisper words of worship, promising never to be the reason Eli hurts? No the fuck he doesn’t, and I know it because that’s all me.

My phone vibrates beside my arm. I flip to my side, hoping it’s Veronica sending me a cute picture of my niece. I frown when I see it’s just a Snapchat. I pull down the notification, yawning a little, and then choke.

Camboy89 .

It's the most generic name ever, but I know it’s him. It’s always him with those numbers attached to it. Hovering my thumb over the screen, I fight with the urge to swipe it away, not bother even looking. Am I going to entertain it? Even if all I do is look? My head says fuck no. My gut flutters wildly, and my dick twitches in my sweats.

Goddammit.

I click the notification, and it sends me straight into a chat—with one message.

Camboy89: You don’t hate me yet, but you will.

I suck in a breath, throat, and eyes burning. My chin wobbles while my nose tingles, letting me know tears will come.

Phoenix: Bored?

Phoenix: Leon not up to snuff?

Phoenix: Or are you just high as fuck, not knowing what to do with yourself?

My fingers keep flying over the touchscreen. At this point, I don’t even know what I’m going to say until it’s typed and sent.

Phoenix: Hate means you care.

Phoenix: I don’t care.

Phoenix: Not anymore.

I wait, seeing that he’s read them, and the dots pop up.

Camboy89: Is that why you unfollowed Leon? And his band? Because you “don’t care”?

“Mother fucker,” I growl.

Camboy89: Don’t you get it? I helped you. I saved you.

Camboy89: Least you can do is thank me.

I can’t stop myself. It just comes out like word vomit.

Phoenix: Why, thank you, Eli, for showing me how stupid I was. You really pried open my eyes. Thank you for hiding your drug addiction. Thank you for being a constant reminder that I’m worth fuck all in comparison to powder. Thank you for ghosting me, leaving me stranded on my sister’s wedding day, and causing such a fucking scene people are still talking about it a year later.

Phoenix: THANK YOU.

Phoenix: Go fuck yourself.

I block him, chuck my phone by my feet, curl into a ball, and slam my eyes shut just as the tears slip free.