Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(55)

I see only a slice of her through sleep-slitted eyes.

“I’m in love with him.” My words slur, but I’m sure she heard them. The words I’ve only ever admitted to a handful of people.

“You’re a lucky girl.”

I barely manage a sleepy smile, my last conscious thought the truth that’s gonna get me through this last show, even though my body doesn’t seem able.

Don’t I know it.





AS A KID, I COULD BARELY make it through a performance without a healthy dose of Xanax. So much so that it became a crutch I couldn’t walk without. The anxiety, the pressure every time I stepped onto the stage overshadowed my early years of performing. So when I reinvented myself as a musician, I did it for me and me alone. Not for my parents or the money or the acclaim, but because I had, for whatever reason, been given a gift that not many people in the world had. I could play just about anything . . . really well.

And though my early life left me so cautious I only let a few people past the gate, only lowered my guard by inches, when I take the stage, I hold nothing back. I’m all heart and soul every time, and what the audience gives me in return is like nothing I’d ever imagined I’d experience as a musician. It’s a sonic freefall, and those people who love my music, who get it, are the net that catches me every time.

So nerves don’t really come into play for me anymore when I perform. But tonight, I’m in an arena packed with fans, the air vibrating with their anticipation. My foot bounces a frantic rhythm on the sticky floor. I’m sweating through my t-shirt. My stomach knots up. The nerves, man, the nerves before this performance are like old times. Like everything rides on this next set.

And I’m nowhere near the stage.

I’m halfway back, just in sight of the soundboard so I can geek out over the equipment they’re using to mix the show. I’m smack dab in the middle of a row of people, wearing Dickies. I’m carrying glow sticks and drinking flat beer while we wait for the opening act, the only thing I care about tonight. I’m here to see my girl perform, really perform, to a packed house, and this room can barely contain me I’m so high on possibility.

Other people take this for granted, standing in a crowded concert, shoulder to shoulder with thousands of fans. It’s wonderfully novel for me, though, to be on this side of the stage. I approached this outing with the stealth and missional strategery of Jason Bourne. I worked out my disguise. I plotted an elaborate plan to get out of my neighborhood, undetected and all plebeian in the used Corolla Marlon secured for me. I parked and walked to the venue like everyone else. On my back, standard issue Luke Foster t-shirt. On my head, my Dodgers cap. I’m wearing the Magnum P.I. moustache, which has never let me down. My own mother would be hard-pressed to recognize me. I’m drinking cheap beer and chomping on a pretzel like everyone else on my row.

It’s exhilarating.

All the pre-show stuff is coming to an end, and my heartbeat picks up speed. Is she nervous? Does Kai suspect that maybe, just possibly, I’m in the audience? We spoke earlier, but only briefly. Partially because she was getting ready for the show, and partially because I knew if we spoke too long, I’d give something away and she’d know I was coming.

Tonight she’ll be in my bed because finally the longest month of my life comes to an end. Over the last three weeks, Kai and I have texted and Facetimed and talked every day, despite the time difference, but now we’re in the same state. She doesn’t know it, but we’re in the same place. The same arena. She has to at least suspect that I’m coming, but we haven’t talked about it at all. The only part of the show I’m not looking forward to is that lap dance she gives Luke during his set. That shit ends tonight, and she won’t be anywhere near his lap ever again.

The announcer welcomes everyone to the show before introducing the opening act. The crowd erupts for Kai. In three months she has rocketed to her own prominence. I can’t stand John Malcolm, but I have to hand it to him. He knows how to transform a talent into a star.

But at what cost?

The last few Facetime calls, Kai looked worn down, exhausted. That skin-deep sparkle that’s always been so much a part of her was absent. As if the tour weren’t demanding enough, Malcolm added mall stops along the way. And because of all the hype surrounding Kai, he’s had her doing multiple early morning radio and TV interviews in every city. It’s too much and it’s taken a toll.

She promised me after this tour we wouldn’t care who knew we’re still together. She promised me we’d be together again. I hope she meant it because I’ve already booked our vacation from the rest of the world, and it starts as soon as this tour stops.

But not before I get to see her performing live for myself. She’s phenomenal. Many singers learn to dance because you kind of have to these days. Unless you’re this guy, anchored to your piano and not giving a f*ck. But Kai is a dancer. She’s not just competent. She’s masterful. Combine that with her incredible voice and magnetic stage presence, along with being gorgeous, which never hurts, and you’ve got a rare package.

I’m so damn proud of her when she starts her set. I completely get why people want more from her, why she’s gained so many fans of her own opening for Luke.

“Rhyson Gray is one lucky son of a bitch,” the guy beside me says to the person on the other side of him. It jars me to hear my name when I’m supposed to be knee-deep in anonymity.