Page 86 of Graves

“Please, Aran!” Leslie begs from the other side of the locked door. “I can’t change it either. You’ve got this. I’ll step in if it gets bad. I promise!”

I hang my head, but the iron chain around my chest makes it almost impossible.

Just the thought of doing this interview alone makes me nauseous.

“I said I’m not doing this by myself,” I grit out.

“I know,” she replies. “But they only want you. We’re all here though—the whole band, Brandon, me.”

“What a comfort,” I mutter sarcastically. “So everyone can watch me fuck it up.”

“Come on, Aran!”

I feel helpless, cornered, and weak. Like a steamroller ran me over. Every fiber of my body is screaming for rest.

Why the hell did they schedule the interview right before the show?

Do they want to make sure I screw up the performance?

I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face. Then I push my hair back with both hands and straighten up. A faint rattle comes from the inside pocket of my leather jacket—the pills Liam gave me.

I dig them out and stare at the orange plastic bottle. The label has the name of the medication, but I’d never heard of it before.

“They’re not for headaches,” I hear Koh’s voice in my head.

He would know.

But I did my own research online and found out what they’re really for. They’re not specifically for headaches, but they dull general pain.

Exactly what I need.

Without overthinking it, I open the bottle, pop one pill, and wash it down with water before slipping the bottle back into my jacket.

“Aran?” Leslie calls softly through the door. “You still alive in there?”

I can hardly believe I’ve locked myself in the bathroom like a sulking teenager, but panic took over. My hands are still shaking as I unlock the door.

Leslie leans against the doorframe, and when she looks at me, a bright smile lights up her face like I’m a damn spotlight.

Since I got out, I’ve been nothing but shadows and darkness. The only bright moments I’ve had were with Koh—or on stage.

“I love you, Aran,” she says, pulling me in for a kiss on the cheek. “Come on. Everything’s set up. I’ll walk you over.”

I’ve been in this business long enough to know Leslie’s love only lasts as long as I do what her bosses want. So I don’t really have a choice. I can’t blow off the interview.

Only four gigs left.

It’s become a mantra, though I’m not even sure what I expect from it. So far, it hasn’t done much to calm me down.

I love music and I appreciate the chance we’ve been given, but I hate being told how to do my job. For five years, I did what I was ordered to do. Freedom was supposed to feel different.

Leslie leads me out of the dressing room, down the brightly lit, sterile hallway past the stage entrance, and tries once more to explain why the no-go list didn’t work out.

“They refused,” she says, sounding like she fought for it with everything she had.

We both know she didn’t.

“But look at the bright side. This is your chance to clear up misunderstandings and rebuild your image. Show the viewers who you really are.”