Locked Heart (Cash Me Outside 1)

From what I can find online, Sherlock Emerson doesn’t exist anymore.

The ball is in his court.

And in my throat.

I swallow hard around the lump. “Can’t you tell me he’ll turn up, he’ll be the same sweet guy I remember from high school, and I’ll fulfill a lifelong dream and live happily ever after?”

Seb purses his lips. “Tell me again how you’re not getting your hopes up?”

He’s right. He’s so right.

The chance of Sherlock actually being here right now, out in the bright sun and desert heat, just waiting for me to take the stage is slim.

He’s not out there. He’s not.

Yet, as we’re led from our tour bus to the stage for our set, I’m constantly glancing around the grounds, checking every face for the older version of the boy I once loved, and I’m really regretting my decision to be sober for this.

Thorne was right that I needed a break from the partying.

Instead, I’ve been throwing all my energy into putting on the best show of Death Valley.

All for him.

A guy who is most likely never going to show up.

I’ve been looking out for him for days. The headliners play the final day of the festival, and while there hasn’t been any reason for Sherlock to come early considering this wasn’t his thing, I thought maybe he might be here.

But all I’ve seen are unfamiliar faces in the crowds of people here for the music. Not love.

I keep forgetting the real point of Death Valley.

This was once my dream, and now all I dream about is a redheaded boy from my past.

“Play it cool,” Seb says. “Desperation doesn’t look good on a rock star.”

“I can make anything look good.”

“If you say so.”

Yet, even as I say the words, I don’t feel them.

I’m shirtless, lathered up in so much sunblock it looks like I’m covered in oil, and I’ve got these damn chains around my neck that drape over my chest. They look cool, but they weigh me down and sit uncomfortably on my skin and I’m sure my hair is going to get tangled in them at some point.

At least Thorne let me wear my fake leather pants today—the ones that have stretch in them. Wearing real leather in this heat might kill me.

“Are you really going to make us do the song?” Seb asks.

“Yes. We’re doing the song.”

“If I haven’t told you lately, I hate you.”

“Agreed,” Jasper and Greg say behind us.

“It’s one song.”

“It’s a Katy Perry song,” Seb reminds me.

“You’re gay. You’re supposed to love her.”

Behind me, the straight dudes snicker.

Thorne catches up to us, but his face doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies I was expecting.

“Anything?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I left two tickets at will call for Sherlock. Two, because I wanted to be nice in case he wanted to bring someone.

A friend.

Not a boyfriend.

God, I hope he doesn’t have a boyfriend.

My stomach sours.

I wonder what he’s been up to all these years. What he’s been doing. Who he’s been doing.

I haven’t been a monk, not by a long shot, but by rock star standards, I’m lacking quite a few notches on my bedpost.

I realized how much Sherlock had been holding me back in that department when I had a fling with my producer. An ex-boy bander who said I was even more emotionally unavailable than he was, and that’s bad.

My heart has always belonged to someone I don’t know anymore.

Knowing Sherlock hasn’t picked up the tickets I left for him plants the first real thoughts of doubt inside me.

I’ve been trying to tell myself he isn’t coming, but I’ve always believed in my heart that he would.

Now, I’m not so sure. We’re about to go on, and he’s only got the next two hours to get here or he’ll miss it.

There are two songs especially for him that I worked into this set.

I ask Thorne to keep checking the tickets for me, but he refuses. Something about not wanting to keep running back to the front gates every five minutes to aid in getting me some sex.

So not what this is about, but whatever. I’m not getting into it with him. Or either of the other guys.

“Please, welcome to the stage, Cash Me Outside!”

We rush up to our positions, and I scream into the mic. “How shitfaced is everyone?”

I knew the reaction was going to be loud, but fuck … I’ll be lucky to hear the music even with my earpiece in.

Seb and I share a smile as waves of excitable energy pulse outward from the crowd and are sent our way. The atmosphere of a live show is the best thing in the world. Nothing beats it.

“Good,” Seb says into his own mic. “The more fucked-up you are, the better we sound.”

Jasper starts the intro to our latest hit on his drums, and I close my eyes and let the beat flow through me. It vibrates in my chest, as if my heart is following Jasper’s rhythm.