Best Friends Forever

“You want me to perform with someone blind? No practice, no nothing, in front of all these sick kids looking for a good time? This isn’t some grungy jam session in a dive bar, Merrill.” The last thing I want to do is disappoint this audience.

“Don’t worry. She knows what she’s doing. She’s got the lyrics down and you two will be fine. You’re both professionals.”

“Who is it?” I ask, a last glimmer of hope flickering inside of me. After nearly fifteen years in the rock scene, I’ve made my fair share of contacts. Maybe I’ll know her, or at least know her work. That would certainly set my mind at ease.

“Chelsea Garten,” Merrill says plainly. Then, to my look of non-recognition, he adds, “She’s a country singer.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, dropping my forehead to my hands.

Don’t get me wrong, I like country music all right, and I have a hell of a lot of respect for those artists, but we don’t exactly have the same style. I can’t imagine some little slip of a thing with hair bigger than her head and a sequined minidress shining like a disco ball exactly fitting in with my image.

“I’m not,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Chin up, you’re on in five. And remember, it’s for a good cause.”

Merrill stands and leaves me on the couch there to process all of this alone. I was nervous enough before his announcement when I had almost three weeks of practicing with Julia under my belt. Now? With this Chelsea person I’ve never even met? I feel like I’m gonna puke. This is going to be a complete disaster. But at least I’ll have my couple of solo songs to wow the crowd with before we let them all down.

I’m back on my feet and pacing, just thinking about it. I wait for the familiar pang of longing, that craving for a hit to slam into me like it normally does when I’m this stressed, but surprisingly, it doesn’t materialize. Maybe all this meditating bullshit really is working.

I stop my frantic pacing and stand in the middle of the shabbily-furnished room, glancing over to the mirror.

“You’re going to be fine,” I say to myself, watching my lips form the words as if it were someone else talking to me. “She’s a professional. She has the lyrics. It’s going to be fine,” I repeat, hoping it sounds truer the second time. I stare at myself in the cracked mirror for a long moment before I take a d

eep breath, filling my lungs to the brim.

“Besides,” I exhale with a laugh, smiling at myself and the memory of Merrill trying to cheer me up, “it’s for a good cause.”

Good old Merrill. He might drive me up a wall sometimes, but he’s not wrong. This show isn’t really about my new reformed reputation. It’s not about trying to jumpstart a serious comeback for my career. It’s about those kids. Whatever the universe wants to throw at me tonight, I can take it, because I am not letting those damn kids down.

The knot in my chest releases and suddenly I’m relaxed, focused, and ready to put on one hell of a show. Which is a good thing, because it’s just as I’m shaking out the last nerves from my arms that I hear the emcee bellowing my name over the cheering audience.

“Chin up, Ian,” I say, mimicking Merrill’s false cheerfulness, “it’s showtime.”

I give my arms one more shake, jumping up and down in place to get rid of some of the overabundance of energy I have. Being on stage has always been electrifying, but I haven’t felt this good in a long time. Being clean really does suit me. I jog out on stage, my arm held high, waving at the crowd.

“How are you guys doing tonight?” I say into the mic, my voice echoing throughout the theater. This place is jam-packed, and despite some of these kids being in wheelchairs, or being attached to IVs, it’s all smiles as they roar back at me. That kind of response is more addicting than any hit of smack.

“You ready to party?!” I hold the mic out to the audience and they cheer back even louder.

“Let’s do this.” I drop my hand and fit the mic back into its stand just as the stage lights come on behind me and the band launches into the first song.

Apparently I’m not the only one feeling the energy tonight. Every beat, every note, every cue is absolutely perfect. We go straight from the first song into the second and I’m starting to feel like nothing could possibly bring me down. But it’s as the second song winds down and the lights dim for a short break that I remember what’s coming next: my unrehearsed performance with Chelsea Garten.

I dip backstage while the emcee comes out and announces the change in the lineup. I’m mopping the sweat from my forehead with a towel a stagehand gave me when I see a silhouette in the opposite wing. A perfect little silhouette. Petite, hourglass shape, and legs that wouldn’t quit even though she couldn’t have been over five feet without those heels. I’m trying to make out any more of her features when the emcee says, “Once again ladies and gentleman, Ian Monroe!”

The stagehand whips the towel out of my hand and shoves me out of the wings. I nearly forget to look into the audience because I’m so distracted by her, whoever she is, but my training and years of experience kick in before I make a fool out of myself. Whoever she is, she’ll have to wait until after the show for me to find her. And I will find her.

“And Miss Chelsea Garten!”

That’s when the sexy mystery silhouette steps out of the wings and my damn heart nearly stops. That’s Chelsea Garten?

She’s not at all what I expected—okay, so the light blonde hair was probably what I expected, but she’s got it in an understated braid draped over her shoulder. She’s cute as hell with that wide smile and big blue eyes, but there’s something sultry about her, too. The way her jeans hug her hips and those five-inch heels shape her ass so perfectly I know I’m never going to be able to forget it. She waves at the crowd, smiling big and bright, and then steps right up to me, nudging me with her shoulder.

“You ready for this?”

I swallow, my mouth dry as the Sahara in summer, but manage to nod. “You?”

Then she turns that smile on me and my knees nearly buckle. “Always.”

I’ve barely got a second to get my wits about me before she starts the band up and opens the first song with this captivating crystal-clear voice that shakes me to my core. I’m so lost wondering who the hell this girl is and how I’ve never met her that I nearly miss my cue. But I don’t, jumping in on my spot on autopilot.