The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

I miss her so much, it’s making me sick.

I gave myself a last glance in the mirror. My reflection glowered back in my usual jeans, T-shirt and boots. Except now the T-shirt cost $190, the jeans $450, and the boots, more than I wanted to think about.

“It’s too much.”

I went from having nothing to having everything, almost overnight. It reminded me of the urban legend that said if you took a person from the North Pole and dropped them in the middle of the equator, they’d die instantly from the sudden change in latitude.

I could relate.

The machine of the concert they’d built around me—a huge, lumbering apparatus that crawled from city to city, breaking down and reforming within days, was overwhelming to a former poor kid like me. I poured my focus into what I loved about music. The creation of a song and letting the harmony bend its way around the lyrics. The energy the fans gave to me and what I gave them. I worked to keep that connection with them, no matter how big the arenas got, because that’s what mattered. The music and the listener. All the rest felt like something I hadn’t earned.

I threw open the green room door. Evelyn was there in her headset with a clipboard in her hand. A badge hung from a lanyard around her neck and marked her as one of the two hundred or so other people who were making this tour happen.

I strode down the corridor, Evelyn’s thigh-high black boots clacking along beside me. She wore a short black miniskirt and a fitted blazer that showed her cleavage. She looked more like an executive at a fashion magazine than a personal assistant.

“Do you have my phone?” I demanded.

She flinched at my harsh tone, then gave me a stern look. “You left it in the hotel. Again.”

She handed it to me and I scrolled through. A text had come in from Violet earlier.

Miss you. Love you. Have a great show tonight. xoxo

My heart ached. “God, Vi.”

She was still there, waiting for me. Even after months of separation, she was still on the other end of the line. Even when she had only two minutes of me before I was pulled away again.

The story of our life.

I bit off a curse and handed my phone back to Evelyn. “After the show tonight, I don’t want anyone in the green room. No one. I don’t care if fucking Elvis comes back from the dead, I need an hour alone.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. “Your nightly call with Vi. I know the drill.”

“It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.”

“And here I thought that was my job.” She cocked her head. “Have you told her?”

“Told her what?”

“About Lisbon. About how Dr. Brighton thinks you should quit the tour immediately.”

“Why would I do that? It would only worry her. And I can’t quit the tour. Not yet.”

“I’m worried about you,” she said as we resumed walking down the tunnel. “Not just because of what happened in Lisbon. You seemed a little bit out of it in San Diego. In fact, you frequently seem out of it. The tabloids think you’re on drugs or a raging alcoholic.”

“The tabloids can write whatever they want. I’m fucking tired, Evelyn,” I said, striding toward the stage where the noise of the crowd was growing louder and louder, reverberating all around me. “We’ve done fifty-five shows in six months. Cut me some goddamn slack.”

Guilt for snapping at her yanked me to a stop. I looked up at the ceiling, my hands on my hips. She didn’t deserve my acid mood.

“I’m sorry.”

She studied me, brown eyes softening. “Has Dr. Brighton checked on you recently?”

“Only every other minute. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. I think he’s right. You need to take a break, Miller. Run the tests he wants you to run.”

“Can’t. I have to push through.”