Chapter 42: The Broken Note: Chapter 42

I step out of the changing screen and notice there’s a tray waiting on the dresser. Right next to the makeup brush.

My stomach clenches painfully, which I don’t think was the desired effect. The food is different this time. Sushi. Yesterday, it was salad. Tomorrow, it’ll probably be something else.

“He told me that you should eat,” the makeup artist says. She’s a timid, quiet woman who doesn’t talk much. I’ve been wondering if she was instructed not to speak to me.

Doesn’t matter.

Her quiet suits me just fine.

“I’m not hungry.” I push the plate away.

She studies me as if gauging whether it would be more prudent to piss me off by insisting or to just let it pass.

My shoulders tighten.

Her fingers reach for the makeup brush as the moment passes.

I tilt my face up to the light, body numb. Mind empty. She pastes liquid on my face. Powders. Lipstick. Sharp things close to my eyes that could blind me.

I almost wish they would.

I don’t want to look at myself.

But she turns my chair around.

My reaction is the same as it has been since I got here—nothing. Makeup on or off, I don’t recognize myself anymore.

A familiar voice comes from the hallway. The door opens and lets in the screams of fans. Some of them are here to see me. Most of them are here to see , a new band from Jarod Cross’s studio label.

It doesn’t matter.

None of it matters.

“Cadence.”

I glance up at the mirror. A handsome face stares back at me. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Strong jaw.

“Hunter,” I call his name in the same patronizing tone.

“You need to eat.”

“I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

“I haven’t seen you touch food since we got here.”

“I ate granola bars in my hotel room.”

“Granola bars?”

I shrug. The least Jarod Cross can do is pay an exorbitant amount for my forage through the mini bar.

“I’m done,” the makeup artist says. She peers up at Hunter and bats her eyes.

He doesn’t give her a single look.

I spot her sigh of disappointment and watch as she hurries out of the room. I wonder what she imagines her life would be if Hunter actually reciprocated her signals. What does she really want from him? Acknowledgement that he sees her? That she’s pretty? Does she want him to take her up to his hotel? Does it stop there? Does she want more?

She’s been flirting with him every day. Can’t she see he doesn’t want any of those things with her?

There’s a part of me that hates her. Probably because she reminds me of myself.

I wonder why we can’t let go of the people, the things that don’t want us back. Or worse, that are bad for us. Is it our fault? Should we hold the blame?

I dig my nails into my palm until it hurts and then I press in deeper. Don’t I deserve the pain for making bad choices?

“Cadence.”

I jolt and look at Hunter.

He’s frowning, lips set in a thin line. “You keep spacing out on me.”

“You talk too much,” I mumble.

His eyebrows tighten. He looks at me like he doesn’t know who I am.

I reach for the veil, set it over my freshly-done makeup and hand him the ties.

He secures it at the back of my head. “If I knew you’d be so much trouble, I wouldn’t have agreed to this personal security gig.”

“Go home then,” I say.

I didn’t ask for anyone to follow me into my own version of hell. In fact, I’d prefer to be alone. Hunter’s constant worried looks only make me feel worse.

“Done,” Hunter says.

I step out of the chair. Hunter’s eyes slide over me. If I wasn’t so dead inside, I’d probably be flattered by the glint of admiration.

Jarod Cross’s costume designer made me a black dress with elegant sequins and a long veil that trails from the top of my head and fans out behind my piano stool when I sit.

The back of the dress is slightly sexier with a scooped out design that shows off a ton of skin beneath the veil. There’s a matching mask to hide the lower portion of my face.

When Jarod asked me what I wanted to wear, I told him it didn’t matter. As long as when I step out into the audience, the only thing I’m exposing to the world is my eyes.

I notice Hunter is still staring and I frown. “Isn’t it time for me to get on stage?”

“Oh. Right.” He clears his throat and opens the door for me.

I walk with him down the hallway, carrying the tail end of my veil over one arm.

Hunter’s stride falls in line with mine. “You get a day off on your birthday tomorrow. What do you want to do?”

“Nothing,” I mumble. We’re closer to the stage now. The sound of Pain and Punishment’s edgy music fills the air. The bass slips under my skin and makes my body vibrate.

Hunter gives me a scolding look. “Eighteen is a big number.”

“Miss Soprano.” The crew manager offers his hand to me.

I slip my fingers into his grip and meet Hunter’s eyes. “It’s just another day.”

“Let’s do something special. Tonight. We’ll celebrate your birthday the right way.” Hunter offers an encouraging smile.

My lips remain flat. My heart remains cold.

I climb on top of the lift.

As the platform rises, I see the packed room. Faceless blobs. Screams loud enough to shatter my eardrums. Lights too big and too bright.

I adjust my ear piece, glad that I have an in-ear monitor so I can hear myself when it’s time to play the piano.

The leader of Pain and Punishment, some guy whose name I forgot the moment he shared it, gestures to me. The spotlights shift, bearing down on my head. It’s hot, like the sun and yet I’m still shivering.

The screams get louder. Everyone seems keyed up, wound so tight I could send them to the moon on a rocket.

I’m featured in the band’s last set.

The grand finale.

The emotional punch.

That’s what the fan who met me backstage last night called me.

And maybe that’s what I am—the world’s emotional punching bag.

I take a seat behind my piano, fingers to the keys. Mask on.

Not Cadence Cooper.

To them, I’m Soprano Jones.

I place my fingers to the keys. A low, haunting melody crawls out of the piano. Notes too dark, too dangerous to exist in the light.

I bend my face over the keys and wild, violent emotions seep through the cracks in my heart.

It’s unfortunate.

Every day, I get up and I put my feelings in their cages. But they always break out and escape into the night when I play. Music does that. It unlocks the door to the pain, the pleasure, the fear, the joy.

Everything.

I’m masked, yet I can’t hide here.

The crowd is silent. They’re always silent. Listening. Waiting. Holding their breath until I remind them to breathe.

The leader of the band strums his guitar.

Acoustic. Dutch preferred electric…

But I’m not thinking about him.

I hammer my fingers against the keyboard. Angry stabs. Louder. Louder.

The music builds around me, feeding on my angst. Greedy for more of the pain that crawls out of my melody.

The audience starts singing and screaming. A mass of bodies sway from somewhere beyond me.

I don’t see it. I don’t hear it.

My fingers move lower. Lower. Until I’ve run out of octaves and there aren’t enough keys to express the depth of my anger.

I climb back to the higher octave and hold the chord just as the song ends.

I’m breathing hard, wrung out over my piano when the last note fades. The crowd roars and chants my name.

‘Soprano! Soprano! Soprano!’

The band members smirk at each other. They think it’s a gimmick when I flop over my piano like this. The hidden girl, covered from head to toe in a veil and mask. A marketing shtick. A one-way ticket to going viral.

They don’t mind that I don’t practice with them. Or talk to them. Or care about them. For a no-name band on Jarod Cross’s roster, I’m what sets them apart.

The leader turns with his guitar and smiles at me. Suddenly, his image putters out and I see Dutch at the mike, guitar over his shoulder. Blonde hair messy. Amber eyes molten gold under the spotlight.

He’s smiling cockily at me like he did the night he dragged me on stage to play the triangle. The night I made the first real step into overcoming my stage fright.

My skin suddenly feels too tight. My fingers curve on the edge of the piano desk, but I can’t shake the striking-hot agony inside me.

And I really can’t breathe.

I shoot up from the piano.

My heart is squeezing so intently that it hurts.

Tears sting my eyes and then I’m moving.

The leader of the band glares at me.

The drummer mouths, “Where are you going? We have another song!”

I stomp off the stage.

Hunter is right there. He throws a coat over me. He slings a hand over my arm. If he sees the tears running down my face, he doesn’t mention it.

I’m swept away to my dressing room where I change into a regular T-shirt and jeans. Hunter leads me out of the private show and into a black car.

The Christmas-decorated buildings become a blur of lights, fog and concrete outside my window. Finally relaxing a bit, I take out my phone and thumb through my messages.

I almost snort. Call the police and tell them what? That our mom who died came back to life and is missing?

I send Vi a reply.

The other message is from Breeze.

The message has a kissy face emoji and a video collage of me and Breeze together.

I smile for the first time since I stormed into Jarod Cross’s office and heard his proposal to go on tour.

The last message is from Serena.

I sit up straight when I see it.

She constantly asks me why I’m taking a break from Redwood, and I’m not sure what to tell her.

I scroll through the post and my stomach clenches in anger.

The car stops in front of the hotel.

Hunter hustles to get my door and open it for me. His eyes scan my face. “I’ll order something for you to eat. Go to bed early.”

“No.” I grip the phone tighter, Jinx’s words tattooed behind my eyelids. “I want to do what you suggested.”

“What?”

“I want to celebrate my birthday the right way.”