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Even if I pulled it off—even if, by some miracle, the show went perfectly and I managed not to do anything stupid—the band would go back to LA tomorrow and I’d return to Dallas. In a few hours, this would all be over. No matter how much I wanted to stay with the band, it wasn’t going to happen. My phone buzzed—a message from Andrew saying he had arrived at the stadium. Thank god. I’d gotten him a backstage VIP pass, and the thought of seeing him again was the only thing that gave me the courage to leave the bathroom. I reapplied my lipstick, smoothed my hair down, and checked my outfit—ripped-up fishnet tights, a short, silver dress trimmed with black leather, and of course, my combat boots—and walked out the door in search of Andrew. “Becca!” Kyle called out. I stopped in my tracks an
- Writer
