THE WHISKEY IS packed, and the boys are in the dressing room getting ready. I feel as though I don’t belong. This is not my show, this is not my band, and I don’t like the possessive way Keelin is always holding my hand and touching me. What once felt so good is slowly making me uncomfortable, and my stomach clenches in knots.
“You should totally do a number with us,” Rob mentions again, even though I shyly declined earlier. We used to mess around on tour and even crashed their show once for fun. The fans loved it.
“She doesn’t know our songs,” Keelin interjects, and I look at him incredulously.
I don’t want to perform, let alone with them, but Keelin’s objection raises my hackles. I almost want to do it just for spite.
“Sure you do. We could do that one from the old album,” he snaps h
