(Maya)
The coffee tastes like burnt rubber but I drink it anyway. I need the caffeine more than I need my taste buds intact. Three weeks into this job, I'm still wondering how the hell I ended up here.
"Maya, can you grab the equipment list from Sound Check? It looks like Gary ripped us off." Rebecca, the tour manager calls out from across the venue, gripping her clipboard like her life depends on it.
I nod and weave through the maze of cables and equipment cases scattered across the backstage area. The venue smells like stale beer and dreams that died sometime in the nineties, but the pay is decent and the work keeps me busy enough to forget about the train wreck that was my last relationship.
What I didn't expect was how much being around him again would affect me.
Kai Nakamura. The name still makes my stomach do this weird flip-flop thing I hate. It has been seven years since he vanished from my life without so much as a goodbye text, and now here he is, back in Chicago on a tour as the biggest superstar in the world like nothing ever happened.
I spot him near the sound booth, black hair falling into his eyes as he adjusts something on his guitar. He's taller than I remember, broader too, but he still has that same aura that makes it seem like he owns whatever room he's in. The sleeve of tattoos covering his left arm is new and carefully structured rather than the jumbled mess most tattoo freaks like to go for.
He hasn't noticed me yet. Or if he has, he's doing a damn good job pretending I don't exist.
"Earth to Maya." Rebecca appears beside me, snapping her fingers. "The whole point of having an assistant is not doing everything myself. Equipment list?"
"Right. On it."
I force myself to focus on the task, grabbing the clipboard from Jerry, the sound engineer. Jerry has been doing this for thirty years and has stories that could make a sailor blush. He's also the only person on this tour who doesn't treat me like I'm a walking disaster waiting to happen.
"Kid's got his panties in a twist today," Jerry says, nodding toward the stage where Kai is now arguing with someone about monitor levels. "Been like that since we got to Chicago."
"Not my problem," I mutter, scanning the equipment list. Three guitars, two basses, complete drum kit, keyboards. Everything is accounted for.
"Isn't he from here originally?" Jerry asks because apparently, everyone on this tour thinks my job description includes being a walking Wikipedia for Kai Nakamura's life story.
"How would I know?"
Jerry gives me a look that says he's not buying my act for a second. "Because you mentioned attending the same high school as him. Plus, you get this look on your face whenever someone mentions him. It's either unrequited love or requited love that ended badly."
I hand him back the clipboard. "I don't get a look."
"Sure you don't."
The truth is, I do know Kai is from here. I know because we grew up three blocks apart. I know because he used to climb through my bedroom window when his parents were fighting. I know because he taught me how to play guitar on the beat-up acoustic he saved up for with his allowance.
I also know he stopped returning my calls the day he signed his first record deal. The day he moved to LA, he blocked me on everything. After seven years of radio silence, we are now sharing the same oxygen again while he pretends I'm invisible.
My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend Chloe: Dinner tomorrow? I have news.
Me: You finally screwed Darren.
Chloe: No, dummy. We put that off for now, remember? At least till we get you laid. Jake from marketing asked for your number! I gave it to him.
Oh no, she didn't. I'm typing back when I hear Kai's voice behind me, closer than expected.
"The monitor mix is trash. Fix it."
Jerry bristles beside me. "Kid, I've been doing this before you could hold a guitar pick. The mix is fine."
"The mix is shit, and if you can't hear the difference, maybe you should invest in some hearing aids or find another job."
I turn around before I can stop myself. Kai is standing there with his arms crossed and jaw set in that stubborn line I remember from when we were kids. He's being a complete ass to Jerry, who's one of the nicest guys on this tour.
But when his eyes sweep past me, there's nothing. No recognition, no acknowledgment. Nothing. It's almost as if I'm part of the equipment scattered around backstage.
It shouldn't hurt. It's been seven years. I'm over it.
Except I'm apparently not, because my chest feels tight and it has nothing to do with my asthma.
"The mix sounds perfect from where I'm standing," I say, before I can think better of it.
Jerry shoots me a grateful look, but Kai doesn't even glance my way. He might as well be talking to the wall.
"Get Marcus," he tells Jerry, referring to his manager. "I want this fixed before the doors open."
He walks away without another word, leaving me standing there feeling like an idiot for even opening my mouth.
"Don't take it personally," Jerry says quietly. "Rock stars are all prima donnas. Goes with the territory."
I want to tell Jerry that Kai used to cry during Disney movies and once spent his lunch money for a week buying me cough drops when I had bronchitis. I want to explain that this isn't about him being a rock star—this is about him erasing me from his memory like I never mattered at all.
Instead, I shrug. "Not my circus, not my monkeys."
The rest of the sound check passes without incident. I stay busy running errands for Rebecca, coordinating with venue staff, and avoiding the stage area where Kai and his band are rehearsing. Now and then, I catch glimpses of him, watching the way he moves when he plays, the concentrated frown when he's working through a difficult section and the small smile when something clicks just right.
It's like watching a stranger wearing the face of someone I used to love.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it's a text from an unknown number: Hey, this is Jake Calder. Chloe gave me your number. Do you want to grab coffee sometime?
I stare at the message for a long moment. I've met Jake a couple of times when he dropped Chloe off at home. He is cute, successful, and most importantly, he's not pretending I don't exist.
Sure. How about tomorrow after work?
His response comes back almost immediately: Perfect. Looking forward to it.
I pocket my phone and return to work, trying but failing to stop my eyes from drifting toward the stage. Kai is in the middle of a guitar solo, his face intense with concentration, and for a second, I'm seventeen again, sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor while he plays just for me.
Then Rebecca appears with another task, and I snap back to reality.
By the time the venue opens and fans start filing in, I've convinced myself that I don't care about Kai's cold shoulder treatment. I've got a job to do, bills to pay, and a coffee date with a guy who actually wants to spend time with me.
But as I watch him perform from the wings—because my job puts me backstage, whether I like it or not—I can't help thinking that some people really know how to hold a grudge.
The crowd loves him. They scream his name, sing along to every word, and reach toward the stage like touching him might change their lives. And maybe it would. Kai has always had this magnetic pull, this way of making people believe in the stories his songs tell.
I used to be one of those people.
During the encore, something goes wrong with one of the monitors. Jerry scrambles to fix it, but there's feedback screeching through the speakers. For just a second, Kai's eyes find mine. For a moment, I see a flicker of the boy I used to know. But then the feedback cuts out, the crowd cheers, and he looks away like nothing happened.
After the show, I helped with the equipment breakdown while the band and crew celebrated another successful night. Kai disappeared almost immediately, probably back to whatever five-star hotel he was staying in.
I'm loading the last of the sound equipment when Marcus approaches me.
"Maya, right?" Marcus is in his forties, blonde, and a little too handsome for someone his age. "Rebecca says you're doing good work."
"Thanks. I try."
"We might have some additional opportunities coming up. Projects that require someone with your skill set."
I want to ask what that means, but Marcus is already walking away, phone pressed to his ear.
Jerry appears beside me, shaking his head. "That one is trouble, trust me," he says, nodding toward where Marcus disappeared.
"Marcus?"
"I'd be careful around him if I were you. Don't bite more than you can chew."
"Why?"
But Jerry shrugs and heads toward his van, leaving me with more questions than answers.
As I drive home through the empty Chicago streets, I can't shake Jerry's warning out of my head. If Kai's tour manager is so dangerous, why would he keep him around?
And somehow, despite my best efforts to stay out, I have a feeling I will soon get pulled deeper into Kai Nakamura's world whether I want to be or not.