Your privacy.
Your sleep.
Your relationships.
Your silence.
Your self.
By the time you notice the bite marks, you’re already drained.
The set ends in a blur of cheers and confetti cannons.
Security forms a wall before the VIP girls can climb onto the stage.
My manager, Trent, is already yelling over the ringing in my ears.
“Afterparty at The Palms. El Tigre’s producer is there. Don’t disappear on me.”
Disappear.
I almost laugh.
I’m never alone long enough to disappear.
Backstage smells like perfume and money.
Someone presses a drink into my hand.
Someone else snaps a photo.
A publicist reminds me about an interview I owe someone.
“Smile more,” she says softly. “You look intense.”
I don’t tell her that intense is better than empty.
Two weeks ago, I was standing in a different Vegas venue, drink in hand, when I saw something that won’t leave my head.
Nathan Thorn.
Yeah. That Nathan Thorn.
Rock god.
Wild child.
Infamous disaster of a decade.
Except he wasn’t any of those things that night.
He was standing at the edge of a dancefloor with his new bride tucked against his side like she belonged there.
Like she was the center of gravity and the rest of us were just orbiting.
He wasn’t scanning the room.
Wasn’t posturing.