Comeback Route (New Hope #3)

Prologue

Breathe, breathe in the air

Don't be afraid to care

Leave but don't leave me

Look around, choose your own ground

The song still echoes in my chest as we are ushered backstage. There's a sense of urgency as Devon, Phil, Orwell, and myself are loaded into the helicopter. With two million rabid fans surrounding us, we've been instructed to follow strict protocol in regards to our safety. Our main goal right now is to get the hell off the beach before any riots break out.

I slip my headset on, talking freely with the band as the chopper rises into the air. "That was fucking epic. Our best show yet."

"My foot nearly slipped from the pedal during the bridge," Devon pants, wiping at the sweat on her brow. Her brunette hair sticks to her temples, beginning to spiral. "You hit all four octaves!"

I place my hand on my throat, wincing at the ache. "I can feel it."

"You're drinking tea the second we board the jet," our manager, Kelly Pierce, says. He's in his late fifties with graying hair and a thin frame. He rarely looks up from his phone, but when he does, his orders are reserved for me. "We're due in Mexico City in less than a day. I can't have your voice cracking."

"My wrists are starting to hurt," Devon whines with mischief, flapping her hands in the air. "Kelly, can you get me a masseuse onboard as well?"

Our manager ignores her, typing a note into his phone as the helicopter catapults us across Rio. Orwell shakes his head in disgust. Phil snorts into his hand. Devon catches my gaze, rolling her eyes. I glance out the window, watching as we near the private airstrip.

Long you live and high you'll fly

And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry

And all you touch and all you see

Is all your life will ever be

My combat boots pound into the tarmac. Besides the military coat, I'm only wearing fishnets and a leather leotard. My toes scrape the inside of my boots, undoubtedly forming blisters. I adjust my duffel bag over one shoulder, squinting as our captains come into view. Kelly reaches them first, shaking hands before placing one foot on the stairs that lead to Disgrace's private jet.

"Wait, Sir!" one of the pilots exclaims, setting his hand on Kelly's forearm. "I'm not sure if you've heard, but there's a storm brewing in the Amazon Basin."

My gaze shifts behind me, making sure the band is hearing what I'm hearing. Phil wraps his arm around Orwell's waist, a line between his brows. Devon tilts her head, scrunching up her nose in confusion.

"And?" Kelly asks, impatient.

The pilot—a native Brazilian if his dark hair, tanned skin, and accent have anything to say for it—hesitates, obviously not comprehending why he's being forced to explain himself. "Our flight plan intersects the storm. DECEA will be canceling flights at any moment."

Kelly finally gives the pilot his full attention, turning to face him. "Have they cancelled our flight?"

"Not yet, but—"

"We're in the middle of an international tour," Kelly interrupts, motioning for me to get onto the plane. I take a step back, waiting to see how this plays out. "There are eighty thousand people waiting for us in Mexico City. If we have to cancel that show, it'll be a nightmare. Ticket refunds, public apologies, adding dates to the end of our lineup. Is that what you want?"