Leather & Lace

Prologue

I stand in the narrow corridor leading to the side wing, my body pressed against the rough brick wall. The brick is cool through the thin silk of my blouse, grounding me for a fleeting second before the vibration from the speakers on the other side of the curtain rattles the mortar.

The announcer's voice booms through the venue, a distorted baritone that vibrates in my sternum. "And now, please welcome the one and only Lace."

The roar of the crowd hits me like a physical blow. It's a solid wall of sound, thousands of voices blending into a high-pitched whine that drowns out the thumping of my own heart. I take a step forward, my heel catching on a loose cable. I stumble, catching myself against a stack of road cases.

My lungs seize.

It's not a pause; it's a shutdown. The air in the hallway vanishes, replaced by a vacuum that sucks the breath from my chest. I claw at the neckline of my shirt, my fingers scrabbling against the silk as if I can tear a hole in the atmosphere to let oxygen in. The edges of my vision blur, turning the dim red exit signs into streaks of bloody light.

I can't go out there. The stage is a gaping mouth waiting to swallow me whole. I can already feel the heat of the spotlights, burning my retinas, exposing every flaw, every tremor. My knees give out, and I slide down the wall, landing hard on the concrete floor. I curl inward, wrapping my arms around my ribs, trying to hold myself together as the panic unravels me from the inside out. A high, thin whine escapes my throat, sounding alien to my ears.

"Hey."

The voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. It's low, calm, devoid of the frantic energy currently seizing my nervous system.

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter. I don't want an audience for this. I want the floor to open up and swallow me away from the expectations, the noise, and the eyes.

"I need you to look at me," the voice says. It's not a request, but it isn't a shout either. It's a command delivered with the steadiness of a captain steering a ship through a storm.

A hand grips my shoulder. The touch is firm, hot through the silk. It anchors me, dragging me back from the edge of the abyss I'm tumbling down. I gasp, a ragged intake of air that scrapes against my dry throat, and force my eyes open.

He's crouched in front of me. Black jeans, white t-shirt, a leather jacket that's seen better days. Dark hair that falls over his forehead, slightly damp with sweat. But it's his eyes that hold me—intense, focused entirely on my face. He isn't looking at the singer, the star, the performer. He's looking at the woman hyperventilating on the floor.

"Breathe," he says.

"I... I can't," I wheeze. The world is tilting sideways. The concrete floor feels like it's turning to water.

"Yes, you can." He shifts his grip, moving one hand to the back of my neck. His thumb presses against the sensitive skin just below my ear, finding my pulse. It's hammering like a trapped bird. "Match me. In. Hold. Out."

He inhales deeply, his chest expanding, then exhales slowly. I watch him, mesmerized by the rhythm. My body rebels, starving for air, but I force myself to mimic him. A shallow, stuttering breath. I hold it for a second, then let it out in a rush.

"Again," he says. His thumb strokes my neck, a slow, rhythmic motion that somehow syncs with the beat he's setting. "In. Hold. Out."

I do it again. The air tastes slightly better. The tunnel vision recedes inch by inch. The roar of the crowd fades back into a background hum rather than a deafening scream.

"That's it," he murmurs. He doesn't smile, doesn't offer false platitudes. He just keeps breathing with me, his gaze locked on mine, grounding me in the present moment. "You're here. You're on the floor. You're breathing. Just that."

The panic retreats, leaving me trembling and exhausted, slumped against the road cases. I drag a hand through my hair, my fingers shaking violently. I look up at him, really seeing him now. He's beautiful in a harsh, jagged way, like a snapshot taken in motion. There's an intensity in his posture, a tension that suggests he's coiled tight, ready to strike or run.

"Liam," he says. He doesn't offer a hand to help me up. He just watches me, assessing.

"Lace," I whisper. My voice is wrecked, sounding small and thin in the large space.

"I know who you are," he says. He glances toward the heavy velvet curtain separating us from the stage. The announcer is saying my name again, a confused edge to his tone now. The crowd is starting to stomp, a rhythmic thunder that shakes the dust from the ceiling beams. "They're waiting."

The fear spikes again, a sharp needle in my chest, but his presence acts as a shield. I look at him, searching for a trace of awe or judgment. There is none. He looks at me like I'm a piece of machinery he's just fixed.

"I can't," I say again, but this time it's a confession, not a refusal.

"You can," he corrects. He stands up, his movement fluid and predatory. He looks down at me, blocking out the glare of the work lights. "You don't need to be perfect out there. You just need to make a sound. The rest is just noise."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, tapping one against the pack. He doesn't light it. He just holds it, rolling it between his fingers. "Get up, Lace."

The command lands with physical weight. I place a hand on the road case, my legs still unsteady, and push myself up. I sway, reaching out instinctively. He doesn't step back, but he doesn't reach out to catch me either. He lets me find my own balance. I straighten my spine, smoothing down the silk of my blouse. My heart is still racing, but it's no longer a gallop; it's a canter.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask. My voice is stronger now, regaining its timber.

He shrugs, a single lift of one shoulder. "I hate wasted potential."

He turns toward the stage exit, the one that leads away from the lights, away from the crowd. The contrast is stark. One way leads to the adoration of thousands, the other to the dark alley and the trash bins.

"Go," he says, jerking his chin toward the curtain.

I look at the heavy red velvet, then back at him. I want to say something, to thank him, to ask for his number, to ask if he'll be waiting when I come off stage. I want to tether myself to the one solid thing in this chaotic night.

"Wait," I start.

But he doesn't. He shoves the cigarette back into his pocket and turns on his heel. He walks down the corridor, his boots scuffing the concrete, moving with a deliberate, unhurried pace. He doesn't look back. Not once. The darkness swallows him, and just like that, he's gone.

I stand there for a second, alone in the corridor. The announcer calls my name a third time, impatience heavy in his voice. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs and testing my capacity.

I push through the curtain. The light blinds me, searing and white, washing out the world. I step up to the microphone, the cold metal shocking against my palm. I close my eyes for a fraction of a second, seeing the imprint of dark eyes and a leather jacket in the blackness behind my lids.

Then I open them, and I sing; as the music takes over, I realize with a jolt that the panic hasn't just left—it's been replaced by a hunger. I scan the side wings, the shadows, looking for a glimpse of black leather, but the only thing waiting for me in the dark is the realization that I don't even know his last name. And for the first time in my life, the mystery feels more dangerous than the stage fright.