Liam managed to play and sing back up for Trevor, and I had to give it to him—he was good. Wound. Supercharged, like me, but in a different way. By the end of the performance I was a rag doll. My heart had been wrung out and used to mop the bathrooms. My hands were raw strings of flesh jelly, useless and spent. But the crowd loved us. And here came the words. Darla marched backstage after the encore, dragging a pissed off Liam. he had a right to be angry. So did I. “You were all over my girlfriend, you fucking ass—” “I thought she was Charlotte, so I—” We said the same things at the same time, all the words sounding like noise salad to me. “Hold on,” Darla insisted. “Sam,” she said with eyes that begged me to be reasonable. “Liam came up behind Amy and did that because Amy’s wearing Charlotte’s clothes.” “Yeah. Right.” That was some bullshit. “Nice excuse.” Charlotte appeared, red-faced and angry. Her finger got in my face and she too my hand, making me hold the rim of her shirt.
