I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I survey the crowd. Funny how it looks so simr, their love and hate. Sure, when they hate me, they throw different things and they boo instead of chant, but from up here, it all looks the same.

    Maybe that’s why my heart is beating triple time, my whole body in full-on fight-or-flight mode. Since flight is impossible, I do the only thing left: I step as far forward as I can, drawing the fire away from my band and straight back to me as the fans continue hurling presents at the stage. Then I take a deep breath and drawl, “Well, well, well,” into the mic.

    I make sure my voice is equal parts amused and menacing as I do. It’s a trademark of the ck Widow, one I spent months perfecting before I finally went back on the press and live-concert circuit a year after Jarrod died. It’s saved me many a time through the years, and I’m really hoping this is just one more. “Are all these gifts for little ole me?”

    The crowd roars even louder, and—if possible—the speed at which theyunch things toward the stage increases. I swear to God, they must be passing baubles up from the back rows by now.

    Fuck Sly, fuck his friend, and fuck this whole damn situation straight to fucking hell.

    Something smacks against my cheek, and I nce down to see that this time, it’s not a football or a spider. It’s a doll that looks a lot like me…only it’s got a knife through its heart.

    See? Love and hate. It’s a fine fucking line.

    I clear my throat and ignore the searing pain in my cheek as I continue. “Thank you all so much.” This time I don’t have to fake the sadistic edge to my voice as the chanting and screaming start to die down so they can hear me. “Though I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else.”

    I bend down and pinch the edge of one of the number seven jerseys between my thumb and index finger. Then I hold it out for the crowd to see. “Sly’s the one who likes to zig and zag. I’m more the biting type.” To prove it, I open my mouth up just a little and let the tip of my tongue dance over the pointy edge of an incisor.

    As every security guard not already stationed in front of the stage rushes down the aisles toward me, I narrow my eyes, cutting them from one side of the audience in front of me to the other. “Now, if any of you want to volunteer, I’m more than happy to demonstrate. If not, then why don’t you let me get back to singing, and we can all take a moment to fantasize about what it will look liketer when I take a very big bite out of Sly.”

    I widen my eyes and purse my lips,ying one finger on the side of my mouth in an “oops, did I just say that” gesture that has the crowd roaring withughter.

    “I promise to tell you if he’s tasty,” I say as I cross the stage to pick up the acoustic guitar Jennie normally ys muchter in the show. “Though I think we all probably know the answer to that.”

    “What are you doing?” Bobbi, my drummer, asks. Her eyes are wide with concern.

    Because I don’t have time to exin, I just say, “I’ve got this.”

    “Are you sure?” Jennie, the lead guitarist, calls back, looking bewildered.

    “Don’t worry.” I give her the closest facsimile of a smile I can muster right now, then do the same for Matt and David, both of whom look varying degrees of freaked out.

    I don’t me them, considering I’m not exactly known for my spontaneity, especially in concert. But we left control behind a long time ago. Now I’m just gripping the wheel and hoping to outrun the wreckage.

    We haven’t done the scene change that usually signifies the acoustic set, nor have we wheeled out the piano that I usually y, but improv is the name of this game, so we’ll just see where it goes. On the plus side, the people in the audience will get to brag about seeing something no one else on this entire tour has experienced.

    I toss one more reassuring smile to my stressed-out band, then stride back to the center of the stage. Luckily, Rajiv and Isabe, who run lights, are on their game tonight. They’ve stopped the electronically programmed sequence that normally runs throughout the show and trained a single spotlight on me as I stalk across the stage, guitar in hand.

    “Now, what do you say we make a deal?” I call out as I stop front and center. “You quiet down so you can hear me sing this song for you, and I promise to kiss and tell.”

    The crowd roars their approval but quiets down quickly when I give them a look that says they’re not keeping their end of the bargain. To reward them, and to calm my still-thundering heart, I slide my guitar strap over my shoulder and start to y “Love You Like You Want Me To” for the very first time in concert, ever.

    I wrote this song when I was first falling in love with a very vtile, very emotional Jarrod Bowers. It appeared on my third album and quickly became a fan favorite, topping charts all over the world. But by the time I toured again I refused to think about the song, let alone sing it in public.

    But something’s got to give tonight, and right now, I think it needs to be this.

    All around the venue, fans gasp in disbelief as they recognize the opening chords. Thest screams and chants die away as everyone scrambles to turn their shlights on and aim them at the stage before I start to sing.

    The fact that I’m pretty sure every single one of those phones is also currently recording only ratchets up the tension inside me. It’s been years since I’ve let myself hear this song, but every word—every note—is inked on my heart. I push the nerves aside and let the lyrics take me back seven long years ago, before everything went so very, very wrong.

    As I get to the chorus, my voice wants to tremble, but I shore it up and keep singing straight through til the end. No frills, no vocal gymnastics, just my voice and a guitar filling up what feels like the whole world as I hit the chorus one more time.

    “I want to love you like you want me to, hold you like you ask me to,

    kiss you like we’ll never break apart.

    I want to miss you like you warned I would, find you like you said I could,

    write all the best of you on my heart.”

    When it’s finally done, I blow out a long, slow breath. Especially since it isn’t Jarrod’s face I saw when singing. It was Sly’s. But tonight, I’m too busy wringing triumph out of trauma to be concerned about something that feels this right.

    It helps that this time, when the fans go wild, it feels less frenzied, like we’re finally out of the woods atst. I acknowledge their cheers before segueing into another popr song that I normally don’t do an acoustic version of.

    By the time I’m done with that, I feel confident enough that things are back on track that I turn to the band and get them to join in. I take my first rxed breath in what feels like centuries.

    Too worried about things slipping back into chaos, I forego my outfit changes for the rest of the concert. Instead, I stay out there in the middle of the stage and sing my heart out for the next hour and a half.

    The crowd sings along with me for every song, their voices almost as loud as mine.

    We end on a crash of drums and a note I hold for what feels like forever. I go straight into the encore before the band and I take a final bow.

    More screams erupt, and chants of “Sloaney, Sloaney, Sloaney!” fill the arena once again. I wave to the crowd as the tform that takes me beneath the stage starts to lower. Then, and only then, do I let myself rx.

    Pauline, Bianca, Jace, Olivia, and Bryan—my family—are all waiting to greet me.

    “You were fucking brilliant,” Jace tells me, and the others echo his sentiments.

    But I don’t give a shit how brilliant they think I am. Not when all hell nearly broke loose out there.

    So instead of answering him, I lock eyes with Bianca. And say, “One fucking date.”

    “Okay.” She nods.

    “This time, we’re in control,” I say, the quiet steel in my voice a stark contrast to the fierce volume I just delivered during the show. “We make the rules. And you tell his agent if he—or his friend or the entire fucking offensive line of the Austin Twisters—so much as breathes wrong between now and then, I’ll annihte every single one of them.”

    I’ve spent too many years burning myself down for men. This time, I’m the fire.