Chapter 1
It starts, as all bad things in her life seem to do, with Sully.
Sully, her boyfriend of six years (give or take a few days between each of their monthly breakups), who decided to end things—for real this time, he insists—in the middle of the biggest tour of her career. All to go off and chase some girl that he barely knows across the continent, with the help of his loser friend Jesse.
And it’s not like she’s that torn up about it, y’know? It’s Sully. It was never going to last, and she really wasn’t that into him. She was just lonely, and he was familiar, and he didn’t really have anything to do other than be at her beck and call.
But his band, the Orphans, were supposed to be her openers for the second leg of the tour, which kicks off in less than a week. She’d ask her original openers, The Hurricanes, to come back, but they’d just kicked off the first leg of their own tour, and their leaders sort of creeped her out with all his ominous warnings about the dangers of fame and waking alone at night. She doesn’t really know anyone else, though, so she’s sort of beginning to spiral.
So, she does what she always does when she’s stressed. She gets drunk and calls her producer.
Lincoln, bless his heart, answers after the first ring, despite the fact that it’s probably way past the reasonable time to be awake where he is.
“Mercy?” His voice is a relief to hear, grounding her spiraling thoughts into a coherent enough stream for her to be able to put full sentences together. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s not wrong, would be a better question?” She laughs bitterly, though she supposes it’s a little dramatic. “Sully and I broke up.” She admits, going quiet.
“Shit.” He mumbles. There’s shuffling on his end, like he’s getting up out of bed, and she hears him whisper soothingly to who assumes is the elusive girlfriend she’s yet to meet. There’s the sound of a door closing, and then he asks, “You alright?” Very softly, like he’s scared she might cry.
It’s a reasonable assumption, based on the last ten times they’ve had this conversation in the past six months, but she sort of resents him for it anyway. “Of course.” She almost snaps. “Except, no, not really.” And here come the sniffles.
He sighs, a deep, tired sound, and she instantly feels guilty. She does this a lot, she knows, and she’s lucky he’s nice enough to put up with her shit.
“Sorry,” she says, and she really means it.
“I know.” He responds immediately. “It’s alright.”
He’s too nice to her, she thinks. “It’s not even about him,” she tells him honestly. “He says it’s for good this time, though. I don’t care.” She doesn’t sound very convincing there, but she powers through before he can try to comfort her. “He’s pulled the Orphans from the tour.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Fuck.”
“I know.” She agrees. “I don’t really know what to do.”
He hums, thinking it over. “The Hurricanes?” He asks.
She shakes her head, even though he can’t see her. “I’m your.” She replies. “And they’re kind of creepy.”
He makes a disgusted noise in agreement. “You’re telling me.” She snorts at that, an unattractive sound that she wouldn’t make around anyone but him. “The Bizzies?” He suggests.
She shuts that down quickly. “No way.” She almost yells. “I’m not dealing with their rabid fans trying to hunt me down for daring to associate with their precious idols.” The Bizzies are pretty famous in their own right, though nothing compared to her, but they’re known for the viciously loyal fans who try to fight anyone and everyone who comes into contact with the band.
“Fair.” She hears a light switch on, and someone mutters on his end. The girlfriend, she assumes, coming to see what’s wrong. She feels suddenly very bad, for taking away their time together. “Give me a second.” He requests, sounding thoughtful, and then there’s a slew of rushed conversation on the other end of the phone, too fast and too quiet for her to make out the words.
She sits up in bed, suddenly nervous. There’s more talking, their voices getting louder and louder until,
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” she answers with zero hesitation.
A moment of quiet. “How would you feel about taking a chance on a group of new artist? A couple of close friends of mine.” He asks.
She hums thoughtfully, feeling curious and a little hopeful. “Who are they?” She questions, wondering if she’s ever heard of them.
Lincoln answers promptly, and with no small amount of pride in his voice. “They’re called the Warriors.”