Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I rest my forehead against the door. “You sound the opposite of fine.” The one thing Wilder cares about more than anything is his fans. People are everything to him. He’s the kind of person who never forgets a face and knows far more names than anyone should ever be able to without maxing out their gray matter. I appeal to that now. “You’re not going to be fine if you have to literally drag yourself onto the stage tomorrow night, or if you collapse halfway through the show. At this rate, I doubt you’ll be able to make it up there at all, and you’ll have to cancel.”
“We’ve never canceled a show before.” He drags out every word, sounding weaker and weaker.
It’s a small bathroom, and Wilder isn’t a small man, but I still imagine him sprawled out flat on the floor with his face down on the cool tiles.
However, there’s zero space for that and almost zero tiles.
Even I can’t sprawl out on the floor in there, and I’m five seven to Wilder’s six two, and about one sixth as broad. Wilder takes the gym seriously, even on the road. He also runs miles every single morning, no matter what he’s done the night before, or where he is. Unless he’s on a plane, he’s not missing it for anything.
He doesn’t just run for the health benefits. He runs because it’s a quiet time for him. And I’m not talking about the world being asleep in their beds. I’m talking about the quiet in his head.
People adore Jackson Wilder because he’s real, and that includes being honest about his life right from the start, his struggles, and his mental health and day-to-day journey.
He grew up rough and had a lot of traumatic shit happen to him when he was young before he landed in a somewhat stable home with his grandma. He met Matt the next year when he started at a new school. They found that they shared a love of pretty much any type of music, but they both loved guitar. Matt had been taking lessons since he was six, and he basically taught Wilder. At the same time, Wilder’s grandma forced him to take piano lessons. Then, he started writing songs and found out he could sing.
He and Matt were big into making videos, and by the time they were sixteen, they’d blown up. They had a massive following and got signed by a major record label. Almost instantly, they were shoved into the music world, putting out a record within a year and touring not long after. They’re now on their seventh album in fourteen years. Jameson and Luke joined later, but Jameson has been part of the band for the past twelve years, and Luke for the past nine.
The entire world is in love with Wilder’s Peril, but it’s mostly Wilder who owns their hearts. He writes the songs and sings them, and he still does a lot of his own social media and promotion. He also does most of the band’s press and media. The one thing that has always separated him from the rest of the bands out there is that he’s so transparent. He never wanted fame to change him, and honestly, it really hasn’t. He still has that salt-of-the-earth, small-town boy aura.
He’s a rockstar who never lived a rockstar’s lifestyle, never forgot where he was from, and always has time for his fans. There’s nothing he won’t do, no part of himself he won’t give, no part of his soul he’s left unturned. And the world loves him for it.
I love him for it.
I’ll give him a few minutes to collect himself and let me in before I start dropping threats about getting in there anyway, so he might as well let me take the easy way. I have my pep talk ready, but the door unlocks right as Benny bustles past me with a garbage bag in each hand, stuffed full of stuff that needs to be laundered.
The door opens out, which gives me just enough room to step in.
Wilder is wedged between the toilet and the small shower. He’s slumped with his head in his hands, his body folded pretty much in half. His black T-shirt is drenched in sweat, and he’s wearing the same black shorts he jogs in. I don’t like the gray tone of his skin or how his hair is plastered against his forehead. I especially don’t like that he’s covered in puke and keeps dragging in slow breaths like he’s going to pass out.
I crouch down, my hand hovering near his face.
I’ve touched this man a total of five times in my life. One for each time he was injured. It’s ridiculous that my heart hitches and then beats double time just because I’m this close to him.