Grayson Reed.

Regrets are a strange thing for someone who rarely regrets anything I do, plan or say, but lately, it's all I'm ever doing and remorse follows with it. If I could turn back time and change anything, though, it would be agreeing to a show on today's date; I truly don't know what I was thinking.

That it would be a great distraction? Most likely. It's not working, though.

My mother would have been fifty years old today if she hadn't overdosed ten months ago, and nothing could possibly distract me from that fact. I have a tempting bottle of whiskey on my bedside table, which I've spent the most part of an hour staring at. The urge to pick it up, drown out my feelings and miss the show altogether, is so strong. I told myself I wouldn't, but we all knew that today would be the biggest hurdle for me to overcome.

A notification rings from my phone, irritating me further than I already am, and I sigh when I look down to see Steven's name next to six intentionally ignored messages. The most recent, however, catches my attention.

'Cornelia is on stage, where the fuck are you?'

I look at the time and I pinch at my forehead, cursing profanities under my breath. I have thirty minutes, but there's not a single part of me that wants to leave this hotel room, never mind get on stage and put on a show for the people of Arizona. They deserve much better than whatever mindfuck of a performance tonight will be.

At least they have Cornelia, I tell myself.

She'll be strutting across my stage, owning it like the pop star she was born to be, and I'm missing every second of it, mourning a woman I barely knew in my hotel room.

Not that Cornelia would want me there, not after what happened in Denver. I was a twat to her, and it's my biggest regret of them all. I'm not going to excuse my actions with spineless justifications; what I said to her and how I spoke to her was uncalled for, and I've regretted it ever since.

Cornelia asked me why I chose her as my opener, and my answer, as it always has been, is because she's incredibly talented, and I knew my fans would love her music, just like I do. I don't want to lose her, it would be a massive loss to the tour and she deserves to be here, so I'm keeping my distance.

I still don't know what came over me. One second I was watching her in awe from the sidelines, the next I was tearing every part of her performance down, and I can't even say it was from jealousy.

I deserved every insult she threw my way, and more.

My hand rises to my cheek where she had harshly slapped it, and I close my eyes in utter shame.

Mindlessly, I reach for the bottle of whiskey and only when the alcohol settles on my lips, do I snap and throw the bottle across the room. The glass and alcohol ricochets off the wall, and it rapidly covers the floor in a dangerous mess.

I blow out an uneven deep breath and start to pace the clean side of my room, trying my very hardest to ignore the potent smell of Jameson.

"Get your shit together, man," I slap at my cheeks to get me out of whatever hole I'm in.

Yet another notification rings and I quickly check it, hoping whatever Steven has to say next can do the trick.

'Cornelia is off stage, she's asking where you are, just like the rest of us. Do I need to reschedule, Grayson?'

At the mention of Cornelia's concern, I grab my key card and leave the hotel room, quickly typing a response.

'No need to reschedule, might need to delay by fifteen minutes, I'll pay the fine if we run overtime.'

Before heading out to join my driver, I stop at the hotel reception, wearing my sincerest apologetic look, "I'm sorry to disturb you, but a bottle of whiskey fell off the table in my room, and I need to leave any second now. I have four hundred dollars for anyone who can clean it up in the time I'm back. Again, I'm so sorry about the mess, if the worker wants more, I can make that happen."

The red-headed receptionist gazes at the dollar bills wearily, and then clears her throat, "Of course, what number?"

Relief fills me, "Three-one-four."

"We'll get it taken care of, Mr Reed," she nods.

"Thank you," I mean it.

In a rush to get to the arena, I hurry over to the double doors and push them open, quickly ducking my head from the possible public eye. My driver is sitting patiently in his car, and instead of waiting for him to get out and open the door for me like a slave, I simply climb into the back seat.

"To the arena?" he looks back to check with me.

"Yes, as quick as possible," I hope to not be too late, I don't want to keep everyone waiting.

Nausea begins to eat away at me as I reflect on what just happened, and I lean forward in my seat with my head in my hands, wallowing in utter shame. Alcohol causes a domino effect of bullshit when it comes to me, and I almost screwed up everything from one sip. I would have missed the show; I'd disappoint everyone again, and somehow, I'm sure, I'd be pissing off Cornelia in the process.

Today was bound to be a struggle because as much as I didn't like my mum, she was all I had growing up. I, however, didn't expect it to be this difficult. It's screwing with my head why I'm so torn up about her birthday; she didn't even celebrate birthdays, not hers or mine. I guess it's more so the reminder that she's gone and not the event itself at all.

My mother was by no means a good parent, she didn't even attempt to raise me properly, I was more so dragged up when I wasn't in the custody of social services.

I'm not sitting here grieving a woman, who was more so a stranger, I'm grieving the dream of a loving mother, that as a little boy, I deserved to have. I've spent every day of my life waiting for the day she'd show up and be sober, but the harsh truth is, she was never going to get clean for me.

Addiction is a harrowing, all-consuming disease that will ruin a person's life if not dealt with, and I know about that personally. An addict will choose the narcotic over anything in an ultimatum, even if you're their son begging on your knees for them to quit, so you can be finally loved by them.

The cruellest part of all is knowing that my mum's addiction to drugs and alcohol didn't make her a bad person and mother, it's just who she always was, so I can't even blame the drugs that inevitably killed her. I was never enough for that woman, and her getting clean wouldn't have changed anything, as much as I wish it would.

With a thick, suffocating knot in my throat, I look out of the window at the busy city of Phoenix, ignoring the tears that are threatening to spill. 

"How-?" I don't like the way my voice breaks when I ask, so I clear my throat and ask again, "How far are we?"

"Seven minutes, Mr Reed."

With a nod, I return to people watching through the window, and it's not until we're driving into the venue, that I check my phone to see Steven's message.

'Got you twenty extra minutes. Hurry and get here.'

The car comes to a stop, so I stuff my phone into my pocket, hand an extra twenty-dollar bill to my driver and climb out of the back seat in a rush.

With a jog in my step, I follow the many signs leading to the dressing rooms, but when I turn the next corner, I end up stumbling into the blonde that I promised myself to avoid.

"Grayson," Cornelia bites out with an irritated sigh.

She crosses her arms, shielding herself over the little fabric she's wearing as a top, and I quickly take in the outfit that I sadly missed out on. She's wearing an incredibly short, red leather skirt, with a strappy holographic top, that only has fabric over her breast in the shape of stars.

"Fuck," I curse to myself, holding the bridge of my nose, in hopes of not getting a raging boner before I stumble onto the stage, "I can't do this now, Lia."

She scoffs, "God, you're unbelievable."

"Please," I look at her now, searching her eyes for some leeway, "I know we need to talk, but just not now, I need to get ready."

"I'm more than happy if we don't," she screws her nose up in disgust, "God, you stink, did you drown yourself in a bottle of whiskey before you turned up?"

Anxiety creeps up on me at the thought of what happened earlier, but I try to push it away, "It doesn't matter, just go to the hotel, Lia, do what you want."

"You're such a fucking arsehole," she shakes her head at me, before sidestepping and walking away.

Steven is waiting at the other end of the hallway, pointing to his watch, "Nine minutes, come on."

He shows me into my dressing room and rambles on about my priorities and responsibilities, not leaving the room once, not even when I start to change.

I usually get to choose my outfit, but tonight a red suit has been chosen for me, and I can't say I'm disappointed. I leave the top two buttons of my black shirt undone and take a seat to allow the hair and makeup goddesses to do their shit.

"Are you even listening to me?" Steven asks bluntly.

I blink up at him, and answer honestly, "No."

He groans, "You didn't have to do this."

"I did, and I do," I insist my point, "I could not and will not cancel on all of them out there; they've paid God knows how much on accommodation and travel, this is the least I can do. Not only that, but the press will run wild with a story like this, and I cannot be arsed for it. It's only sixteen songs, Steven, I'm sure I can survive that."

"I hope so," he lightly taps my shoulder, "I'll see you backstage, man."

After two minutes in the chair for hair and makeup, I'm dismissed to leave, happy with the bare minimum. I shrug my red suit jacket on, and once I'm out of the dressing room, I let out one last sigh in private.

The technicians hook me up, and once I'm ready for the stage, my guitar is passed to me and I'm reunited with my band.

"What's up?"

"Where've you been?"

"Fuck, you look rough."

"Are you okay, mate?"

Four separate voices, but I answer by deflecting, "I'm sound, don't worry about me. Now, are we all ready to give the fans of Arizona the night they've been dreaming of?"

With my hand extended, the others join me, putting their hands on top, and after a count of three, we raise them.

"That's more like it," Reese slaps me on the back.

The playlist we have playing over the speakers before and after every concert pauses and the house lights abruptly turn off, indicating that we're coming on.

"Let's go," I smile to my boys.

I walk out onto the stage, behind the curtain, and take my place in the centre of the stage. I let out another deep breath, feeling horrendously anxious, with not a lot of strength in my body for tonight's show.

The spotlight suddenly pans down on me, which grants me death-curdling screams that echo around the arena, which only get louder when the curtain drops.

Don't fuck up, Grayson, don't fuck up, Grayson.

~~~~~

A/N

Another short one, but first Grayson pov!!!

You get to know a bit more about him in this one, so you can understand him more ! However I  give full permission to hate him still.