First Chance

Steele

The guys and I meet for breakfast. We have about an hour to eat before we have to go back to our respective rooms, change for the show, and head off to the college.

There are steps that we have to take when preparing for a show, be it at a bar or in an arena. Sound check is an important part of throwing a concert.

Sure, our roadies could tune every instrument for each song, making sure every instrument is at the right volume and the microphone loud enough for the fans to hear my voice over the music.

Not trusting anyone but ourselves, the band and I would rather do it.

There are certain things we would rather be responsible for. If you want shit done right, then you must do it yourself.

I’m backstage watching some teenage band perform. Apparently, unknown to us until earlier this morning, part of the contest was to allow some of the local campus bands to open for us.

There’s quite a bit of talent here. None are really in our typical style though. Usually, when you have another artist open for you, they are at least in the same genre as you.

It helps to get the crowd energized, roaring with excitement to see the headliner. Unfortunately, I don’t think these bands are going to cut it.

Generally, I like to be with the band doing some kind of warm-up backstage before we go on.

Nevertheless, tonight, for some reason, I find myself here, on the side of the stage, hidden behind a thin red curtain, peeking out into the crowd.

For a college campus, this is a pretty decent size. I’m betting they could entertain over a thousand people in this room alone.

I see a large throng of people near the stage, all in a massive group, everyone shoving each other just to get as close as they can to the stage.

People breathing down each other’s necks, grinding on strangers’ bodies, just to be in reach of the band. It’s a thrill. A rush of adrenaline when you know you’ve made it that far.

That close to the people who make the music. I remember being that kid once. It seems so long ago.

I used to hop rusty metal fences to see my favorite bands perform at music festivals, or, if there was no way I was getting in, I would sit outside the venue, on a sidewalk or in the grass, and just listen.

Sometimes, I would go alone; other times, I would invite a few friends who enjoyed music as much as I did.

They would sneak a few beers out of their refrigerator at home, pack them in a cooler underneath soda and ice, then we would have our own party with live music. It was kick-ass.

Great times and awesome fucking memories.

It was also an escape from my shitty existence of a life. Although, if I had known years later that I would be where I am now, life would have been so much easier.

I have reached every career milestone I set for myself, for the band. Nowadays, it seems as if I’m waiting to find that one fucking kid, the same kid I once was, with nothing to lose.

Hopping fences to hear us. To see us play. That would make our career—my career.

Returning to my stalkerish peeping, I spot a girl in the far back row, but she’s too far away to make out everything.

I can see she’s just sitting there with an air of righteousness, her nose upturned in the air. She clearly doesn’t want to be here. I laugh aloud.

Wait until we hit the stage, and let’s see if I can change her attitude.

It’s not common for people like her to be at a concert of ours because usually, you have to pay for a ticket, and why would you pay for a ticket to a concert of a band you don’t even like?

I know exactly how I’ll change her outlook. It works like a charm every damn time.

I glance at my watch. Twenty minutes until showtime. Might as well head back to the band. It’s time to rock this fucking house.

I walk into our makeshift dressing room. Jason is pacing back and forth while taking a shot of Jameson.

The guy gets stage fright even after eight years. Guess that’s also why he stays behind those drums.

“Listen up, boys. Jason, you cool it. We’ve got ourselves one of those uppity bitches in the audience. You know what that means,” I say, eyeing each one of the guys.

They all nod their heads, knowing exactly what our plan will be.

“We need to break her, yeah?”

“Hell yeah!” They yell. We’ve made it this fucking far; if you’re going to attend our fucking concert, then you damn well better enjoy it.

Jason offers me a shot, and I down it. The fire lights a way straight to my inner core. A few more shots, and then we’ll be fucking ready.

We make our way to the stage. The lights down low. We can barely see, so I know the audience can’t see shit. They have no idea that we are less than a foot away.

As I grab my guitar, I look to the right of me, making sure Zepp and Liam are ready, glancing over my shoulder.

Jason nods, then to my left, Gage on bass winks provocatively, that perverted bastard.

We’re ready.

One lone light shines down on us. Everyone becomes silent for one small moment, and then…then, they fucking scream.

I walk up to the microphone stand, glide my hand into place, and pull it to me like a woman’s slender neck, ready to receive my kiss. I set my lips very close to the microphone and breathe out.

“What the fuck is up, BOSTON?” I scream.

Random words are all yelled back in our direction.

“Do you want to fucking party with us?”

Everyone in the audience replies in the loudest scream.

“Fuck yeah!” Then, Zepp, Gage, and Liam all synchronize, playing into rhythm. Jason starts beating the drums like a fucking god. And I sing the fucking song.

“As I lay dying, I think about the memories, the memories of yesterday…” I close my eyes, letting the music overtake me. It washes through my veins.

The energy and the emotion in the music that my boys are putting out is unexplainable. The crowd is drinking it up and then retching it. Throwing it back to us.

Fans are bodysurfing throughout this fucking place, trying to get even closer to us. Security strategically placed in front of the stage are shoving people back in droves.

I grin. I love this shit. Moving across the stage, working every angle, my eyes zoom all the way to the back row, dead center, and this bitch is the only one unfazed in this entire fucking room.

She’s unimpressed. Our first song is almost over. I cock my head backward and glance at the guys. They know it’s time.

Usually, I choose to wait until the middle of our set, but everyone except for Jason has worked this stage. They can see how unaffected this girl is.

I pace while Gage and Zepp do a fade-out, ending the song.

I strut back to the middle of the stage, place the microphone back in the stand, point my right finger at her, and say, “Honey?”

Her head turns to me, eyes wide. Then she glances around her. She’s unsure I’m speaking to her.

“Yes. You,” I state, matter-of-fact. “Why don’t you get your ass up here on my stage?” I yell, shooting daggers at her.

I have to make sure she understands I’m not fucking joking; I don’t invite just anybody onto our stage. The crowd is going fucking wild, heads turned around to see who I am talking about.

By their reactions, they want to see me make an example of her. They’re hungry for it.

A few people get loose of the pit. They start walking to the back of the auditorium. They’re planning on bringing her to me, I can tell.

Like bringing a pig to slaughter. They’re the farmhands, wanting to eat it all up.

Some are screaming out, “Who the fuck is she?”

As if I must know this superior broad, as if this is part of the show. Soon. Minutes, actually, they will be assured it most certainly is not.