First Chance

Steele

My bandmates and I gather for breakfast. We’ve got an hour to fuel up before we need to head back to our rooms, get ready for the show, and make our way to the college.

There’s a routine we follow when we’re prepping for a show, whether it’s at a small bar or a massive arena. Sound check is a crucial part of the process.

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

But we don’t trust anyone but ourselves with this task. There are certain things we prefer to handle ourselves. If you want something done right, you’ve got to do it yourself.

I find myself backstage, watching some teenage band perform. Apparently, we didn’t know until this morning that part of the contest was to let some of the local campus bands open for us.

There’s a lot of talent here. But none of these bands really fit our style. Usually, when you have another artist open for you, they’re at least in the same genre as you.

It helps to get the crowd pumped, buzzing with anticipation to see the headliner. But I don’t think these bands are going to do the trick.

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

But 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 guessing they could fit over a thousand people in this room alone.

I see a large crowd near the stage, all huddled together, everyone pushing and shoving 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 within 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 feels like a lifetime ago.

I used to jump over 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 loved 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’ve hit every career goal I set for myself, for the band. Nowadays, it feels like I’m waiting to find that one fucking kid, the same kid I once was, with nothing to lose.

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

Returning to my sneaky 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 superiority, her nose upturned in the air. She clearly doesn’t want to be here. I laugh out loud.

Just 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, looking at 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 path straight to my 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.

The crowd is a sea of bodies, all trying to get closer to us. Security guards are stationed in front of the stage, pushing back the waves of fans.

I can’t help but grin. I live for this. I scan the crowd, my gaze reaching all the way to the back row, dead center. There’s a girl there, the only one in the room who doesn’t seem to be caught up in the frenzy.

She’s not impressed. Our first song is nearing its end. I tilt my head back to look at the guys. They know what’s coming.

Normally, I’d wait until we’re halfway through our set, but everyone except Jason has been on this stage before. They can see how unfazed this girl is.

I pace the stage as Gage and Zepp play a fade-out, bringing the song to a close.

I saunter back to the center of the stage, put the microphone back in its stand, point my right finger at her, and say, “Hey, you there?”

She turns her head towards me, her eyes wide. She looks around, unsure if I’m talking to her.

“Yes, you,” I say, making it clear. “Why don’t you get your ass up here on my stage?” I shout, my gaze fixed on her.

I need her to know I’m serious; I don’t just invite anyone onto our stage. The crowd is going wild, everyone turning to see who I’m talking about.

From their reactions, they want to see me make an example of her. They’re practically salivating.

A few people break away from the crowd. They start heading towards the back of the auditorium. They’re planning to bring her to me, I can tell.

It’s like they’re bringing a pig to slaughter. They’re the farmhands, ready to feast.

Some are shouting, “Who the fuck is she?”

As if I must know this girl, as if this is all part of the show. Soon—just a few minutes from now—they’ll realize it’s not.