First Chance

Steele

Minx. She’s a damn minx.

For Liam to think he has to sit me down and remind me she wasn’t here for my cruelty. Like I was the one who threw all her clothing and undergarments all over the sidewalk.

I was trying to be a gentleman. Knowing she and I got off to the wrong start, she and I need to reach some kind of middle ground.

How do I expect my plan to work if we don’t at least somewhat get along? Maybe if she would give me a chance to redeem myself or let me in a little…

I could see how guarded she was that night onstage, how she seems to always remain guarded.

As soon as Liam shut the door to the back bedroom—so she could unpack, I presume—he marched over to me and demanded my full attention.

“Ryan, this girl, she’s not as strong as we thought she was. You’re an intense guy. For someone like her, you seem overbearing.

“She was fighting tears out there; I did all I could do not to comfort her, knowing it would have only made the situation worse if I did,” he whispers.

“Jesus. You act like I ran over the girl’s fucking dog. It was an accident. Her bag looked heavy, so I offered to help. I have no care what goes on between you and her.

“But when she wants marriage and babies, don’t come crawling to me for advice.” I need to get away from this conversation. Unwanted feelings of jealousy are running through me right now.

This girl is in my head, and I need to kick her out. Looking for an escape from this conversation, said minx interrupts, wanting to know where her bed is.

Then Liam does exactly what I didn’t want him to do. He offers me to show her to her bunk. Dick. Are all my bandmates against me all of a sudden?

They are all aware of what my intentions are, and now they are playing protective of her. Standing up, I walk away, knowing that she will follow.

I show her where my bed is first, then hers. I offer her a few suggestions on what I don’t like.

Crowded is how she makes me feel, with her coconut-smelling golden brown hair and the devastation that lurks behind her facade of a smile. It makes me want to ask questions.

To prevent myself from doing so, I leave the bus. A cigarette is just what I need.

I pull my pack of smokes out and light one up. Exhaling a puff of smoke, I watch the roadies walking in and out of the bus, loading their things in.

One is walking around with a checklist in hand, making sure everything is accounted for. Gage stands next to me.

“So, that babe from the other night, I see she made it after all,” he says, eyeing my reaction. Testing me. Almost.

“Not going to discuss her or what happened, so leave it alone,” I say, shutting it down right now.

“All right, man, I had to ask. Anyway, I glimpsed our tour schedule, but I didn’t beat it into my brain. After the Fleet Center, what’s our next stop? My ma wants to fly in for our second show.

“She wanted to be at our first, but you know how she hates Boston.”

Glad he let me off the hook. Generally, I’m not a man of many words, and I never explain myself to anyone.

I can talk music all day, any day. If it weren’t for the guys, I would be a classic shut-in emotionally, but they know when I have had enough I close the conversation down.

Liam is the only one who always tries to break that barrier.

“Our next stop is in Upstate New York. I’ll find out the exact city tonight. I would tell her to get a ticket to Albany, wherever we are would be within a few hours’ drive,” I answer Gage.

Six hours later, both buses are packed, and our concert starts in about four hours. The guys and I decide to get both of the buses over to the Fleet Center.

When we arrive, we will order dinner to be delivered, pre-game, then sound check. It sounds like a pretty easy to-do list. In actuality, it’s one of the most tiring jobs.

Once we exit that stage, all we want is a hot shower and a comfortable bed. Sometimes, also an easy woman.

Instead, we have to hold out on our wants for a couple of hours and do meet-and-greets. As popular as we are, that isn’t something we have to keep doing.

Many artists believe it’s too risky because of how big their fan base is. Doing a meet-and-greet when you’re that popular can open the possibility to a lot of bad situations.

Others just won’t do it because they feel they’re above it. Like they don’t owe their fans shit.

Therefore, even being exhausted, we all still carry our asses out there every fucking night. We do it for free.

If they bought a ticket, pit, lawn, or orchestra seating, they are all welcome to wait in line and meet us. It’s something we won’t ever stop doing. I want to meet every goddamn fan.

We stay there, sitting in a little crowded booth on uncomfortable metal chairs, until we meet every last fucking fan.

Way we see it, these fans, these everyday, hard-working people, they buy our albums, our merchandise and our tickets, keeping us on the billboards, all because they want to hear more from us.

We owe them. If all I am able to do is sit until my ass goes numb and sign autographs until my hand is cramping, then we will all keep doing just that.

I owe my life to my fans, unbeknownst to them. It’s undeniable that I could have ended up dead the way my life was headed. My parents lead prime examples of a life you don’t want to have.

I wasn’t planned, and they held that against me until the end of their days. Mom drank and smoked crack while pregnant, Dad only joining her in those habits.

Even when I entered the world, I still wasn’t worth enough to them to quit their addictions.

I was in a foster home until I turned eight. My parents somehow convinced the courts that they had mended their ways. They were born again Christians, so they said.

At eight, I just wanted somebody to care about me. Truly care what happened to me. To love me. I couldn’t have been happier when my current foster mom told me I would be going home.

To have my own family back, I was in childhood bliss. Nothing could go wrong in my eyes.

When I met them for the first time, they clutched me in their arms, and I felt as if they were my home. This is what I had been waiting for my entire life.

I grabbed my plastic bag full of clothes and hopped in their car. We drove up to the perfect house, better than what I had dreamed of. A one-story ranch-style house.

It was a gray-blue with black shutters and a metal fence enclosing the spacious yard. I remember thinking about how I could run around all day and play.

I yanked that car door open and ran right into the house as if I had lived there my whole life.

I should have known something wasn’t right with these people. My parents at that moment. My father yanked me up by the neck and asked where my manners were.

He made me go back outside and knock on the door. To ask to be allowed entrance. Wasn’t this my house now too? As an adult looking back, I realize I had no chance with those people.

Kids. They dream, they hope, but never really know the true hurt in the world. At eight, I was blinded by love. By nine, I had felt hatred. Toward my parents, toward anyone I came into contact with.

I was pissed off at the world. My parents hadn’t changed a bit. Now, I was stuck here.

They moved higher. More hardcore. Heroin, meth. They just couldn’t afford it. They had a grand scheme though, brilliant idea. Play the fucking courts.

Get their kid back, and then they could get me to steal, pick the pockets of strangers, and steal from stores. Whatever it took to get money for their habits.

Wherever and whoever. It never mattered to them if those people needed what they had. It didn’t matter that there was a chance I would get caught or if, in turn, the person I was robbing got violent.

And if I ever turned up back at home empty-handed, well, then they would make sure I wouldn’t walk for days.

Eventually, I graduated school and then got away from that house and them, staying at friends’ houses a few nights here and there and playing gigs in between.

We were lucky that we had only been playing for about a year when we were discovered. Since then, my parents have both passed. I’m sure rotting in eternal hell.

Overdosing on drugs. Who would have thought?

They tried to contact me a few times. Once, they even had the balls to leave a voicemail threatening to let my life story out in exchange for money to keep them quiet.

I ignored the meaningless ultimatum. They could make empty threats all they wanted. I knew they would never reveal any information out of fear of implicating themselves.

That’s how selfish they were; only ever looking out for themselves… I don’t allow people to peer into my book of life.

I would never willingly volunteer information about myself, only because I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.

I may have been born into shitty circumstances, and I could have succumbed to the life I had, but I changed my situation.

Liam knows all of it. And the rest of the guys have some knowledge. That’s enough to satisfy them, and enough for me to still remain unaffected by stares full of pity.

The only way I let someone in is through my songs. Each song I have written is a piece of me, in every line. It’s the only place in my life where I allow vulnerability.

I know I’m not the only one out there with hardships, battles to wage, wars to fight. But fuck, if it doesn’t feel as if I am alone in this.

Parked at the back entrance of The Fleet Center, Liam goes around checking with everyone what they want for dinner.

Usually, we don’t have time to order out because we don’t end up arriving at the venue until sound check, so when we’re able to, we take advantage of it.

One of us not having to cook for a night. Fuck yes. Not asking me what I want, he takes his cell out and dials the number for a local Italian eatery.

Liam knows I am not a person for change. I always get the same thing.

Showering, a must-do before the show. I throw some money at Liam and head to the back bedroom to grab some clothes, most likely what I’ll be wearing on stage tonight as well.

As I shove the door open, someone else is yanking it back. I stumble, taken aback, not expecting someone to be in there. I forgot. This brunette beauty is with us for the entire summer.

I’m frozen, not able to speak. She’s staring at me with weary eyes, mouth pinched as if she’s cautious of what to say or do. Is she trying to make me feel guilty?

I’m not sure if I should even speak to her. I don’t want to engage in an argument shortly before we have to be onstage.

I never walk away from a discussion involving any kind of anger. It’s just not who I am.

I slide my body sideways to let her walk out, showing her I won’t bow to her act. She can act like an innocent, shy college girl, but I know better.

She has a razor-sharp mouth, and she knows how to use it. I’m amazed she can have a vengefully determined look one moment; the next a haunted, sad look with a flicker of loneliness.

This woman is nothing but many barriers put into place, layers and layers of emotions I have only ever seen reflected back in the mirror.

Like a temptress, it’s doing nothing but calling me out, begging for me to strip every single coat she has wielded around herself. Nothing good can come of this.

I enter the room after having been standing there stuck in place, thinking of her. After changing, I make my way out to the dining area and see everyone sitting around the table, already eating.

“Nice, guys. Starting without me. Where’s the chicken parmigiana?” I ask, mocking an Italian accent the best I can. They all start laughing. Except for her of course.

Gage slides over, making room for me, and hands my food over. We eat in stony silence. I could break it, but I believe everyone is in this awkward mood because of the fiasco hours earlier.

No one’s sure what to say. My guys are taking turns sending questionable stares in my direction. Possibly hoping I’ll break the ice.

Fuck them. They want to play protective daddy, then they can break the tension.

My guys have mistaken her for having a weak character. So, naturally, they must protect her from the likes of me. As if I have some nefarious scheme to scar her.

If I were honest with myself, the only reason I wanted her was to prove myself. To prove the band is deserving of being where we are.

Show her that our music means something, that we have worked our way to be here.

Nights before, when she was reclining in that faraway seat, I knew she wanted to be long gone. When we performed on stage, she confirmed it for me.

She was unimpressed, unfeeling of all of the emotion we’ve poured out of our souls into our songs.

The more she ignored and stayed unmoved, the more I wanted—no, the more I needed to break her.

I should have known an impromptu invitation would have gone unwelcome and automatically put her on defense mode.

When she joined me at the microphone and her lips opened with that first note, I knew I couldn’t let her go. I haven’t had a voice affect me as much as hers in years.

A sweet, throaty rasp with a hint of pain and some other emotion that she quickly hid before I could hear or even feel it.

How did she become such a desperate need that I have to unfold so fast?

Throwing my empty food container away, I ask the guys if they want to go over our pre-game before sound check.

Our pre-gaming consists of each one of us choosing three songs each that we want to play tonight. We write the list down, and then that’s our set rotation for the night.

I tell the minx she can join us backstage and watch the show from the side if she wants. We’re going to have her learn the roadies’ setup, starting with our next show.

I haven’t decided yet whom I am comfortable with her shadowing. Since she’ll be spending copious amounts of time with the guy, I want it to be someone I can fully trust.

She answers with a short, “I’ll think about it.” Whatever. She won’t have a choice tomorrow night.

With the set list completed, we get off the bus and head into the arena through the guests-only entrance. Sound check goes easy and fast.

We have enough time to go back into the dressing room and have a few shots, and usually, I would be chanting over and over again what city we’re in so I won’t forget.

But since we’ve been here for a week or so, it’s already ingrained. I use what time I have to nurse a glass of tequila. I don’t particularly like going on stage shit-faced.

It can only lead to bad choices ending with really bad consequences. So, I let the guys enjoy their fun and search the minx out.

Walking around the halls backstage, I don’t spot her pretty little face anywhere. I ask a few roadies, and they haven’t seen her either. Guess she must have decided to just stay on the bus.

Unquestionably aggravated by it, I stop searching and head back to the guys with a few minutes to spare.

“Find what you were looking for?” Gage questions.

“I wasn’t looking for anything or anyone. I just wanted to make sure Jack got our set list,” I snap back.

“Sure, that’s what you were doing. Are y’all ready to start this fucking tour?” Gage shouts ecstatically.

The guy has an infinite amount of happy energy. I envy it.

Zepp places five shot glasses down, fills them to the brim with Jameson’s, and hands them out.

“Bottoms up,” he says as he smacks his glass against mine.

Downing mine in one swig, I let the burn set in and breathe it out. Setting my now-empty shot glass down on the dressing room table, the guys follow suit, and we walk to the stage.

“Hello, Boston! Are. You. Ready. To. Fucking. ROCK?”