AllFreeNovel
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The lights kick on and the guitar and drums cut off abruptly, sputtering on a wave of whistles and screams that deafen the room, drowning out my voice as I croon the opening lines into the mic.
Trying not to laugh as I continue singing through the chaos, I twist my head, meeting Shawn’s gaze with a stunned shake of my head.
How is this real life?
Turning back toward the crowd, I pause just before the chorus to shout, “SING IT, SYRACUSE!” prompting another piercing wave of whistles and screams.
Pulling the mic from the stand, I strut to the edge of the stage and crouch down just as Shawn and Waylon come in with the chorus, filling the room with the thudding of drums and howl of electric guitar, holding the mic out as the crowd starts belting the words.
I raise my free hand above my head, spurring them on. And they don’t disappoint. Not that the crowds we play for ever do. Still, for our last show, it’s everything we could fucking ask for.
Throwing my head back, I seal my eyes shut, and just breathe it all fucking in. Suck the goddamn marrow out of this moment for all it’s got, as dozens and dozens of people I’ve never met sing the words Shawn, Waylon, and I poured our blood, sweat, and tears into.
When the song draws to a ground-shaking end, Waylon hops out from behind the drums, and jogs to the front of the stage, joining Shawn and I in the center.
I take his hand first, then glance to Shawn on my other side. He reaches out, curling his fingers around mine. I flash him a wolfish grin before turning to face the cheering mass of people filling the open space, pumping devil horns and fists at us.
To my brothers, I yell out loud enough for them to hear me, “We fucking did it!”
“Hell yeah, we did,” Waylon says breathlessly, his voice nearly getting lost in the noise.
“On three,” I say, gazing out at the crowd. I inhale deeply, then?—
“One, two…”
And just like at the end of every show, we throw our linked hands up into the air just as the lights cut out, plummeting the stage to black.
It’s just after midnight when our tour bus crosses into Shiloh.
Despite the late hour, I’m far too ramped up to relax. The two-hour long drive has been nothing if not torturously slow.
Don’t get me wrong—surfing from hotel bed to hotel bed in between crashing on the bus bunk beds was wicked fucking fun for the first half of the tour. It’s the rockstar dream after all, minus all the other shit that one would expect to come with it, like drugs and sex. But I can’t deny that I’m relieved to finally sleep in my bed again.
Not that none of us haven’t been getting any, for the record…
Sex, that is, not drugs.
Across the aisle from me, Waylon’s turned toward the tinted windows, face pressed to the glass like a little kid.
“Dude,” I say on a laugh. “You just saw him last weekend.”
Not turning away from the window, he flips me off.
Rolling my eyes, I glance over at Shawn who’s reclined back with an airplane pillow around his head, eyes closed like he’s sleeping.
We all have our post-show rituals. If I’m not burning my energy off with more music—piano, guitar, writing…whatever’s calling to me—I’ll go to the hotel gym, or take a walk through whatever city we’re in.
Waylon, on the other hand, will typically find somewhere private to call or FaceTime Will.
Emphasis on the private part.
(Don’t ask. We’re both still trying to sear it from our memories.)
As for Shawn…
He meditates.
Finds peace through a more quiet route.
