Page 137 of Perfect Satisfaction

@wildcardmusic

—StellaNova

I finger the plastic credentials wrapped around my neckwith some awe—unfettered backstage access. There was a time when I’d have sold my left nut to have this kind of access to Brendan Blake and Beckett Miller.

Right now? I want to throw up on my boots as we wind our way around crew members.

Sula’s name is called out by men on scaffolding. She waves and asks, “How’s your new grandbaby?” Or “Did they get in?” That’s accompanied by a thumbs up from someone securing scaffolding that extends well into the audience. She’s obviously a known entity, and a liked one.

I sling an arm around her shoulder. “You know, there are pictures of you backstage at Brendan’s shows.”

“Really? You looked me up?”

I nod my affirmation.

“What else did you find?” she asks, curious.

I spin us both around and stare at the stage being built. “Nothing about this.”

An older man approaches us. “Sula, sweetheart.”

She steps from my embrace and hugs him. “Smith. It’s so good to see you.”

He eyes me up and down, measuring me. I wonder if there’s something I should say when he holds out a hand. “I appreciate a man who can say he’s wrong and admit it. Thank you for clearing up that whole fiasco.”

I relax marginally. Taking his outstretched hand, I shake it firmly. “It won’t happen again.”

He lets go first. “Come on back. I came out to get you because security’s a nightmare with both Beckett and Brendan in the back. The reporters are being little bitches.” Then realizing who he’s talking to, he offers, “No offense.”

“None taken. Are they really singing live on stage together?”

“Oh, son. It’s so much more than that.” Smith winks and shows his green card to the security guards.

Sula does the same.

I flip through the stack and hold up the correct color before I’m waived through.

We enter a different level of chaos. Smith grins at my exuberance. “Being backstage at a rock concert is a lot like any show except on a much grander scale.”

“What do you mean?”

He explains, “We lay things out so we can get them on and off stage as efficiently as possible. If that means we need to have twelve socket wrenches, we have twenty-four. Everyone on the crew has one, even if they’re not going to touch the equipment. The last thing we need is for the audience to see us scrambling while we’re setting up.”

Sula offers a different comparison. “It’s a lot like cooking in an open kitchen for the crew. If there’s a mistake, it’s visible. In this case, it will be visible to close to 21,000 people.”

My fingers graze lightly over the drum kit with “Brendan Blake” emblazoned on it. “How do you get it right, night after night?”

Smith guffaws. “Planning for a tour begins the minute Brendan starts writing songs. We start set designs, picking locations, everything.”

“Including this thing with Beckett?”

Smith gives Sula a stern look before saying, “No one could have predicted this thing with Beckett. Did this one”—he jabs a thumb in Sula’s direction—“ever tell you Brendan refused to introduce the two of them? Swore up and down it would make him old before his time.”

“Your brother was worried about you and Beckett Miller?” I grin.

“Just you wait.” Sula twines her fingers with mine. “You’ll understand the true meaning of chaos soon enough.”

There is raucous laughter coming from an open door down the hall once Smith has concluded the tour backstage. Just as I’m about to ask Sula if that’s where we’re headed, a blond-haired copy of Brendan Blake pops his head out of the dressing room. Spotting us, he tears out of the room.