Let’s set up a meeting.
CHAPTER NINETEENELEANOR
We arrive at the club right as the opening act finishes their set. With our names on the list, we’re granted access to the balcony above the main floor, which is off-limits to anyone with a general admission ticket. It’s mostly empty, but I spot Jane standing off to one side and tap Adam’s elbow so he’ll follow me over.
She’s sipping a carbonated drink from a plastic cup, and lifts her brows in greeting before releasing the straw. “Hey, guys.”
It’s her tone of voice, and the way her gaze flickers back and forth between us, that tells me she’s figured out something is going on between Adam and me. Given we keep showing up together… I suppose we haven’t exactly been subtle. I decide I don’t mind her knowing. Jane is cool, and anyway, I agreed to go out on an actual date with Adam. If it goes well, andkeepsgoing well, more people will know, eventually.
Movement onstage snares my attention. It’s just a couple of stagehands doing some last-minute set up for Dempsey, but it’s enough to get the crowd buzzing with anticipation.
The stage empties, and the lighting shifts, and it’s like the entire club collectively holds their breath. Freddie Dempsey steps onstage, followed by Sheridan, Ralph, and Curtis.
They hit their marks, Sher and Freddie in front of microphone stands on opposite ends of the stage, each with guitars slung over their shoulders. I catch Adam’s eye, and he grins at me, hand finding the small of my back for a moment before slipping into his pocket.
Curtis hits his drumsticks together to count them down, and over the swell of cheers from the audience, they launch into their opener.
The energy in the club is a vibrant, tangible thing. A reminder of why I got into this business in the first place. A reminder of why I didn’t quit after Griffin, even when I wanted to run away and start fresh in some industry where no one knew my name. I love music, and I always will.
The band sounds great—if a little stiff. But it’s the last stop on a long tour, so I don’t think they can be blamed for having lost some of their spontaneity at this point.
The club is packed, and thunderously loud as the song finishes and Sheridan wraps both hands around the microphone stand.
“Hello Las Vegas!” She grins brightly at the responding roar from the audience. One hand drops to rest along the guitar strapped to her shoulder. “Ooh, we’ve got a fantastic crowd tonight. I can feel it.” More whistles and cheers. “Playing shows like this is a privilege, and we only get to do it becauseof you. Because you guys show the fuck up, and stream our music, and we want to thank you for that.”
Her gaze sweeps over the club slowly, like she’s straining to see each and every person’s face past the glare of the stage lights. I’ve seen Dempsey live a handful of times now, between the gigs they played before signing with a label and then their last tour. Sheridan is incredible at crowd work for exactly this reason—because it isn’t fake. She isn’t just vamping. She isn’t a jaded musician reading from the same script night after night. She cares.
Curtis is smirking behind his kit, his eyes locked on Sheridan’s back. Ralph is taking the opportunity to quietly retune his bass. Freddie steps back from his own mic to say something to Curtis. It draws Sheridan’s attention, too, and before the rest of the band seems to be ready, Freddie is strumming the opening chords of their next song.
The others are quick to jump in, seasoned enough they don’t miss a beat. Freddie has lead vocals on this song, so Sheridan takes her time returning to her side of the stage. When she does hit the mic for backup vocals, she looks sideways at her brother. Her expression is not pleased.
The tension onstage is palpable, but they make it through the next two songs without incident. Then Sheridan lets go of her guitar and takes her microphone off the stand, ready to address the crowd again. She barely gets three words out when Freddie starts playing over her.
My head rears back, hardly able to believe what I just saw. I cast my gaze around the room, trying to get a sense of whether the general audience even noticed, but of course it’s impossible to tell from up here. Jane definitely noticed,though. Beside me she’s pursing her lips and avoiding my gaze, but I catch her give a pissed-off little shake of her head.
Onstage, Sheridan sets the mic back on the stand and scrambles to jump in on vocals, only to step away again when they reach the bridge. Freddie glares at her and jerks his head toward her mic. She stares resolutely back while Curtis and Ralph continue to vamp. After a drawn-out moment, Sheridan bends down to snag a water bottle from the base of her mic stand. She takes a couple of long gulps, then sets it back down and jumps back in on rhythm guitar.
My gaze stays locked on Sheridan for the rest of the song. The band finds the pocket again, and Sheridan’s vocals are pitch-perfect, but there’s no passion in her voice. She’s singing like she’s numb.
The song wraps and while Freddie’s last guitar riff is still ringing out, Sheridan shouts into her microphone, “You guys have been great, thank you so much!”
She whips her guitar strap overhead and walks offstage.
A beat later Curtis follows, both drumsticks fisted in one hand. But Ralph and Freddie both look like deer caught in the headlights.
I glance over my shoulder at Adam, who leans forward with a frown. “That wasn’t their full set.”
It’s Jane who responds first. “No, they had twelve songs on their set list.”
Freddie hesitates another moment before he and Ralph exit the stage as well. A low murmur rolls through the crowd.
“… Do we think they’re coming back?” Adam asks, eyes locked onto the side stage, even though there isn’t any movement.
“I don’t know.” I give a sidelong glance at Jane. “Sher didn’t look too happy.”
Jane presses her tongue to her upper teeth. “Let’s give it a few minutes.”
Five minutes pass, and they still haven’t come back onstage. Club music starts playing overhead, and some of the crowd closest to the stage starts getting restless, a slow stream of them heading toward the exit.
