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One
London
I’ve never been to a gig before. Twenty three years old with a famous rock star father, and I’ve never seen a band play live. Kinda tragic, right?
Except as I weave across the darkened Indigo Ballroom, shadows shifting and bass throbbing, I remember why. It’s the crowds. The press of hot, sweaty bodies, all sharp elbows and roaming hands; the glazed expressions on the revelers’ faces, and the way most of them teeter from too much to drink.
The gig doesn’t start for another two hours, and already it’s packed in here. The air is muggy, like a thunderstorm might break indoors, sheets of rain pelting against the dark floor.
A bar stretches along the length of one wall, with dozens of bartenders in black button-down shirts pouring shots and uncapping bottles. Small spotlights shine on the wood, ghostly hands reaching in and out of the glare, passing over drinks and money.
Do I want a drink?
Some liquid courage wouldn’t hurt, but… no. I want to be stone cold sober the first time I meet my father. I want to remember every last detail of the moment coming.
The music pulses as I push my way carefully through the crowd, muttering “Excuse me,” and “Can I just—” as I go. My heavy backpack keeps catching on people, and I lean my weight forward, trying to cut a faster path.
High above, a chandelier glitters beneath the rafters, fracturing the rays of light that swing in its direction and scattering them across the ceiling in tiny, glowing pieces. I blow an escaped strand of hair off my cheek as I glance up.
It’s too hot in here. Too busy, too loud.
Too everything.
Jefferson—Dad?—didn’t give directions to get backstage, but logic suggests I should head toward the empty stage then keep going.
The stage is huge, dark and empty, looming above the bustling ballroom like an open maw, and I head away from it toward the corner of the room.
A pair of black double doors leads backstage. I push on them, relieved, but they don’t budge an inch.
Locked.
Damn it.
My stomach cramps as I spin around and lean my backpack against the doors, surveying the crowd I already fought through once. I guess it makes sense. Can’t have random audience members wandering backstage. But I…
I’m not supposed to be random. Jefferson is expecting me.
My head thunks against the door, the sound swallowed up by the bass throbbing through the black speakers on the walls. What do I do now? I wish I could think straight, but it took two flights, a bus journey, and an exhausted trudge along eight blocks to get here. I’m so tired, I barely know my own name.
My eyes flick to the stage.
A shiver rolls up my spine.
It shouldn’t be creepy. It’s just a big, empty stage with dark patches of shadow—so not a big deal.
But my throat is tight as I edge around the crowd to the lip of the stage. My wrist twinges as I swing my backpack off, lifting it up onto the raised black floor with a groan.
My bag has barely touched down before boots thunder out of the shadowed wings. A huge, muscled man dressed all in black, an earpiece hooked around one ear, snatches up my backpack by the top handle, the weight creaking and swaying beneath his giant grip.
“Oi! You can’t come up here. Go on, get back out there or I’ll toss you onto the street, ticket or no ticket.”
I blow out a long sigh, staring at the darkened shape of my backpack being thrust in my direction. When I crane my neck, peering up at the security guard, a spotlight bounces off his bald head.
“I’m here to see Jefferson Peters,” I yell over the pounding bass.
The man rolls his eyes and shakes my backpack. “You and every other groupie. Go on, get gone.”
“I’m his daughter,” I yell, my voice cracking with the effort to be heard. “London.”
