AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Yeah, that would be great actually,” I said, nodding gratefully.
“I'll trade ya,” she replied with a good-natured smile. Mitch rolled the chair around the table in the center of the broadcast booth as Madi spoke into the mic. “To my listeners out there, I'm just playing a little game of musical chairs with Dylan freakin’ Pierce. No big deal or anything.”
The group of us laughed as Simon carried the stool to her on the other side and Mitch situated the high-backed office chair behind me and locked the wheels. I sat down and breathed a dramatic sigh of relief.
“Oh, this ismuchbetter,” I said, leaning back.
Madi perched her short, fairy-like frame onto the stool and grimaced. “You're right. This is ridiculously uncomfy. I'm sorry for making you guys sit on these! Oh my God,” she said, crossing her legs and tugging at her miniskirt. “Well, listeners, I'd say Dylan won this round with my nice, cushy chair.”
Chuckling, I gave her a thumbs-up. “Appreciate it, Madi. Thank you.”
“Okay, game time is over. Back to being a professional,” she said, clutching her sheet of prepared questions in hand and blowing out a breath.
“Right, right,” I said, clearing my throat and readjusting out my arms. “Now, what was your question?”
Madi pinched her perfected brows as she asked, “How do you feel, being back on the road after everything you've been through?”
The question should warrant a simple answer. A genericgreatshould suffice, accompanied by a grin, if only to get her list of inquiries over and done with. The hours were flying, and it wouldn't be long before we had to get to the venue across town for sound check.
But I wasn't in the mood for simple answers.
“It's been a little strange,” I replied honestly. “Surreal.”
Madi cocked her head with curiosity, making her pink pigtails bob and sway. “Strange how?”
My lungs inflated with the resolve to let it all out here and now, in this interview for a radio station in wherever-the-fuck, Ohio. Then, I exhaled and leaned farther toward the mic.
“I gotta tell you,” I said, propping my elbows on the table and folding my hands, “I was pretty sure I was done a few years ago. I was ready to throw in the towel and tell these guys to find someone else to sing our songs.”
“Ah, baby,” Simon said, reaching down from his perch to grip my shoulder. “When you're done, I'm done. You know that.”
“Oh, and leave me alone with this kid?” Dave scoffed, jabbing a thumb toward Greyson. “I don't think so.”
“Who the hell are you calling a kid?” Grey asked, shooting Dave a scowl and a backhanded slap against his arm.
Laughing and shaking my head, I waved a dismissive hand in their direction and continued, “Anyway… basically, I was in really bad shape—and not just 'cause I’d lost my leg and all that. But our music needs soul, you know, and I just didn't have it in me anymore.”
With a solemn nod, Madi said, “You lost your passion.”
“It was like, while I had survived the crash, which in itself was a freakin' miracle, this crucial piece of who I had been had died. I didn't know how to revive it; I didn't know how to get it back. So”—I shrugged with resignation—”I figured I was done.
“But,” I went on, stretching my lips in a grin, “inspiration has this way of striking when you least expect it, and that's exactly what happened. The ol' muse came back, bit me hard in the ass, and just like that”—I snapped my fingers in front of the mic—”I was back.”
“And thank the musical gods for that,” Madi exclaimed, raising her hands to the ceiling and throwing her head back.
“See, it's that type of reaction I didn't expect,” I said. “I thought the world would look at me differently. Like,Oh, he used to be cool, but then he lost his leg.”
“Nobody was gonna think that, man,” Simon muttered, nudging my shoulder with his knuckles. “If Rick Allen can be a badass with one arm, you can be a badass with one leg.”
“Right,” I said, turning to meet his rueful gaze. “But I wasn't gonna be convinced of that until I saw it myself.” Then, as I looked back at a patiently waiting Madi, I said, “And, man, those fans of ours … they're somethin' else, and it's truly amazing.”
A month ago, I had set out on the road with the guys, and while they were pumped and eager to play, I could barely allow myself a shred of hope. Not knowing what to expect from our fans left me in a state of panic and riddled with an anxiety I couldn't shake long enough to sedate my frazzled nerves.
Then, there was our first show in Hartford, Connecticut.
The hours leading up to the show were spent with my head in a garbage can. Never before had I battled a case of stage fright so crippling. The guys took turns, bringing me water, ginger ale, and words of reassurance—none of which brought any kind of relief. It wasn't until Mitch slipped me a borrowed Xanax that I finally found the courage to trudge through a grueling two-hour sound check. Like a coward, I kept my eyes closed for most of it as I sang and played my guitar, unable to look out into the vast, empty auditorium. Unable to imagine the faces that would soon fill the seats with every pair of eyes pointed directly at me and the foreign object posing as a leg.
I didn't think I'd have it in me to go through the concert if sound check left me trembling and wishing to run back home, where I was protected and safe.
