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Hail sighs, fingers drumming on the wobbly stool he’s acquired. “Shouldn’t the talent manager or venue manager make an announcement?”
My eyes sweep out to the noisy crowd, probably several drinks into their night. They’re crammed in against the metal barriers so tight, I can already sense trouble brewing. Security is on high alert.
“They’re scrambling through decisions. The crowd is getting restless,” Sondra complains.
Not hard to figure out why. We rolled up to the venue early in the morning and hardcore fans were already camped out, snaking around the brick exterior of the venue half a mile down the street. Security had to help escort us all in and out of the back doors as fans screeched to get the band’s attention.
Stomach churning, I step out of the shadows. The words are out of my mouth before I register what I’m doing. “How long?”
Five sets of wide eyes fall on me. I shift my weight between my hips as my pulse quickens. I keep my focus on Sondra, even though Hail’s the one that responds first. “Thirty minutes tops.”
“Okay.” I nod. “I’ll do it. I’ll open for you.”
It’s the first time I’ve seen Sondra at a loss for words. If I hadn’t partaken in jam sessions, she probably would have shut down my offer immediately. Instead, Sondra lifts her phone to her ear.
“Yeah, Jimmy? I have a solid replacement. Thirty-minute set. We can still offer refunds if fans want them, but if I’m not being too bold here, I think everyone came to see Atonement, not the opening act.”
We wait in tense silence while Jimmy mumbles something on the other end. Then Sondra’s jabbing a finger at my chest. “You’re on, Z. Knock ‘em dead.”
Malek cracks a smile. “Get ready, boys! This one’s going down in history.”
Liam grabs one of his guitars and goes to work, slinging the strap over my shoulder and hooking me up. Then he pats my cheek. “You’ve got this. Proud of you.”
My chest heaves at those three fucking words. They wield such power over me, I’m almost nailed to the spot, waiting for him to feed me more encouragement.
Hail’s hands grip my biceps. He gives me a quick kiss right there in front of everyone backstage. No one bats an eye. “You’re amazing. You’re going to blow their minds. Just do what you did in Selma’s bar and at soundchecks, and you’ll have them all eating out of the palm of your hand, I just know it. Do you want me in the front row?”
“That would defeat the whole purpose of me going out there, Hails,” I say, unable to hold back a nervous chuckle.
Heart pounding like it’s going to explode, I step out under the warm spotlights and face the crowd. Memories slam into me. Suddenly, I panic that I might choke on them. My stomach churns. My eyes close against the harsh lights and the sea of boisterous people, crammed in like sardines in a can.
Don’t think about sardines right now. You cannot puke on Hail’s fans.
I’d always been able to numb some of the fear of public scrutiny with liquor or coke or weed, depending on my mood and the size of the venue. Clips of me fumbling around on stage still exist on the internet. And while my voice never wavered, it’s clear how shit-faced I was.
So much of my young twenties with Visage were spent in a haze, half existing in the present, half six feet under. Even before Lex’s death, I wasn’t whole, and I have no explanation as to why. No valid reason for the misfires in my brain.
When I’m lurking in those lowest lows, sometimes I’ll let myself watch a video or two of Lex performing, lying to myself that they couldn’t make me feel any worse. But seeing my brother alive, captured behind that screen, it’s always a surprising knife to my chest–his smile brighter than sunlight refracted on the surface of water, his fingers moving so smoothly over the fret of his guitar.
Tonight, I don’t have the option of my usual vices to dull the panic and numb the pain from memories. I refuse to let Hail see me that way. So I keep my chin tucked and my hair draped over my eyes as I begin to play without any hesitation. No greeting for this cheering crowd, as usual, though.
They seem confused at first, but when I hit those long, harrowing notes that reverberate through the venue, the crowd falls into my clutches, letting out whistles and cheers.
“Fuck yeah!” some guy screams out, rallying others to join in.
How far do I have to sink before I hit the bottom?
My fury is a boulder, my guilt a knife to cut away each faulty atom
Is there a limit or a measure to this despair?
I suppose I’ll keep wading in these murky waters a little bit longer
A little bit longer
Cellphone lights pop up all over the venue as people record, and that twinge of dread returns. If anyone from Visage saw this online, they would recognise my voice instantly. Jackson’s warning rings through my head, so much worse than Eric’s utter silence when I fled town.
My fingers tremble as I slide them over Liam’s fresh guitar strings, but thanks to years of obsessive practice, I don’t miss a note.
