Page 13 of Scream For Me
“Right, guys. This is it,” Luca says, gripping his bass by the neck.
“We’ve fucking got this. We’ll play the gig and then we’ll get fucked up,” Ryland says, wrapping his arm around Luca and Harper’s backs, who then wrap theirs around mine for a group huddle. Harper smells like her usual strawberry and vanilla perfume. The scent grounds me. Luca squeezes my shoulder once, just letting me know he’s there.
Unease flickers low in my gut, and I push it down, pulling Luca and Harper tight before we all release and take our positions on stage.
The stage lights blind me for a second, and I adjust my face covering. The crowd is bigger than I expected: they’re not packed shoulder to shoulder, but there’s still way more people here than I think any of us anticipated. My pulse thunders, and my knees begin to tremble. For a split second, I imagine missing the first chord. That thought is enough to make me want to throw up. The residency would dissolve before my very eyes. My band would hate me. I’d have to quit my job because Harper wouldn’t want to be around me. I’d have to go back to sleeping under the expressway, but this time without a tent.
The sharp sound of drumsticks counting down breaks me from my spiral, and I strike the first chord right on time. The relief instantly floods my chest, but it’s only fleeting. Sweat from my hands slicks against the strings, and I adjust my grip quickly,the fear of slipping making me hitch a breath. The entire room fades away, and I’m back to where I need to be.
My body, lit with adrenaline, moves with the music we’re creating. My hands move across the fretboard as if independent from my body, from instinct alone. I’m aware of the movement of bodies in the crowd as they hear us for the first time, the soft nodding of heads to the beat building.
By the fourth song, beads of sweat have formed on the back of my neck and drip down my back. Thankfully, I chose a black band shirt tonight, or else I wouldn’t be able to turn my back to the crowd. I make a mental note to never choose another color to perform in.
I move towards the edge of the stage during a riff, and the front row surges forward. Hands reach towards me, and someone shouts my name—not Kat, but “guitar girl.” A guy in the front leans forward, trying to peer under the edge of the fabric as I lean into a solo. He’s trying to be subtle, probably harmless, but my chest tightens anyway, and I step back without breaking rhythm, nodding my head so the cowl drops further over my face.
The next chord comes a fraction too late. Not enough for the crowd to notice, but I notice. I glance over at Ryland, and his face lets me know he noticed too.
I block out the crowd in front of me. Their energy is too infectious, and I can’t afford to be affected by it. I focus instead on each note I’m playing, letting it sit and reverberate under my skin. The shouting from the crowd dampens, and in this moment, the only thing that exists is me and my guitar.
Each song blends into the next, my shoulders dropping and my grip on the neck relaxing, a half-smile curving the edge of my mouth after each perfectly nailed solo. I look up to thecrowd. What was a small ripple of movement is now a full-blown typhoon. As the final note rings out, the bodies slow, and screams of approval ring out above the music.
My eyes drift over the bobbing heads, riding the high of their energy. Their curiosity is sated, and now they want more. They lean towards us instead of away. Chants of “one more song” fill the room—but I barely hear them because that’s when I feel it.
Not see it. Fuckingfeelit.
The air shifts, and the base of my spine stiffens. I scan the room again, slower this time. And there he is. At the back, meeting my stare with his own. His dark hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and his eyes bore into mine. He leans against a concrete pillar, a picture of boredom, but something else simmers under the surface.
He sticks out so much. If he were here earlier, I would have seen him. I would have felt it. Elias isn’t drinking. Isn’t talking. Isn’t moving. He’s just watching us—no, not us. Me. His eyes pierce through the energy of the crowd and hit me right in the fucking chest. The cowl does absolutely nothing to shield me when it comes to him, apparently.
My fingertips tingle, fighting against the creeping numbness as my brain screams at me to run off the stage. There’s something dangerous about him, and I still can’t tell whether he wants to fuck me or kill me—or maybe both at the same time.
There’s about six feet of space around him, like no one wants to get too close to him. At least it’s not just me he has that effect on.
I pull the cowl down lower, avoiding his eyes. Shield in place, but it does nothing to protect me from the sensation ofbeing watched. I glance at the rest of the band, who are readying themselves for the next song.
“All aboard!” screams Harper into the microphone.
The deep sound of theCrazy Trainbass line fills the room, and the crowd erupts. I cast a quick look toward Elias. A half-smirk painted on his face. He looks… impressed?
I don’t have time to dissect his facial responses. I flex my hands as my fingers quickly find their positions. By some divine intervention, I hit the first note right on time. The screams of approval mixed with the sensation of being seen swirl through my head. I absorb the energy of the crowd and let it fuel me, like oxygen to a fire. My head falls back, drunk from the energy, and I completely lose myself to the music.
I chance a glance at Elias, and I could swear I see his lips move. My fingers don’t falter. But something inside me does. Because I almost convinced myself that he mouthed the wordmine.
Seven
Elias
Show Me How to Live - Audioslave
My eyes burn as I look over what feels like the one hundred and fiftieth financial chart of the day, silently cursing myself for not hiring an assistant to do this for me. I click on the automated‘approve’reply. My office is empty at this time of the evening. No one is knocking at the door wanting answers to inane questions, it’s only the soft trail of rain on my office window keeping me company. Not that I can actually hear it with the noise of Headstone’s customers downstairs. I never work from this office, and I’m swiftly remembering why.
I bought Headstone four years ago. It was a dive bar in its previous life, a place where people who had nowhere else to go could come and find people like them. Hell, I even frequented its doors when I was younger. But after the owner died, it was due to be demolished. Something about structural problems or some bullshit like that. I bought it without hesitation.
It took six months, a lot of threats, a lot of ass-kissing, and over a million dollars to fix it up to what it is now. Its old life as a dive bar was home to so many people—I didn’t want to lose that. So I kept the old decor and made it as similar as I could, while also introducing it as a music venue. The people love it. I love it.But I don’t come here as much as I want. Other business calls too fucking often.
I stare at the screen, eyes painfully blurring. I read and reread the same set of numbers three times before giving up. Letting out a frustrated sigh, I light a cigarette, and the cool menthol hits the back of my throat with a pleasant burn. My shoulders drop, and I roll my neck. With each inhale, I feel my body relax. I rub my hand over my bearded jaw and crack it, the tension evaporating with a pop.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pinch the bridge of my nose as I check the caller, taking another drag on my cigarette to stave off the tension threatening to return.
