But here I am—one of the four motherfuckers to light up this field tonight to the delight of nearly a hundred thousand fans. I mean, it doesn’t get any better for a boy from East LA.
The bass reverberates through my body as I pluck the strings. The noise of the crowd as they clap and sing along fills me to the brim, fills my chest with something real and powerful.
Still, my mind is elsewhere. Jett's furious face flashes before my eyes again and again. I can’t erase his words from my head. Can’t forget what he said to Wendy, calling her a whore. Again. The injustice of it all twists inside me like a knife.
No woman deserves to be treated that way.
Even his sloppy attempt to clock me doesn't rile me up as much as his attitude toward the woman he calls his girlfriend. Under different circumstance, I would have fought back, but with minutes left before our stage entrance, I held back.
We’re in the middle of the set. Chance is about to do his signature ten-minute solo, and I’m the guy whose single task in this portion of the song is to make him sound better. Plus, he’s been hammered since the morning, so he’s a little out of it. You can’t really tell from the audience, but I know better.
The stage lights move from Justice and beat down on me for a flicker of a moment before moving to Chance. The heat and the sweat under my outfit only amplify my frustration. My fingers falter on the fretboard, the rhythm slipping through my grasp. I struggle to regain my focus, but the memory from earlier keeps intruding.
Fucking Jett, being a coward, putting his goddamn hand on me.
Chance catches my eye from across the stage halfway through his solo, his brow furrowed. He mouths something at me, but I can't make it out over the pulsing music. His expression darkens, and I know he's pissed at my lack of concentration.
We barrel through the rest of the set, the adrenaline from the performance still pumping through my veins as we exit the stage to the racket of the crowd. My heart pounds, a mix of post-show high and guilt churning in my gut. I fucked up tonight, and everyone knows it—the band, the crew, the audience. The mistakes were glaring, impossible to ignore.
In the dressing room, the air is thick with sweat and tension, and I grab a towel from one of the crew members to wipe my face. I ignore the fact that I’m still caked in makeup as I try to steady my breathing and ground myself. The confrontation with my bandmates is imminent, and I brace myself for the fallout.
Justice stalks over to me, his steely gray eyes flashing with anger. "What the hell was that, man? You were all over the place tonight."
I meet his gaze, defiance battling with shame. "Everyone has off nights. It happens."
"Not like that, it doesn't," Chance pipes up, running a hand through his sweaty, sandy-colored hair. "This is about that chick, isn't it? Jett's girl?"
I clench my jaw, not wanting to admit how much Wendy has gotten under my skin. "Don't worry about it. I'll handle my shit."
Chance sighs and swirls in his spot, yelling at no one in particular, "Hey, someone give me a fucking shot!"
Justice steps even closer, all up in my face. "An off night? You nearly tanked the entire set, asshole."
The space between us is vibrating with hostility, and I feel the weight of his accusation, the truth in it. But I can't bring myself to admit the real reason for my distraction.
Before things between me and Justice escalate, Zander steps in. "What are you doing, man?" he asks. "You trying to start some shit with Jett?"
I bristle at his question. I don’t even get it myself—my growing concern for Wendy. I’m not explaining that I don’t like how the Sonic Trash drummer treats his girl. "Fuck off, maybe."
"Jett's a dick, but that's not our problem, is it?" Justice says. "We all know it. After this tour leg, his shit band is out."
"Don’t be a hero," Chance murmurs his agreement. He’s on the couch, and the makeup artist is rushing to remove the makeup from his face so he can hit the shower.
I feel the pressure of their collective disapproval, like some unspoken expectation to fall in line.
"I'm not trying to be a hero. I just… I’m not going to ignore it when I see something wrong."
Zander throws up his hands. "Dude, you barely know this chick."
I don't have an answer. At least, not one I'm ready to admit out loud. The truth is, I feel drawn to Wendy in a way that’s hardto explain. Like she's a puzzle I need to solve, a story I need to unravel.
I push past them, heading for the showers. "You know what? Get bent, all of you. I don't need this shit."
I shower,change into clean clothes, and leave the dressing room without saying a word to anyone. Usually, we’d just invite some people over and hang out, maybe have some drinks. Chance would do hard stuff somewhere in the back of the room.
But tonight, I’m in no mood. Tonight, I have to clear my head.
The festival grounds are slowly dying down around me as I stroll through the artists' section. Crew members scurry about, breaking down equipment, clearing the stages, picking up trash. Tomorrow, we do it all over again before we leave this city for the next one.
