A sense of dread coils in my gut as I weave through the throng of people. The drums from the current act on stage reverberate through my bones, only amplifying my anxiety.
Where the hell is that big motherfucking baby?
"Yo, Petey?" I stop one of the crew guys. "Have you seen Chance?"
He scratches the back of his neck, thinking for a second. "Nah, man. I thought he was with your lot."
My panic is on the rise now as I push past the clusters of people, inspecting every nook and cranny, every restless shadow. I can hear the roar of the crowd, drowning out everything for a few moments. It’s a thundering crescendo of applause as the band before us finishes their last song and is about to clear the stage.
And we’re missing our fucking guitarist. Great. Fucking great.
Justice and two security guards intercept me on the opposite side of the backstage area.
"Chance’s missing," our lead singer announces with a pissed-off face as he pulls me aside. Even a layer of makeup can’t hide that goddamned frown crossing his forehead.
"I fucking know. I’ve been searching for him."
"Shit," he mutters, looking up at the sky.
Zander rushes over from out of nowhere. "Did you check the bathrooms?" he asks.
"Already covered that," Justice answers, the tension in every word growing tighter.
"What about the women’s?"
"The women’s?" I clarify, my eyebrows raised.
"Did you fucking see him?" Zander presses, lowering his tone to a growl. "Do you really think he'd notice right now what bathroom he’s using? He’s probably so high, he thinks he's goddamned Jesus walking on water."
"And how exactly is this my problem?" I fire back, frustration flaring up unexpectedly. The question seems irrational—I know it—but in this madness, my mind isn’t reasoning very well.I’ve been lowkey pissed off about Jett Vice all day today and also worried about Chance. Apparently, for good reason too. Although everyone had access to drugs, most of us managed to steer clear. But not him.
"Nobody’s saying it’s your problem, asshole," Zander hisses out.
"Come on, Z-man." Justice rests a hand on our drummer’s shoulder. For once, he’s actually doing what a guy in charge is supposed to do. The opposite of instigating a fight.
I’m quiet, my jaw clenched, my fists tight. There’s a sheen of sweat coating the back of my neck underneath my hair, and I’m not liking the direction this evening is taking or the dynamics between us. Going on stage when chemistry is off is the worst.
Plus, our guitarist is missing.
"Hey, you three!" Angelo shouts.
We all turn in the direction of his voice.
"Get your asses over here! Now!" he barks, snapping his fingers before vanishing around the corner.
We bolt, security hot on our heels, adrenaline spiking like electricity crackling through a wire. We dodge and weave through a labyrinth of roadies dismantling equipment from the stage, then barrel past crowds of scantily clad girls partying with other bands.
The narrow passageway leading into the guts of the arena feels suffocating amidst its tangle of wires and fluorescent lights.
Up ahead, Angelo is hunched in predator-like readiness behind a stack of battered black travel cases plastered with stickers. And slumped against the stone wall is Chance—ashen-faced, with slick beads of perspiration covering his skin.
Oh shit.
"Close it up!" Justice commands, gesturing wildly for security to scatter and redirect the masses. Instinct takes overas they spin people around with professional precision, sealing away this pocket of vulnerability from curious eyes.
"He's barely breathing," Angelo supplies, his fingers pressed against Chance's neck.
Next to me, Zander is starting to freak out. He’s pacing in small circles as he runs his hands over his dirty-blond hair. "The show starts in twenty. What are we gonna do?"
