There’s no better high than the rush of being onstage. The lights, the music, the audience—they all combine in what’s an almost heady mix. People always say things likeThis will never get old, and even though I hesitate to believe absolutes in general, this is one time I’m willing to make an exception.
Only a few shows into the tour, and what I find to be a close second is my routine of heading out to the merchandise tables and meeting fans. I’ve always mingled after my shows, but back when I was playing bars it mostly involved warding off unwanted advances and drunken leers. Being on a tour of this magnitude, I’m scoring face time with people who actually enjoy my music. Recognition that’s both surreal and humbling.
“Great show tonight, Lex.” Bedo glances up from his phone from where he waits outside the dressing rooms.
“Thanks, Bedo.” I grin, although he’s already back to his phone. I quickly make my escape.
“Hold up, little lady. Where you running off to?” he shouts before I can turn the corner.
I hate it when he calls me little, and it takes every effort to keep my polite smile in place when I turn around to answer. “Merch. Meeting fans.”
“Good. That’s good. Maybe come back this way afterward? Come watch the guys perform from backstage?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”
Disappointment shadows his face and I turn away to hustle out to the main concourse of the arena. Bedo invites me to watch the guys perform every show, and I’ve yet to take him up on it. I probably should, but something always happens. I get stuck talking with fans. My mom calls. I decide to catch a shower in the bus with complete and utter solitude while the roadies are still at work. Okay, so I don’t try that hard, but I don’t feel an urge to see the band live. Hell, I’ve already seen their set in warm ups, and I have no desire to hang out with Bedo and a bunch of slutty groupies. I’ll pass.
I nod at the security working the barrier that separates the main lobby from backstage. One of the guys offers me a smile as I pass. “Coming back?”
I flash the badge looped around my neck; I know the drill. “Yeah, I’ll be back through in an hour.”
He nods, satisfied he’s done his job, and resumes the position of arms crossed over his chest and gaze focused forward.
Shoulders back, lips parted, and head high, my hips swing with each thud of my boots against the concrete floor. I feel the stares, the whispers, the attention I command, and that’s part of the game—of the act. Appear important, famous, and desired until I become all of those things. Until I’m a name and face that everyone notices on any street corner, not only post-show. For now, I’ll take the speculation. The fans who caught the opening act recognize me and point, and that helps skyrocket the attention until I find my way behind the merchandise tables.
“Hey, Lexi, great show tonight. You killed it.” Jax offers a fist and I acknowledge his comment with a bump.
“Thanks.” I’m not sure that Jax actually sees any of the performances, but he hears them out here and always offers me praise that feels unrehearsed or generic.
His lips kick up with his lopsided smile and he nods to his left. “You’ve got a superfan tonight. Been waiting since the doors opened, and only left to catch you play.”
“Oh?” This is exciting news. I don’t have any fans who come to see only me and that’s fine. I’m happy to earn them from 3UG. I glance over his shoulder, scanning the growing crowd lined up to purchase a souvenir from today’s show. “How superfan we talking? Drag me to the basement and make a doll with my hair, or just totally wants to make me his wife? Should I be worried?”
His boom of laughter fills the spaces between the chattering of fifty plus people gathered in this section of the arena. “Nah,sheseems harmless. Just look for red hair and inexperience.”
“I didn’t know that was a physical trait,” I tease and walk past him to the end of the table where my EP and single T-shirt are the only swag offered to any fans I may have gained. It’s nothing compared to the five plus offerings 3UG has in addition to hats, sweatshirts, posters, and records, but it’s a shirt with my fucking face on it. That’s pretty damn cool.
I spot the young woman immediately. She’s about twenty yards away, back against the wall and avoiding the crowd. Jax was correct in his description. Auburn locks pinned back into a twist, wide eyes and alabaster skin. Simple clothes add to her innocence, and it doesn’t help she flinches every time someone shouts. I try to catch her gaze, to wave her over, but before I can the table is surrounded by fans.
My lack of height makes it impossible to see through the crowd I’ve drawn. I meet with every fan, taking time to smile and chat and take selfies; to make an impression, but also because I like to use my gift of music to spread joy. To leave people happier than when I first met them. It only takes a few minutes to make someone feel special, important, and it doesn’t cost a damn thing. I’d like to say I do this for purely unselfish reasons, but it fills me with as much excitement and satisfaction. The positive energy spreads through my entire being and soon my smile isn’t one bit practiced or forced.
Each show brings more and more recognition, the way Jax predicted it would, and this is the first time I’ve had people stay to talk with me long after the opening chords of Trent’s show starting solo fill the air. It’s pretty cool, and by the time the last group heads inside, hurrying to catch the concert, I realize I never saw the red-headed girl who was waiting on me. I skim the almost non-existent crowd that remains, everyone now inside the arena or rushing through the doors, late to the party.
With a good-bye to Jax and then the arena staff who ask for selfies and autographs, I finally make my way around the merchandise table and back toward the security tunnel. The concourse is fairly empty now that the show is in full swing, but I catch the sheen of auburn hair just beyond one of the concession stands, chin down and focused on her cell. She’s obviously been waiting but losing courage, and by the looks of her I’d say she’s more than nervous. I’ve had fans, but I’ve never had one quite like this, and I’m eager to speak to her.
Her hair is the only thing that makes her stand out. Everything else about her, from her subtle make up to her worn jeans and plain white shirt, is an attempt to hide the beauty she could easily exploit. When I’m a few feet away she lifts her chin and her eyes go wide. Their light brown hue holds so much fear I’m afraid she may run.
“Hi, I’m Lexi.” I wave and my words snap her out of whatever unease she’s battling—social anxiety, fangirl, or something entirely different.
“I know. I mean, hello. I’m so ... I just ...”
My guess is fangirling. I give a little laugh in an attempt to help her relax. “It’s okay. I saw you here and my merch manager said you were waiting to see me. I didn’t want to miss you.”
“That’s really thoughtful. Thank you. I-I did come to meet you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Opal.”
