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And then he's turning and moving across the pavement with a crunch of desert dirt beneath his heels. I wait for him to snake through the parked cars and disappear before I head over and pick the badge up from the ground.
It's a backstage pass.
I turn it over several times, trying to decide if it's a fake or not, but it looks real enough.
That's when something occurs to me, something that Kevin said about the lead singer of Beauty in Lies being from some small town in rural England. Lots of things that Kevin said stick in my head; most of them are awful.
I search the band's name online and feel my entire body go cold when a ton of pictures pop up.
In almost all of them … the asshole in the suit is standing front and center.
Behind and to his right, the boy with the tropical ocean eyes is staring at me.
I slip the badge around my neck and head towards the front door of the venue.
This plastic badge around my neck, I guess it means I get treated like a goddamn queen in here.
I get in line with everyone else, but as soon as one of the security guards sees it, he gently takes my arm and leads me to the front of the line, briefly checking my purse and then ushering me through the metal detectors inside the doors. After that, he escorts me past the massive bottleneck near a second set of doors and through an elegant silver and black bar area.
Just past that, through two more sets of doors, we enter into a chaotic mess of shadows and people, cursing and the smell of sweat and excitement. Even standing here, I feel wrong, really wrong. Inside, I'm all twisted up and dead, like a winter killed tree in New York. The structure is all there, but the leaves—and most especially the flowers—are long gone. Somehow, unlike the tree, I feel as if there won't be a spring awakening for me.
My daddy is dead and I'm all alone.
I wrap my arms around myself.
“Hey, the contest winner is here,” the security guard snaps at one of the roadies, pausing him in mid-step. He's this nondescript guy with short, wavy brown hair, a black tee, and jeans. He blinks at me several times and then rolls his eyes.
“Got it,” he says, nodding and waving me forward impatiently. The smell of pot drifts behind him when he walks. “How did you find Paxton?” he asks me as we trail through the crowd toward a black curtain.
“Paxton?” I ask, but Roadie Guy doesn't really care about the question he asked me, leading me through the curtain and … stealing my breath away. As soon as we step out into the main part of the venue, the weight of the crowd settles around me and makes me feel like I'm suffocating. It takes every effort on my part to keep moving, following after him and avoiding the frantic sprint of other roadies as they try to desperately to get the instruments tuned under the watchful eye of the monstrous crowd.
The stage here is unique, round, set in the center of the room instead of the front. It even rotates during the show, making for an interesting viewing experience, but damn, it looks like a real bitch to set up for. People run back and forth on my right, to and from the center of the room.
Roadie Guy leads me all the way to the end of the hall—like a tunnel in a football stadium, the one that the players always burst out of—and into this circular dip that surrounds the stage. On all sides, the floor slopes up, carrying the crowd with it. I can hear them all around me, feel them vibrating the very molecules in the air.
Sweat starts to pool on my lower back and my breath hitches as I turn and look at them all, staring down at me, at the stage, cheering, screaming. My head spins and I feel dizzy and then suddenly all that I can think about is my dad.
I wish I'd taken that guy's hug in the gas station. Maybe then I'd feel a little better? I could really use a hug right now.
“Just hang out here and Paxton will grab you for the song.”
“The song?” I ask, but Roadie Guy is gone, sprinting around like all the rest of them.
I clutch my laminate badge against my chest as I turn and stare up at the stage, the drums in front that say Tipped by Tyrants across the front, the shrouded daises behind it. The scene is simply set, with minimal props, to make the spinning effect of the platform that much more impressive.
I lean back against the wall behind me and feel a warm draft tickle red strands of hair around my face. If I were wearing lipstick or gloss, they'd probably stick to my mouth. As things stand, my lips are as dry as the desert that surrounds this town.
My phone ends up in my hands again, even though I know that all I'm doing is setting myself up for more anguish, more heartache.
The background on my phone is a picture of Dad and me when he was young and healthy, when I was young and small enough to sit on his knee. This picture was taken before my mom died, before my sister was murdered, before I fell in love with a rich asshole that promised to give me everything, dragged me across the country, and left me with nothing.
I touch a hand to my stomach to try to help calm the nausea coiling inside me.
When I think of Kevin and Arizona and him cheating on me, dumping me with a smirk plastered across his face, I feel like I might throw up. And then because of all of that, I missed seeing my dad in his final moments.
Before I even realize I'm doing it, I'm crying again. Silent tears trickle down my cheeks as I stand alone in a crowd of thousands, just one lone redheaded girl with nothing and no one left to lose.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” a soft velvety voice says from beside me. I glance over to find another roadie—this one wearing a black hoodie thrown over his head—leaning against the wall next to me. One of his boots—a pair of dark purple Docs—rests propped against the wall as he glances over at me. Even though we're standing close enough to kiss, I can't tell what color his eyes are. They just look black in the dim lights. “Don't cry. It's not all bad.”
“How would you know?” I ask. I mean to snap at him, but I don't have the energy. My voice comes out breathy, low, and tasting of tears. I can feel the salt on my already dry mouth. This guy I don't even know reaches out and runs his thumb over my lower lip. “My dad died today,” I tell him and he drops his hand suddenly. “I've been missing him for a long time, but the only thing that separated us was distance. How am I supposed to deal with missing him when it's life and death that are between us?”
“My mom died last year,” he tells me, digging out a cigarette and lighting up, even though I'm pretty sure it's illegal to smoke in here. This guy with his quiet, careful voice doesn't seem to care. “Some guy broke into her house, raped her and shot her in the face.”
That voice … it quivers and thrums with barely suppressed rage.
“How did yours die?”
“Cancer,” I whisper, and I can't decide which story is worse—his or mine. But it's not a competition, and it doesn't matter. I breathe out and lean my head against the wall, closing my eyes tight against a new rush of tears. This guy's story doesn't make me feel better; it makes me feel worse.
“Stay and watch the show, okay? I know it doesn't seem like much, but it might help.” His voice is back to being slow and sensual, unhurried. This is a gentle man tempered like steel in the hellfire of reality. He was born and raised sweet and gentle; the world has hardened him. I don't know how I know that or even if I'm completely full of shit, but it feels true when I think it.
“Does it help you? Music, I mean?” I ask as he reaches up and pushes dark hair off of his brow.
“It's the only thing that does,” he admits, and then he stands up and glances at the badge hanging around my neck. “You found Paxton,” he says, and again I have no idea what that means.
“Is Paxton hard to find?” I ask and he laughs, his voice as decadent and delicious like that as it was in a quiet whisper. I wonder if he's with one of the bands?
“Oh yeah. If he let you find him, you must be pretty special. There are hundreds of people combing around for him.”
“Paxton is …” And then it dawns on me. Duh. “The guy in the suit?”
H
oodie Guy laughs again and shakes his head, reaching up to shove the material back. When he does, I feel a little dizzy, like he's just injected some sort of exotic drug into my bloodstream. His mouth, when he speaks, matches his voice perfectly. Full, curved up in the corner in an enigmatic smile. He's wearing a smidgen of eyeliner and I finally decide that his eyes are the color of dark chocolate, liquid and warm, like I could pour them over ice cream.
My chest constricts with guilt again and I wonder if maybe I'm just looking for a distraction tonight? Maybe this roadie guy could be it? I haven't had sex in over six months, not since I found out Kevin was cheating on me.
“That's right, sweetheart,” he says, staring at me with bedroom eyes, half-lidded and sensual. “The guy in the suit.” He watches me watching him for a long time and then pushes his hood back up, turning and disappearing into the shadows. I consider calling out, asking where he'll be after the show, but … I just can't.
I reach a hand up and run my palm over my tear streaked face. Truthfully, I can't decide why I'm even here. I should be in my car, hurtling toward New York, toward Dad. But then, it's not like he needs me anymore. No, when he needed me, I couldn't bother to be there.
I suck in a sharp breath and check my phone again, this time pulling up my texts.
Did you get my message, Lilith? The house is already crowded. There's no room.
God, I hate the way Susan texts, talks, writes. Even the way she breathes is stiff and stilted and unnatural. I know Dad married her because he was lonely, but now, she's sitting in my childhood home, telling me that I'm not allowed to stay there, in my mother's art studio turned Susan's floral patterned guest room.
I hate her so fiercely in that moment that it makes my chest hurt.
My phone goes right back in my pocket.
A minute later, the lights dim even more and the music leaking into the room from the surround sound goes quiet. The crowd does, too, but after a collective breath, they let out a roar that could move mountains. Figures pour out the same door I exited no more than a half an hour ago and the room … it explodes into violent chaos.
The first two bands—Tipped by Tyrants and Rivers of Concrete—are good, good enough to make me smile and sway with the small group of roadies and venue staff that have gathered around me. From here, we have the best seat in the entire stadium, gazing up at the slowly spinning stage as musicians thrash and spill their guts onto the floor at their feet.
My ears are ringing from the bass, and I can feel every sound in my toes, tainting my blood, invading my bones. If I fell to pieces right here, broken apart by rhythms and beats, I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe that would be the best case scenario anyway? Because the more thought I give to my life, the less I feel like I want to live it.
Suicide … doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. And I mean, it's not like there'd be anyone to miss me, right?
As soon as that thought hits me, I know I'm in trouble, and I decide to let go. If I'm considering killing myself, then there's no reason for me to hold back, is there? If death is my best option, then I better start seeking out alternatives.
When someone starts passing around a cigarette, I almost take it. But then I remember that my father died of cancer and even if it wasn't lung cancer, I still don't want it. I feel a bit of relief because clearly, some small part of me does care whether I live or die.
I do accept a plastic cup full of frothy beer, lifting it up in toast and then tossing it back as the second band of the night wraps up their set.
I cheer with everyone else, feeling an unbidden smile steal across my lips. It's like a traitor in the night, this cloaked figure taking over my mouth. Dad is dead. But the beer's given me a pleasant buzz; my stomach is empty enough that it's cramping so even that small amount of alcohol makes me feel lightheaded.
Rivers of Concrete exits the stage dripping sweat, walking right past me and the small crowd around me, disappearing behind the black curtain over the doorway. Briefly, the stage stops spinning and the lights dim again, giving the roadies time to swarm the platform and drag away the instruments, pull the cloth off the beautiful drum set in the back, the one on the highest dais. Other instruments are brought forth and tuned.
It feels like it's taking forever so when another beer somehow makes its way to me, I take it in grateful hands; the last thing I need right now is extra time to think. As I take a sip, I glance around and notice that the roadies are just pouring cups of beer and passing them through the crowd. The security guards near us frown, their navy blue windbreakers crinkling, but they don't say anything.
My second beer goes down even quicker than the first, soothing some of the pain. That's when I decide to seek out a third, moving down the short, dark hall to the curtain and peeking through. There's a table covered in water bottles as well as an orange cooler with little cups next to it. On the floor next to all that is a silver keg.
“Can I have another?” I ask the original roadie guy, the one that smells like pot. He stares at me and shrugs, handing me a full frothy cup and watching as I swallow it greedily. “One more?”
“You're the VIP here,” he says as I pass my cup back and he obliges my weakness. “Want to hook up after? I can get you on the bus,” he brags, but I just smile tightly and walk away, realizing as I do that I'm stumbling a bit. I blame it on the heels, not the booze, but still, I almost topple over when I reach the dark curtain.
“Steady there,” a voice says as a hand wraps around my arm and helps me to my feet. When I glance over, I find the Caribbean Sea gleaming in a pair of turquoise blue eyes. It's the boy from the gas station. Tears prick then and spill over onto my cheeks.
“Actually,” I say, and I feel stupid when my voice stirs, “I do want a hug.”
He doesn't laugh at me, just takes me in arms corded and banded with muscle and pulls me close. He smells good, like new denim and laundry detergent. I fight to hold back a sniffle, and keep my hand steady around the cup of beer; I don't want to spill it on him. He looks all dressed up. That's when I remember: he's in the band, in Beauty in Lies.
“Fuck,” I say as I step back suddenly and almost trip over a loose cord. The guy grabs my wrist and yet again, gives me the privilege of staying on my feet. Beer sloshes over my hand and onto the cement floor. “I'm sorry. I just … I've had a shit day.”
I meet his bright eyes with my hunter green ones and he smiles softly. I notice then that he has a single piercing through the center of his bottom lip, a silver ring that winks in the light when he smiles at me.
“Did you ever find your wallet?” he asks, like he knows I was lying and doesn't care. Looking at him, there's this rush of feeling inside of me, all of these emotions bubbling up that I want to just spew into the hot air between us, get them out and see what he has to say. But then a woman in a tight black t-shirt and a headset steps up to him and puts her hand on his shoulder, saying something to him that's too low for me to hear. The boy nods and she steps away, but the moment's already been killed. “Enjoy the show, okay?” he says and then he's walking away, leaving me with the ghost of his touch hovering over my skin.
I breathe out and close my eyes, turning and heading back towards the curtain. I take up my spot against the wall, my feet burning in the too-high heels. After a moment, I kick them off and press my feet to the cement floor, breathing out a strong sigh of relief as my arches settle against the cool pavement.
I drink my next beer a little more slowly, cradling it against my chest and listening to the music from the surround sound, the noise of the crowd. If I think about my dad, I'll regret it; I know I will. Unbidden memories assault my consciousness until I give up and down the rest of my drink, padding back to the keg and finding it unmanned. I pour myself another cup and skip out of there before anyone sees me.
A few minutes later, a curtain drops down from the ceiling and the crowd gasps, going nuts as a projector hidden somewhere up above starts to play an animated video of sketched figures in black against the
white fabric. Meanwhile, from my unique vantage point, I see five shadows slip from backstage and head down the hallway, disappearing into a small crack in the curtain.
It's Beauty in Lies.
My heart skitters a little, even though I only know a handful of songs. The ones I do know though, they're beautiful. That's why I agreed when Kevin asked if I wanted to come to the concert with him. Of course, that was before I found out he was fucking a good dozen other girls. My hand tightens around the plastic cup and it crinkles.
Glancing up, I watch as the five figures in the animated video climb into a convertible and then crash in a fiery explosion. Clouds roll over the wreck and pour bloodstained knives like rain. I have absolutely no idea what the images mean, if they're a reference to something I'm just not getting or if I've had too much to drink.
“Now Introducing … Beauty in Lies,” a voiceover booms through the speakers as the curtain lifts back up, slow and teasing, flashing us four pairs of feet. That's enough to get the crowd into an animalistic frenzy. Hands claw the air above my head like zombie fingers, curling and begging and grabbing. The tension in the air gets so tight it feels like I'm choking all of a sudden.
“Good evening, Phoenix, Arizona,” a familiar voice coos through the mic, his British accent making it sound like he's saying Arizoner instead of Arizonuh. I know just from the flash of expensive loafers that this is the guy from the parking lot, Paxton, the lead singer of Beauty in Lies. Somehow, through some strange twist of fate, I happened to win some weird contest for this backstage pass.
I clutch it tight as the curtain lifts even further, flashing me the man I thought was the roadie, the one I confessed to about my dad's death. He's not wearing a hoodie anymore, just a tight black t-shirt and skinny jeans, fingers curled around a dark purple bass that matches his Docs. He's thrumming the strings, sending this warm vibration up through the bare soles of my feet.
The connection … it's electric.
I swear, even though it shouldn't be possible, it's like he's looking right at me.