Page 3 of The Omega Verse

“I’ll be careful,” I tell him, swiping the pass off the bench and squeezing it tight in my hand. “But they’re the closest thing I have to Steven now. And if that means I have to put up with some rockstar antics to get to know him better....” I shrug. “How bad can one conversation be?”

Cass

It’s a seven-hour bus ride from Sandy Bay to the city, most of which is spent trying to stop my churning stomach from decorating the seatback in front of me. The bus is a relic; the engine shaking under my feet and clouds of oily black smoke snaking through the window. It refuses to close no matter how hard I shove it, and it doesn’t take long before the fresh sea air is a distant memory. I’d move, but it’s the Friday night commute back to the city, so every seat is taken. The old guy next to me manages to nap on my shoulder for a couple of hours, but by the time we pull into the city bus terminal, I smell like scorched rubber, my eyes are scratchy from exhaustion, and my head is throbbing with tension.

I only brought a backpack with me, so at least I don’t have to stand around while the ancient bus driver unloads the luggage compartment. The bad news is the arena is on the other side of the city and just as I reach the first busy intersection, the sky opens up and a biblical deluge pours down on my head.

Fuck. Me.

Cookie used to slap me with a nasty chore for every curse I uttered in her kitchen. It was usually something I hated doing, like feeding endless oranges through her antique juicer, or cleaning the cast iron oven grates with bleach and a toothbrush. But now she’s playing volleyball and taking salsa lessons at the Silver Dunes Retirement Village, I’m making up for lost time.

And getting washed across the city is unleashing my foulest language. It’s close to eight pm, and it’s strange to see so many people still dashing about, some in suits with briefcases, while others are dressed like they’re on their way to Vegas. I’ve clearly been in a sleepy beachside town for too long, because it takes all my energy to dodge their lethal umbrellas and not end up on my arse. A lot of Sandy Bay locals bemoan the lack of big city lights, but if it comes with overflowing drains and endless car horns, they can keep it.

The closer I get to the arena, the more people I see dressed in the Sundowners’ signature black and gold, ‘Stix’ and ‘R.I.P.’ stencilled on their arms and cheeks. A lot of them have pictures of Steven’s face on their shirts or are clutching glowing drum sticks, and my eyes sting to see how badly my brother is missed.

As I follow the sea of fans onto the arena concourse, I clutch my leather jacket tight over my aching throat. Along with the lump I can’t seem to swallow away, I’m conscious of the VIP pass hanging around my neck. Even though it’s hidden under my collar, I feel like everyone I pass knows I have a golden ticket pressed against my hammering chest.

Calm the hell down, Cass.

Between the unrelenting rain, the sombre atmosphere, and the growing crush of bodies, no one is giving me a second glance.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I relax my death grip on my jacket to dig it out and press it to my damp ear. “Not a good time, Tom.”

“I’m just checking you arrived okay.”

My heart lifts and starts to pitter-patter at the familiar rumble in my ear. “Yeah, I’m here. Along with every rain cloud in the country.”

He grunts. “Show me.”

I’d roll my eyes if I could get my rain-soaked lashes to obey. It’s easier just to snap a selfie and send it his way. “Like my blow wave?”

He clicks his tongue, clearly unimpressed with my drowned rat state. “You heading to the hotel to dry off first?”

I squint up at the arena through the downpour. I need to find the side entrance, but right now I can’t tell if it’s a building or a giant clam shell rising up out of the gloom. “I don’t want to miss the security guard, so I’m going straight there. They’ll just have to take me as they find me.” Which is a soggy, mascara-smeared mess, but at least I don’t smell like diesel fuel anymore.

“You should go change. I can call my mate and get him to buy you a half hour.”

I smile at Tom trying to boss me around, even from a long-arse bus ride away. I’m not about to admit it, but my pitter-pattering heart feels a little warmer at the concern in his voice. “I’m fine, Tom. Stop fussing. I can see the arena and I’m heading to the side entrance now.”

He huffs, and I’m not sure how a puff of air from my best friend’s lips can sound so good, but I store the little sound away. “Well, keep your phone close,” he grumbles. “A lot of bad shit can go down in big crowds.”

More overprotectiveness, but I know Tom’s seen some dark things on the job, so I just promise to call him as soon as I’ve met the band.

The Sundowners. The warm glow from Tom’s call fades as I blink through the rain. But I take a few determined steps forward, worming my way through the crowd until I’m under the massive digital billboard above the arena. They’ve borrowed the title of the Rolling Stones’ article, foot-high words marching past my eyes: The Sun Goes Down on a Living Legend: the one-off tribute concert to the great Stix Rain.

Holy shit. I can see the same dazed expression on the faces around me. I’m really here, and not just watching the highlights on the TV news, wishing I’d snagged a ticket.

But I shake off the heavy emotions, because my immediate concern is finding a way into the arena. The big neon sign clearly marks the main entrance, but as I follow the arena wall in the direction of the carpark, I realise that clamshells don’t really have sides. There are gates, barricades, utility buildings, and plenty of unmarked doors, but I don’t see anything that could be a side entrance.

I shiver as a step out from under an overhang and a gush of water pours down the back of my collar. Jesus, I’m not only soaked through, but I’m shaking all over. My skin feels clammy, but it’s not just the cold; I’m battling nerves and exhaustion, too. Doesn’t help that everything has happened so fast – just this morning I was staring at that Rolling Stones’ article above my desk, my heart aching that I’d never get to know my brother. And now I’m here, standing on the same slab of concrete as his bandmates, a hundred questions burning in my aching brain.

Will they talk to me, or will they palm me off to some PR person? And if they agree to talk about Steven, will they have the answers I’m looking for?

I slosh through a few more puddles, then duck under a metal awning to catch my breath and get my bearings. The carpark is directly in front of me, the stadium lights shining down on a huge black and gold bus. It’s a lot flashier than the belching beast I rode into town on, so I guess it must belong to the band. Which means there should be a secure entry point somewhere nearby, right?

I stay under the dubious shelter of the wall as I crab-walk my way further around the building. It’s darker back here, and I’m just starting to wonder if I should head back when I see a small Private Entry sign.

Jackpot!

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