Page 47 of Madness

"Did you hear them singing along?" Brad asks, his voice hoarse from belting out lyrics for the past hour. "Even to the new stuff. Fucking unreal, man."

I nod, still riding the wave of adrenaline. "That breakdown in 'Fault Lines' hit hard. I thought the floor was gonna cave in from all the jumping."

We're interrupted by our tour manager, reminding us we need to clear the side stage for Incendiary Ink. As we start helping to break down our gear, I can't help but smile. This feeling, this rush - it's better than any high I've ever known.

I reach for my phone, wanting to share this moment with Lauren. My fingers hover over the keys, trying to capture the rush in a text.

ME: Show was amazing. Wish you could've been here. Miss you and Roman. x

Her reply comes quickly:

LAUREN: So proud of you! Can't wait to hear all about it. Roman says hi. We miss you too. xx

A pang of longing hits me, but I push it aside. We've still got work to do.

The next hour is a blur of activity. We break down our equipment, pack up our gear, and do a quick meet-and-greet with some fans who won backstage passes. All the while, the muffled sounds of Incendiary Ink's set vibrate through the walls.

By the time we finish, I'm exhausted but still buzzing from the performance. We gather in our dressing room, sharing a few sodas and reliving the best moments of our set.

"Did you see that one girl in the front row? She knew every word!" Emmett exclaims, twirling a drumstick.

"Yeah, and what about when Brad almost ate it on that amp cable?" Stefan laughs, dodging a playful swipe from our lead singer.

I lean back, soaking it all in. This is what I've missed - the camaraderie, the shared excitement. For a moment, I almost forget the ache of missing Lauren and Roman.

Then, the building seems to shake with the thunderous applause, signaling the end of Incendiary Ink's set. A few minutes later, Chase, the lead singer, bursts into our dressing room, a bottle of champagne in each hand.

"Let's fucking celebrate, boys!" he shouts, popping one open and spraying it everywhere.

The room erupts in cheers. I hesitate, my sobriety a fragile thing in the face of such jubilation. But it's just one night, right? One drink to celebrate. I can handle that.

Chase thrusts a plastic cup of champagne into my hand, clapping me on the back. "To a killer first night!" he toasts.

I raise my cup with the others, the familiar scent of alcohol making my mouth water. It feels like it’s been so long. Just one, I tell myself as I take a sip. The bubbles dance on my tongue, sharp and sweet.

For a split second, I'm transported back to another night, years ago. Chloe and I, celebrating some small victory I can't even remember now. The taste of cheap wine, her laughter, the feeling that everything was possible. Before it all went wrong.

I blink, and I'm back in the present. The taste of champagne turns bitter in my mouth, but I force myself to swallow. It's different now. I'm different. I can control it this time.

As I lower my cup, I catch Stefan's eye. His brow is furrowed, a question in his gaze. I give him a small nod, trying to convey that I've got this under control. He doesn't look convinced, but he turns away, engaging Chase in conversation.

Emmett is less subtle. He sidles up to me, keeping his voice low. "You sure about this, man? We can make excuses, head back to the hotel if you want."

I feel a flare of irritation. "I'm fine," I insist, taking another sip as if to prove my point. "It's one drink. To celebrate."

Emmett holds up his hands in surrender, but I can see the worry in his eyes. Even Brad, usually the life of the party, keeps glancing my way, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Their concern should be touching, but instead, it grates on me. I'm a grown man, for Christ's sake. I can handle one drink without completely falling off the wagon.

Can't I?

Chase, oblivious to the tension, throws an arm around my shoulders. "So, Dakota, you in for the after-party? There's this club down the street that's supposed to be insane."

I hesitate, feeling the weight of my bandmates' stares. Part of me wants to prove them wrong, to show them I can be around alcohol without losing control. Another part, the more rational part, knows I'm playing with fire.

But the champagne has already dulled that voice of reason, and Chase is looking at me expectantly. "Yeah," I hear myself say. "Yeah, I'm in."

As we file out of the dressing room, Stefan catches my arm. "Dakota," he starts, his voice low and serious.

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