Page 11 of Rock Strong

I wondered if she’d taken them and the wine with her on the bus or left them at the hotel.

I wondered why I was wondering about Abby.

Again.

The ride to San Fran was full of the usual, “Has anyone seen my drumsticks?” “Dude, can you lower the fucking Xbox, I’m trying to sleep.” “Does anyone want to play Grand Theft Auto?” “Can you tell the driver to lower the AC in the back?” “Can you tell the driver to…”

Finally, Robbie piped up and told Tucker, “Geoffrey. The driver’s name is Geoffrey. New Rule Number One: Learn the bus driver’s name.”

I firmly agreed with that new rule. Not so much because it cut down on the number of times we had to hear Tucker say, “the driver, the driver,” but because our lives were in his hands, so my man Geoffrey here was a fucking part of the family. “Respect your crew! Hey, Geoffrey!” I yelled.

From the front of the bus, Geoffrey waved, smiling eyes in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, Dad.” Tucker fake-snarled at Robbie, tossing a lanyard at me. “That’s for the venue.”

“Got it.”

Someone smacked me on the back of the head. Grabbing his arm before he could get away, I caught Wes smiling at me, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. It bobbed up and down as he spoke. “’Sup, my ninja? Heard you went home last night.”

“I couldn’t find a bed at Robbie’s.”

“You could have shared mine with Bellaaaa!” Corbin’s voice rang out from the seat across the row. “Bella, Bella, what you do for a fella!” He and Wes laughed and bumped fists. “But Liam went soft on me.”

Wes nodded suspiciously and turned to me for validation. “Is that so?”

“What? A guy can have downtime, you know.”

“I know.” Wes twisted a knuckle into my tense shoulder muscle. “Trust me, I know.”

Robbie stood at the front of the bus, phone in hand, and waved us all together. “Come on, guys. Group pic. Make it sweet for our scrapbook, and don’t be goons.”

We assembled in the center row and faced him—Wes crossing his arms, Corbin sticking his tongue out between V-shaped fingers, Tucker grabbing his crotch, and me in the middle, flipping up a nice, extended middle finger. “Say, ‘Fuck you, Robbie!’”

“Fuck you, Robbie!” everyone echoed me.

We held our pose until Robbie took a series of shots, then he shook his head and sat down again. “Goons. But I love them.”

Once we arrived at AT&T Park, the crowd was howling, the energy was pumping, and Orifice finished their set. It was T minus five minutes when I called the guys together backstage, and we stood in a circle, as usual. Some bands had crazy pre-show rituals, like downing tequila shots, punching each other in the balls, or rolling around in oil and glitter, but not us.

As gay as it sounded, we just held hands. We prayed for a good show. Not that we were particularly into God or anything, but we were pretty spiritual. This time, though, I wanted to add something new. After all, we were starting our first fucking world tour. Our stagehand assistant, Daniel, ran over with a box I’d asked him to pack while we were still in LA.

“What is this?” Corbin asked, hands on hips, all lanky cool.

“Confetti cannons,” I said. “Everybody take one.”

“What do they do?” Wes reached into the box and grabbed a big, black tube.

“You shove it up your ass.” My snark was in full-on mode tonight. “Bro, you’ve never seen one of these? When I say go, just twist and pull. Don’t point it at anyone. Just straight up.”

Wes, Corbin, Tuck, and I each raised a cannon, touching the tips in the center of our circle. Even gayer than the handholding, now that I thought about it. “Let’s do this. Let’s show them why we’re number one. Let’s give them what they came to see, boys. Motherfuckers, let’s murder this show. Ready? Go!”

Four simultaneous blasts of compressed air later, fireworks of colored paper strips exploded above us, raining down on our heads. The backstage crew clapped, cheered, and high-fived. I clapped at everyone watching, shook a few hands, and was keenly aware that I was looking for Cello Girl. I was hoping she’d see the blast.

“Guys, you’re on in sixty seconds,” Robbie said from behind a side panel.

We walked out single file in pure darkness, screams of fans reverberating throughout the venue. “POINT BREAK! POINT BREAK! POINT BREAK!” echoed all around. Always my favorite part, the calm before the storm. Taking my place at center stage, I closed my eyes and absorbed the potential energy about to turn kinetic.

I pulled the mic and cupped it around my mouth. “San Francisco…are you ready to feel the buuuurrrrrnnnnn?” More shouts, as the boys began the opening refrain, the seats trembled with anticipation, cameras flashed, and hundreds of glowing screens filled the stadium. This—this was what I lived for.

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