Page 53 of Rock and a Hard Place

His love for a sweet, helpless girl tore at him.

He turned and grabbed the edge of a heavy equipment table and upended it like a toy. Expensive equipment crashed to the ground. The onlookers exchanged concerned glances. Peter didn’t care. He had never behaved like this. He was the quiet one, the responsible one, the bandleader they all counted on no matter what.

His father walked out from backstage where he observed the exchange. “That’s enough, Peter, take a walk.” He spoke quietly, but with a steel tone. “We have a sold-out show tonight. Pull yourself together.”

Peter glared at his father, in tortured agony. “You did this.” Venom tinged his voice.

Without a word or a glance to anyone, Peter walked off the stage and out of the arena.

He pulled his hood up to disappear from the world, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets as he braced against the cold December air. Not even the collection of fans gathered to catch an early peek at the Jamieson brothers noticed the brooding young man walk from the arena. His emotions strung tight; he didn’t know what to do.

Damn it!Everything about this situation was wrong. So he wandered the streets, not stopping, not pausing, losing track of the world around him. He didn’t care about the band, the preconcert interviews, or the demanding fans. In any other situation, he would put all these things before personal stuff, but not today. Libby had needed him and he was supposed to be there for her. He had all the money and the power. He needed to pull her out of the terrible life forced upon her. But there was no place to go. Who would help him? How could he ever find her?

He walked on. Hollow. Empty.

His throat choked up like a vise. He trudged on as the late afternoon sun set, and winter darkness threw a cold, heavy blanket over his world.

Was she okay? A foster home sounded scary and dangerous. He’d heard about kids being mistreated in foster homes. Libby was his rock, but she was also a fragile soul. She’d lost too much.

The wind picked up and tiny shards of sleet whippedat him as he pushed forward. The sharp sting of ice hit his face. His emotions deadened, his whole being numb.

He walked on.

Much later, he shook off the haze and realized he didn’t know the time or where he was. He’d walked so long, locked in his thoughts. It was dark; the stores were closed for the night. He peered in a nearby window. It was well after eight.

Shit. The warm-up band would be finished, and Jamieson was supposed to take the stage any minute. He stood on the cold, empty sidewalk and battled with himself. He wanted to walk forever and never go back, but an inner voice stopped him.Damn it!His sense of responsibility won. He turned back in the direction of the arena. He must be several miles away. He didn’t have his phone but did have his wallet. He picked up the pace and started to jog. After a few blocks, he hailed a cab.

“Nokia Arena, please.” He climbed into the warm vehicle. “How long will it take?”

“Fifteen minutes or more in this traffic. There’s a big concert tonight,” the cabbie replied.

“Yeah, I know.” Peter reached back and pulled out his wallet. “Make it as quick as you can.” He slipped several twenty-dollar bills through the payment slot. “Stage door, please.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, staring blankly. His body began to shiver, but not from the cold.

Ten minutes later, Peter stepped out of the cab, passed the security detail at the stage door, and ran backstage. The crammed area held dozens more people than normal, everyone in a panic.

All eyes turned to Peter.

“Where the hell have you been?” his father bellowed. “Do you know what time it is? There are thousands of fans who paid a lot of money to see Jamieson tonight.”

“I’m here now,” Peter said through clenched teeth as he moved through the crowded space, ignoring all.

A loud chant of “Jamieson, Jamieson, Jamieson,” echoed from the fans out front.

“Thank God. You had me scared to death.” His mother rushed forward and hugged him tightly. “You’re freezing. Oh, honey, where’ve you been?”

He shook off her embrace and walked past the crew and technicians as they yelled into radios and rushed around to start the show. He stepped onto the lift that would deliver him to his grand entrance, the muscles in his shoulders tight knots.

The music in the arena rose to epic levels as techies used hand signals to indicate the show was a go, and the countdown started. A fog machine filled the stage in a mysterious haze as lights and lasers glowed.

“Are you ready to party?!” The announcer’s voice boomed over the mammoth speaker system. The crowd responded in a deafening roar.

“Jeez, Pete, could you screw up any more?” Garrett looked ready to blow.

Peter stared through him, unconcerned. He wanted this night over.

“You wearing that?” Adam asked, guitar in hand. Peter looked down at the sleet-soaked sweatshirt, pulled it over his head, and flung it away, revealing a ragged T-shirt. He stared straight ahead, seeing nothing, his chest tight and suffocating.

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