Page 19 of Forgotten

All of them seemed interested in my band, which meant the crowd was huge.

The venue was bigger than my usual ones as a headliner, though I’d played bigger spots as an opener before. It was kind of a test in a way. I knew a few of the record companies were watching our drawing power when it came to mid-to-large venues, and this place was in that category. With us on top, it really weighed on us to bring in the crowd, and it seemed like that hadn’t been a problem.

From behind the curtain, I could see the merch tables along one wall of the outdoor concert hall. We’d brought more merch for this specific show than we had for entire tours before, and it looked like we might not have enough. T-shirts were flying off the tables, and we hadn’t even played a note. These peopleknewus already. And they were excited.

The last time we were here, we’d opened for a national act on this very stage. It had felt like the place couldn’t possibly get any fuller that night, and we’d rocked the house. Tonight, it seemed like it was every bit as big of a crowd, and the idea that they were there specifically to see us was thrilling in a way not much else in my life ever had been.

This was what making it felt like.

I glanced up, over the bleacher area in the back of the arena and out over the man-made lake behind them. Just a few streets away, the Dallas Bethel Hotel stood in the distance, stuck between two high-rise buildings and across from a restaurant. I’d looked it up online and saw that it was the highest rated hotel in the city, and was booked full almost constantly, meaning Flynn wasn’t going to be able to work his magic and get any of us in.

I wondered if she was there right now. If she was up in one of the top floors, she would be able to see right into the venue. She could watch me from there. Part of me wanted that to be true. I wanted to play for her, to sing the song I wrote for her ten years ago before singing the one I wrote for her a year and a half ago. I wanted her to see me in my element.

Behind me, I could hear a now familiar argument breaking out between Kevin and our bassist Dave. Dave liked to get drunk before a show and thought we didn’t know it. It had led to a few shows where we didn’t sound our best because he was either blowing notes or outright not playing because he was busy holding himself upright or pounding another beer.

Kevin, meanwhile, had quit drinking entirely last year. He wasn’t judgy about it, but he and his young wife were both vegans and teetotalers now. It meant he didn’t have as much patience for drunken antics as he’d had when we first formedThe Hitmen. I didn’t mind. I liked being mostly sober when Iperformed. I could get drunk afterwards if I wanted, and often did. The party life usually demanded it.

“I’m a damned adult, Kevin,” Dave spat. “You can’t tell me not to have a beer!”

“It’s not the beer that’s the problem, Dave,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “It’s the empty bottle of Jack you have in your guitar bag.”

“What bottle?” he said, taking a step back, closer to his bag as if he could hide it with his body.

“We all saw it, Dave,” Zach, our drummer, said. “You’re not good at hiding it. Just admit it.”

“So what?” he thundered back. “Are we or are we not a rock and roll band? What would Lemmy say?”

“Lemmy would kick your ass from beyond the grave for even invoking his name,” I said. “Let’s not get the gods involved, shall we?”

“You can’t be on their side,” Dave said exasperatedly. “Come on, man, not you too.”

“Look,” I said. “If you want to be a drunk, that’s your deal. I get it. It’s rock and roll. But if you want to be in this band, we are going to need you more sober than you’ve been while you are on stage. Get it?”

“I’m not drunk,” he said, though his voice belied a measure of uncertainty.

“Yeah, you kinda are,” Kevin said. “Thank God we have two opening bands. Zach, will you get some coffee in him?”

“Sure,” Zach said, standing and crossing over to Dave. The two of them had known each other for a long time before joining our band. Dave didn’t resist when Zach touched his shoulder and took him away from the backstage area.

“I swear,” Kevin said as they left, “we should just do this the two of us and hire touring guys for each leg.”

“It’s not the worst idea,” I said. “I like Zach, though. And Kirk, wherever he is.”

“He’s in the bathroom. Doing his psych-up routine.”

“Ahh, right,” I said. “He’s weird, but I like him.”

“Me too,” Kevin said. “It ain’t like when we were kids, man. This might be… no, this IS our last shot. Mine anyway.”

“You think so?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I love you, dude. And you know how much I want this to work. But I’m tired of the bullshit. I just want to play music, make a lot of money, and take my wife on exotic vacations.”

“Soon,” I said. “Let’s start with getting through tonight. I have a good feeling about this show.”

Two hours later, we were taking our place on stage to the roar of the darkened crowd. When the lights went on, the swell of their screams and the driving riff of Kevin’s guitar made me feel every bit the rock star I’d always wanted to be. Growling out the vocals, my eyes fell on the crowd, and I found myself going from face to face, searching.

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