Page 9 of A Little Broken

Another wave of amusement rolls through the crowd, and Dodger shoots me the bird from the center of the stage while Judge—stoic as ever—watches me from the back, hidden behind his drum set as he twirls his drumsticks between his middle and pointer fingers.

Yeah, yeah. I know I’m late.

Then, like the peacekeeper he is, Tuke begins plucking at his bass guitar on Dodger’s opposite side. The low, familiar melody is from one of our biggest hits. I’d like to say I wrote it, but if I did, I’d be lying out of my ass. Nah, writing music has never been my forte. Appreciating it, though? Yeah, that much I can do. As it pulses through the speakers, I lift my head toward the stage lights, basking in the familiarity.

And that’s all it takes. The crowd. The sounds. The lights. It all disappears, leaving nothing but the energy I crave. Like a balm, it slips over my skin, and my fingers find the strings. I start strumming on the fourth measure like clockwork. Sweat already threatens to roll down my spine thanks to the stage lights, and I scan the crowd, feeding off their energy by the end of the first song.

A girl flashes me from the middle of the pit, her tits more than a handful, and her big nipples peaked despite the temperature in the building. She squeals when she realizes I’ve seen her, her plump red lips mouthing, “I love you, Paxton!”

Of course, she does. Everyone here loves me. Well, the idea of me. Of the band. Of the persona IndieCent Vows has created for all its members. Yeah, it’s easy to love a rockstar. The title alone is enough to make most girls fall to their knees.

Everyone but Birthday Girl.

How the hell didn’t she recognize me? I haven’t been able fly under the radar like that in…fuck, I don’t even know how long.

“Marry me!” someone else yells from the mosh pit. A redhead with green eyes and black painted lips. I think it was her anyway. Realizing she has my attention, she grins and screams at the top of her lungs, repeating, “Marry me!”

Yup. Called it.

With a wink, I continue strumming the guitar when Birthday Girl comes into view a few rows toward the front. I almost fuck up the chord but recover at the last instant.

Well, would you look at that. Apparently, she made it.

Jaw unhinged, she stares up at me like I’m a goddamn magician. The lights cast shadows and highlight her heart-shaped face.

Yeah, my little Birthday Girl’s pretty. Thick black hair. Pale skin. Smokey makeup. Like she’s Snow White or some shit. It’s her eyes that do it for me, though. Earlier, they looked…they look so fucking guarded, I couldn’t help but want to sneak a peek at what she’s hiding. Now, though? Now she looks like she’s been knocked on her ass and she doesn’t know what to do about it. Glad I’m not the only one. I’m not sure how she accomplished it, but the girl managed to do the impossible. When I opened the door to have a smoke before the set, she knocked me on my ass,too, and I haven’t been knocked on my ass by a pretty girl since middle school.

Leaning away from the microphone so I don’t interrupt Dodger’s singing, I mouth, “Surprised?”

As if my attention shakes her from her thoughts, she cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Security, my ass!” Or at least, it’s what I think she says. It’s too loud to actually hear her over the music playing in my earpiece and the buzz from the crowd. Even so, I can’t help but grin. She actually bought that shit. Fuck. I love it.

Her head bobs with the music as I strum my guitar while Dodger breaks into the chorus. The audience feeds off it, belting out the lyrics like they’re tattooed in their minds. I sneak another glance at…what did her friend call her? Tate. That’s right. Everyone but Birthday Girl. Her pouty lips are motionless, even if she does look like she’s enjoying the song.

Huh.

Apparently, she wasn’t kidding about being here for Doomsday. The realization is a blow to the ego but only feeds my curiosity. And damn. If she’s willing to sit through a set she’s never heard, I’m determined to make it my best one yet.

After three more songs, she’s jumping with the rest of the crowd, her best friend bellowing the lyrics beside her. Clearing my throat, I step closer to the mic. Dodger finishes whatever he’s saying, then cocks his head at me, curious. What I’m doing. What I’m about to say. It isn’t in the script, and hell if I know. I’m as clueless as he is.

And then it hits me.

My fingers wrap around the black microphone as I pull it toward my mouth.

“Now, we don’t normally do this, but, uh,”—my attention flicks back to the girl at the edge of the stage—“we have a birthday girl in the house.”

“Woo-hoo!”

“All right!”

“Yay!”

All of the screams twist into a cacophony of elation as I continue. “And this birthday girl isn’t celebrating just any birthday. It’s her twenty-first. And we all know what that means, right? I think we need to do some shots.”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” the audience chants.

“What the fuck you doin, man?” Judge murmurs into my earpiece. I smirk back at him but don’t bother answering. Instead, I crook my finger toward Tate in the crowd. “Herb, wanna escort our Birthday Girl and her friend onto the stage?”

“Are you serious?” Tate mouths from the floor. Or maybe she’s yelling and it’s too loud to hear her over the screaming fans. Not that it matters. “Hey, Danny,” I add into the microphone, addressing the roadie backstage. “Wanna grab us some shots so we can celebrate in style?”

---