Page 98 of Final Serenade

“Cut the set!” I heard Bruce yelling over his walkie-talkie. “Going straight to the encore.”

Technicians began to sprint. On stage, Johnny and Carter were doing a trade-off. The crowd was eating it up.

Gaze trained on Frank, I inched closer and he saw me. His eyes captured mine when Dante swiveled around to give everyone instructions. His face had no color and his hand shook when he flipped it over and opened his palm. Terror clenched my chest.

“We’ll do ‘Awake’ first, then ‘Fire and Blood.’” Dante’s voice roared against my eardrums. He turned to Frank, head dipping. “You sure you’re up for it, Frankie-boy?”

“Are you out of your mind?” Janet protested.

“Mom, it’s fine.”

“You can’t even stand!”

“I just need a minute.”

It was decided. They were skipping the rest of the set, all five songs, and going straight for the encore.

The backstage was chaos and dread. People swarmed around Frank with water and towels, and I was helpless to stand there, watching him struggling with whatever his body had been going through. His palm was still lying open on the stretcher next to his body.

Then it happened. Glancing over to me, he raised his hand and reached out. In front of everyone. The entire team, his parents, Dante, Taylor Rhinehart. It was a covert movement of despair and I clutched to him like a confused child to an adult in the middle of a busy mall during the Christmas season. Only, the roles were reversed right now. He was the child. He needed someone to tell him everything was okay.

A wavering smile lurked on his lips and I slid my small palm into his, large and familiar. Bruce and Dante were working out the set change logistics. Frank’s fingers squeezed my wrist. They were cold and sweaty and he was a wreck, but he was going through with this. He was going back out there because twenty thousand people had paid a lot of money to see the band. Twenty thousand people had been waiting for this moment for seven years and he wasn’t going to let them down.

Minutes passed. Johnny took over the microphone and made a small speech. The audience had no idea what was going on. To them, the bassist getting sentimental was part of the show.

“You good, Frankie-boy?” Dante dropped his face to Frank’s ear again.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll hold you if you need me to hold ya, brother. Right?” He braved a smile, but I knew it wasn’t a real one. It was a mask, an attempt to give everyone, and perhaps himself, a shot of false security. I could tell Dante was scared by the glint in his dark, pensive eyes.

He marched off to help Johnny. They kept the fans occupied for a little while longer. Frank sat up on the stretcher. Janet wiped the sweat off his face and chest.

“You don’t have to do this, sweetheart,” she mumbled.

“I’ll be fine, Mom.” He gave her a small smile and slid to the floor. His hand deserted mine.

Roman pushed everyone away to make room for Frank to stretch. He rolled his shoulders and breathed in and out. A small line above the bridge of his nose twisted with concentration.

“Okay, let’s fucking do this!” his voice rumbled over the noise. “Let’s give these people what they want.”

Corey and Brooklyn walked with him until the safety line and then he disappeared into the fog.

Panic rose at the back of my throat as I stared at the blurry shape of a lonely microphone erect in the middle. My heart hammered against my ribs. The spotlight dipped and Frank’s silhouette finally emerged from the shimmering thick clouds. A sigh of relief left my lungs. He raised his hand and waved at the crowd, mustering up a smile. Hungry for more music, all twenty thousand pairs of eyes zeroed in on him. A storm of deafening applause blasted through the arena.

Frank sang three songs, wrapping up the show with “Ambivalent” and walked off the stage before the final sequence of pyro was over.

Dante, Carter, and Johnny stayed behind. They tossed drumsticks and picks into the crowd. Security helped Dante into the pit and he gave high-fives to the entire front row. The man was brilliant. No one cared about Frankie at that moment.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Then again and again. I wasn’t sure if all the messages that hadn’t been getting through decided to attack me all at once or if enough people had left for the reception to clear.

I didn’t look, though. I waited for Frank at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the stage. When he finally approached me, he reached for my hand and I gave it to him. His entourage and the paramedics swallowed us. A cacophony of voices trailed after the group as Roman led everyone through the bright hallway. In the dressing room, Frank’s physician checked his vitals again. The paramedics gave him more fluids.

I stepped aside and glanced at my phone.

Levi: Did they cut the set?

I didn’t know how to respond to that. It wasn’t my place to tell, but obviously, people were going to bitch about it tomorrow morning. No band would consciously ever choose to play for only an hour. Another text came.

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