Page 72 of Faithful

“You need to move,” one of the guards at the door barks, jerking his light at my face.

I grab the laminated card hanging around my neck and thrust it at him.

“You need to move, sir,” he repeats, his voice close to violent.

“Don’t fucking sir me!” I fume. More colorful words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but something hard slams into my back and I fall forward, my face smashing into the guard’s chest. He’s pushed against the door under the weight of my body.

“Fuck the police!” someone yells out.

And here I thought it couldn’t get any worse.

Sounds of glass breaking and objects crashing somewhere near the bar float through the stuffy club.

I don’t know how I manage to extricate myself from the guard–must be all that adrenaline in my bloodstream.

“I need to get backstage!” I flash my laminated card at him again. “I’m with the fucking band!”

“I can’t let you in, man,” he says, his face suddenly tired and very human. “We can’t open this door!”

As if to demonstrate why exactly this is a problem, a group of guys in all black emerges from out of nowhere, demanding to be let in to meet Kai. It’s one against four and there’s still the pissed-off crowd authorities aren’t handling well and I’m in the middle of all this.

Fuck.

I have no choice but to exit the club and try the crew entrance. Outside the venue, cops have already rounded up some of the offenders. There’s a gurney and several paramedics concentrated on their tasks: a group of girls, one with a huge cut on her forehead, blood dripping down her nose and onto her dress; a dude sitting on the floor, hugging his head; another dude cursing at the passing hotel guests.

Desperate for some answers, I dial Kai, but the line just keeps ringing and ringing, which only feeds my hysteria.

He could be doing a thousand different things now or he could be hurt.

I push through the crowd gathered at the crew entrance and show my pass to one of the guards, who reluctantly lets me in. Meanwhile, another guard holds off the fans.

Backstage is just as crazy with people shouting into their walkie-talkies and running all over. I don’t know where to go and I stop the first person that comes my way.

“Where’s Iodine’s dressing room?”

The dude narrows his eyes at me, then notices the pass around my neck and gestures at the stretch of corridor behind him. “All the way down and to the left.”

“Thanks.”

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. I was up on the balcony.”

“Thank fuck. Shit’s crazy.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this. Be safe, buddy.”

“You too. Thanks again.”

Then I take off.

The moment I turn the corner, I see Bodhi in the center of the chaos that’s taken over backstage. He’s got his phone pressed to his ear, his eyebrows knit into one angry, crooked line. Despite being two hundred percent into the convo, he notices me right away and shouts something to whoever he’s speaking to, then ends the call. All that is done while he’s walking in my direction.

Once near, he yanks me from the stream of terrified crew members and presses me to the wall as if that is going to magically erase the fact of my presence.

“Are you fucking insane?” He gives my forehead a slap. “What are you doing here?”

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