Page 314 of Rock Me All Night
36
Ikeep my phone off. Mom and I hit my favorite San Francisco spots. She calls in sick on Monday and Tuesday so we can keep acting like tourists.
Then it's Wednesday, and I can't eat, sleep, think, or breathe. About par for the course, really.
I have no easy way to occupy myself with Mom at work. I fill out my UCLA paperwork online. I check the Sinful Serenade show information on Tom's Twitter account. There are half a dozen pictures of him posing with pretty fans.
Drew isn't in any of the pictures.
Not that I'm checking.
Not that the only thing on my mind is what Drew is going to say to me tonight, if he's going to say anything at all.
I change into a sweater dress, tights, and boots and keep myself busy by walking around the city in the general direction of the concert venue. It's four miles away or so. By show time, I'm within ten blocks. I grab a bagel and a cup of tea to calm my stomach.
It only helps so much.
The line for the venue curves onto Market Street. There must be a hundred people waiting on the concrete. Most are in their teens or twenties, in ripped jeans and colorful sneakers. I should feel out of place given my not at all rock and roll outfit, but I don't.
Even when I cut to the front of the line to give my name to the bouncer. He looks at me like he can't believe that I am on the list. But I am.
"Backstage is there, honey." He nods to a door in the corner. "Nice girl like you—hope you're not one of these guys' girlfriends."
"We'll see." I ignore the direction of backstage and go straight to the main area. I'm not ready to see Drew yet. And I'm really not in the mood to see Tom sucking face with his groupie of the night. Or worse, getting sucked off by his groupie of the night.
The venue is close to full. I find the bar and order a grapefruit and tequila. It burns in a pleasant way that promises to calm the nerves in my stomach.
My mind is going in circles. What if he doesn't love me? How the fuck am I going to deal with that? I talk myself out of leaving twenty times.
The lights cut out. The room is pitch black and everyone is screaming. Screaming out of their fucking minds.
A spotlight turns on. It's focused on a single figure on the stage. A tall guy in a black v-neck and dark jeans, with an acoustic-electric guitar around his shoulders.
Drew.
He steps up to a microphone. His cheeks flush. He's actually nervous.
"You guys realize I'm not Mr. Webb, right?" He waves at the crowd. "Not sure I can promise to strip the way he does."
A few dozen girls scream in a mix of agony and ecstasy.
"It's nice to be in San Francisco. It's my hometown."
There's way more screaming. Drew smiles like he's regaining confidence. He scans the crowd, but there's no way it's anything but a sea of darkness from his view. And even if it's not, I'm way in the back. I can barely make out his expression.
" I talked my bandmates into letting me have a set with just me and the guitar. Tom tried to argue you all wouldn’t be excited by this private show, just me and my guitar. Is that so?" He smiles over the sounds of screams. "I promised this girl—"
The screams drown out everything else in the room. Drew melts under the attention. It takes him a moment to regain his confident posture.
He steps up to the mic. "Let's just say this is a special occasion."
He plays the opening of "No Way in Hell,”the songs Miles wrote about falling in love with Meg. Then he’s singing. His voice is beautiful. It's not polished. It's not hitting every note. It's not as showy or as energetic as when Miles sings, but it's raw and it's real and it's dripping with feeling.
The crowd is fucking insane. The reserved guitarist is suddenly in the spotlight. He's even singing.
He's singing for me.
He plays “Be Brave, Love.” He sings every single word.
