Page 7 of Never Say Die
It wasn’t great, but they managed. Georgia hit every beat, Dylan swayed as he played, and Thomas belted the lyrics. Aiden stared at the floor, mouthing along as Thomas sang, and let himself get lost in that carved out space between the empty arena and the chaos backstage.
Some musicians turned sound into church. Like faith, music became an outlet, a pew to rest on, a place to pray. Something born into. An adopted do-over. But for Aiden, music lodged inside him like a fucking teratoma. Hair and teeth and bone. A second self, growing somewhere it shouldn’t. If he didn’t play, that ugly tumor would chew through his skin, starving and alive, shaped like someone the world thought he should’ve been. With his guitar strap snug on his shoulder, strings biting at his fingers, and crunchy notes kicking off the chorus, Aiden Moore became fearless and permanent, and not a single thing less.
After Glory, they ran through Reign and hit a few chords from Bark at the Moon, then the crew ushered them backstage, scrambling to replace Chain Reaction’s elaborate set with simple instruments and well-worn festival banners. Aiden clung to the adrenaline burning in his chest. The knowing—stage, music, audience, performance—tapped his limbic brain, urging him to fixate on something besides Shay Bennett.
In the designated makeup studio, Thomas sat in a studio chair while the cosmetologist studied her color correction kit. Dylan, a bare-faced beauty, always nakedly himself and freshly moisturized, fiddled with his phone. Georgia and Aiden worked on themselves and each other. Georgia dabbed thick ochre concealer under his eyes, blurring faint purplish circles, and he glued individual lashes to her eyelids, careful not to ruin her dagger-pointed cat-eye. While he avoided his reflection, smearing drugstore foundation called Desert Heat or Volcano Babe or some other bullshit stand-in for Mexicali Brown onto his roughened cheeks, Georgia dug at black eyeshadow with the back of a makeup brush, stirring the inky powder into mahogany foundation. Cosmetic brands went hard for light-skinned Black folks and white-passing Latinas, but at least his makeup matched enough to blend with bronzer. He envied Georgia sometimes. How she refused to ditch her dignity when the world designed itself against her.
Like this, full-lipped, hard-edged, and sculpted, Aiden appeared remade. Dangerous, maybe. Pupils blown, muscles tight, heartbeat going, going, gone. After Thomas was efficiently primped, the cosmetologist came to stand behind Aiden. She fingered a glob of fruit scented wax into her palm and raked her tattooed hands through his hair. Acrylic nails scraped his scalp. The sensation shot downward, knotting in his groin, then he felt Shay again, clutching his waist, and the feeling worsened.
“You’re mighty handsome, kid,” she said, smoothing leftover product through his shorn undercut. She patted his shoulders. “Anything else I can do for you?”
Aiden met her eyes in the mirror. “Know where I can get a drink?”
“Green room’s down the hall on the right. Saw some champagne, PBR, a few bottles.”
“Cool, thanks.”
“Lookin’ forward to the show.” She stashed the hair product in her train case. Her modest heels clopped the floor as she left.
Aiden shrugged toward the door. “Drinks? Oh, c’mon, don’t look at me like that—I’m talking, like, two beers. No harm, no foul.”
“Two beers,” Georgia said, sternly.
Thomas grinned, poking at his elevated, spiky hair. Front-man ego permeated the room. “I could go for a shot, honestly.”
“Yeah, same,” Dylan said. “I don’t think I’ve been this nervous since our first Warped Tour.”
“Well, this isn’t Warped Tour. That’s for damn sure,” Georgia said.
They walked to the Green Room together, dodging crew and security. Aiden flicked a two-finger wave at Jacob who sat at a high-top table with his phone perched against his ear. “No,” Jacob said, snorting, “no, I don’t give a rat’s ass where Bennett fucked off to. This is about ticketholders and your now-empty venue. You want a show? I’ve got a band.” Jacob lowered his phone, smothering the speaker against his lap. He snapped his fingers at Aiden. “If you get sloppy, I’ll shoot you in the kneecap with a nail gun. I’m serious.”
Aiden flashed his palms. “Damn, Ijustgot here. Calm down.”
Thomas and Dylan took shots. Georgia drank champagne and snapped playful group photos for Instagram. Aiden pounded his first beer, tossed the empty can in the recycling bin, and cracked another. The cold liquid coursed in a line, sinking into his stomach. He picked at the snack table. Logically, he knew he needed to eat, but the cocaine coating the back of his throat insisted otherwise. His nerves did, too. He swallowed a few grapes, nibbled on a star-shaped cheese and turkey sandwich, and drank the rest of his second beer. The moment heapproached the cooler, Georgia swatted his wrist. Like a live-in fucking sponsor.
“Two,” she said, and sighed through her nose.
“Jesus,Mom, relax.”
“What’s going on? This is a lot, even for you. You almost slept through sound check, you smell like a distillery, and now you’re tossing back beers like we’re at a frat party.” She pinned him with a cautious glance, brows furrowed, mouth pinched. “Listen, I get it, okay? I’m sorta worried about him, too, but?—”
“This isnotabout Shay,” Aiden snapped, too forcefully, like a pitbull on a choke-chain.
Georgia tipped her head, eyeing him skeptically. Light slid across her silver bridge piercing. “Okay, Aiden. Sure. If it’s not about him, then what’s it about?”
“Nothing. Stop hounding me.”
“Give it a rest until the opener goes on. Deal?”
“Yeah, deal, whatever.”
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, Georgia, I’mfine. I promise.”
She knocked him with her elbow. “We’ve got this, yeah?” She held his gaze, arching a tapered brow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, we’ve got this. We always do,” he said.
