Page 37 of Cadence
“You’ve got this,” Beau tells her first, beating me to saying it. “Sip Station on three.”
I move in, closing the circle tighter. Arms knock, boots scuff together, breaths hold, until we shout, “One…two…three…”
Chapter Sixteen
Paige
“SipStation!”
My heart feels like it’s going to burst through my chest and flee the building.
We break apart with back slaps and fist bumps, grabbing gear, slotting in earpieces, moving around each other like we’ve done this a thousand times.
Except I haven’t. Ever. And I’m petrified.
Eli throws me a wink before jogging onto the stage, and the crowd erupts into pure chaos. It’s the kind of screaming that rattles your ribs, makes your skin hum, and saysthey love them… Us.
Lights flood the stage, a blinding wash of gold and violet that bounces off every metal edge I can see from behind the kit. The guys move into place like a well-choreographed dance,chords already reverberating around the small venue, teasing the audience that’s packed wall to wall with those lucky enough to snag a ticket for tonight.
I roll my sticks between my palms and suck in a deep breath, releasing it slowly. My heartbeat calms, the crowd dissolves, and everything narrows to this moment and my drum kit.
“Los Angeles, how the fuck are ya?” Beau yells into his mic, earning a whoosh of noise in reply. “Fuck, we’ve missed you.”
And that’s my cue. Three sharp clicks echo, the sound of wood on wood, and it’s go-time. The lights burst to life at the first crash of the toms, followed by Maddox’s opening chord that tears through the noise, loud and gritty and so fucking dirty it sends shivers down my spine.
The crowd loses it, and it’s like a spell washes over me, one brought on by the chanting of those on the other side of the stage. We sound…phenomenal, like we’ve always been the band the guys pictured the day it was just a mere dream in Maddox’s grandma’s garage.
They’re flawless, feeding off each other, spurred on by the thrill of performing, the adrenaline flooding their veins, each one of them alive in a way I haven’t seen in practice.
They’re motherfucking rock stars.
The venue bounces, the first three songs a blur, until Maddox slows us down, pick between his fingers, hand wrapping around the mic, his thumb ring glinting in the spotlights.
“Make some noise for our newest member on drums…” He lets the word hang there for a second, the roar almost deafening. “Paige Erikson.”
Their screams course through me like static in my blood, a live wire threaded just beneath the surface, and when Maddox turns to look at me, my lungs catch.
Sweat lines his forehead, his dark hair clinging to his temples, eyes bright in a way I want to see more of. He’s mesmerizing,dressed head to toe in black, his shirt clinging to every muscle of his chest. And when he turns, his back jumps with each move of his arms as he slides into the next track.
There’s a reason Maddox Knox is loved by many. He’s a god among mortals, with the skill to rival some of the greatest guitarists of all time. Each note hits true, his body leans into the chords as he and Beau play back-to-back, shoulders pressed together, feeding off one another during a riff.
It’s the things they don’t do in rehearsal, the things that make tonight magical.
Until it’s not.
Something changes in the second half. It’s small, subtle, almost imperceptible, but I can feel it.
In the same way that Maddox watches me during practice, I’ve been unable to look away from him tonight. Only now, instead of the confident swagger and ease he held before, playing into his god-given role, his movements seem stiffer somehow, like something’s changed.
“LA,” he drawls into the mic, his voice dripping with a kind of seduction that makes the fans go wild. “You want something new?”
The crowd explodes, arms reaching outward, but all I feel is the palpable excitement doused in unease.
Maddox nods to Beau and turns to Eli, offering him a weak smile that’s more like a grimace. I wait for him to look my way, my grip shifting on my sticks, only for him to completely ignore me. He turns back to the crowd, adjusting his grip on the mic.
I frown, catching the expression on his face from the side, the one that still shows he’s riding the high of tonight, but it’s brittle now.
An overwhelming sense of foreboding uncurls in the pit of my stomach as we transition into the song he struggled to finish. The one I offered my help with, the one that he ignored mysuggestions and continued to sing the lines Iknowhe doesn’t feel in his soul.
