Page 114 of Play Fast (Brooklyn Dawn 2)

“That’s what I’m saying.” She bounced up and down o

n her heeled boots. “Come on. They’re almost to the midpoint of the set. That’s when they do the covers.”

I let her drag me down the hall to the side stage. She pulled a pair of lanyards out of her back pocket with all-access passes on it. The security in the actual venues didn’t always know who the actual people in the bands were.

Roth security was peppered in from Noah’s team, but it was a big arena to cover.

Before I could come up with another reason to back out, we were in the thick of it. Bodies pushing at us, the screams were almost as deafening as Jamie’s guitars. The air was thick with heat, and the thrum of a collective mania that only seemed to infiltrate a pack of fans without chairs. Jostling, laughing, loving, frustration, elation, and obsession.

The way people watched the stage with an almost manic glee was heady.

I understood it.

This band owned the stage. Seasoned from their years of endless touring, yet the joy was still there. I’d seen plenty of concerts in my years on this planet. Bands who had become numb to the fans, some who only lost themselves in the music and ignored the crowd, but there were very few in my purview who were like Brooklyn Dawn.

Regardless of my feelings about Oz, there was no denying this was their element.

Cooper stood behind his kit, slamming on his skins. His usual stick tricks flying in the air as he bounced one, then the other up and caught them without losing the beat. He had a tie wrapped around his head—where he found one, I have no clue.

Knowing Cooper, it was probably from the lost and found box at the arena. The dude could scavenge like no one I knew before. And that included klepto Jamie.

Zane was standing back to back with Jamie. They were almost the same height, especially with Jamie’s rare use of spiked heeled boots on stage. She was already an amazon with her endless length of leg. Today she had on a jumpsuit that we’d managed to sew her into a la Def Leppard from the eighties. Of course, we’d Jamie-fied it which meant she was wearing little more than a bandana across her breasts, and the buttons undone to her waist on the jumpsuit.

The girl did not like to be restricted.

Zane was crouched over his guitar, playing it near his knees. His back slick with sweat, a white T-shirt wagging behind him from his back pocket like a tail. He chased his own fingers up the fret board, playing the actual neck of the guitar in some intricate fashion that harmonized with Jamie’s more murderous style.

Speak of the devil herself, Jamie was practically laying along Zane’s back. Her wicked, angular black guitar stretched across her creating a cross. Her fingers were a blur over the strings as “Black Magic” came to a fevered pitch.

Lindsey hung off her blinged out mic stand. Her powerhouse voice matched only by the sparkle of her pink and silver dusted boots and matching catsuit. Her soft blond hair curtained her face as she reached down for some level of amazing vocals I couldn’t fathom.

The crowd surged forward, dragging me and Elle along for the ride.

She caught my hand before I could float downstream in the flood of fans who kept moving in waves. She hauled me in and hung an arm around my neck.

“Wild,” she screamed into my ear.

That was one word for it.

I wanted to stay more toward the right side of the stage, but Elle was determined to get to the other side. To Oz.

I wasn’t ready, but I also couldn’t stem the tide. I was going to get him live and technicolor whether I wanted it or not. Finally, the song slid into a light strum of soothing notes. Guitar techs scrambled across the stage as the lights went dark.

The harsher electric was layered with acoustic tones.

The lights came up and Oz was in the spotlight, a glossy black acoustic in his arms, his usual bass swung around to lay across his back.

Annette.

The guitar he brought to the cabin.

The canyon scene on his guitar as familiar as Oz’s face. As the touch I longed for every night. Both the strength of it when we drowned in one another, and the tight hold when I lay in the wreckage of our aftermath.

The song built and Oz stepped to the microphone.

Lindsey stepped back, a guitar in her arms.

Teagan’s orchestral keys was the first layer.

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