Page 22 of Rocked: The Price of Dreams

“Geez, Hunt.” Kyle let out a long breath and rubbed the back of his neck. “That changes everything.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Hunter jerked his chin back. “We can do it. The three of us can sing side by side. As equals. I don’t want to be stuck on the edge of the stage doing nothing.”

The spike in my pulse slowly returned to normal. Hunter thrived on showing off. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to be closer to the audience. It was electrifying. He was like a wild panther that shouldn’t be contained. He needed to pounce and prance around. “You on rhythm would work. In fact, it will give us an edgier sound. Something different from any other band out there.”

“You’re right.” Intrigue lurked in Kyle’s eyes. He loved trying new things, pushing our music in new directions. “Do you think you can learn all the songs? Is four weeks enough time?”

“Pfft.” Hunter grinned, resting his hand on the keyboard. “Easy. I know half of them already.”

“Well then?” Kyle hooked off his bass and placed it on the stand. “Let’s get that keyboard out of the way and get you set up. Rhythm it is.”

“This is going to be awesome.” I clapped, then took off my guitar and helped the guys rearrange the space—keyboard moved to the back by the drums, stools stowed, cables re-laid.

Within minutes, we’d patched in Hunter’s guitar and set up a new mic, and were ready to play.

Each song we rehearsed rocked. Having Hunter beside us upped our dynamic. The three of us fed off each other, trying to outperform, out-sing, and show off as much as possible. It boosted our level of fun into the stratosphere.

By the end of the week, we were running through our set list. Hunter was adamant about coordinating some of our moves. We had to look professional, right? The occasional choreographed steps, sway of our hips, or swipe of our arms should look cool. It was hard to tell with only a broken garage door as our audience. In fits of laughter, Hunter tried to teach Kyle and me how to dance. We were as uncoordinated as one-legged pigeons with no wings. We swore never to go full-on dance like the Backstreet Boys or NSYNC, but I’d kill to look and move like the girls in The Pussycat Dolls. They were fucking hot.

Two days out from the event, we ran through our final rehearsal in Kyle’s garage. The three of us were pumped and more hyper than kids on candy.

I set the camcorder on the tripod in the corner. “Let’s record our new song. I want to post it to YouTube and Facebook and let everyone know we’ll be at the festival. We had over three hundred views on our last video.”

“Three hundred?” Kyle’s eyes widened. “That’s insane.”

“Wicked, right?” Hunter strummed his guitar.

“Ready? One. Two. Three. Go.” I hit record and jumped into position in front of my mic.

Halfway through the chorus, Kyle messed up the notes. He burst out laughing. “Shit. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” I dashed over to the camera, stopped it, and reset the recorder. “From the top. Go.”

But in the second verse, Hunter sang the wrong words.

“What the...?”He chuckled, zipping his fingers over the frets. The goofiest smile slid across his lips. “I don’t mess up.”

The nerves and excitement had gotten to us.

“Sorry to break it to you, babe, but you’re not perfect.” I giggled, starting the camera again. These two guys were pretty damn close to it, though.

“Yes, I am.” He jabbed at the chords. “Always.”

Laughing, we reshot the video.

We nailed it that time.

We did one more take. And then...like always... the music took over. We played and played. The vibrations hummed through my fingertips and up through my arms, and settled in my chest. We fed off each other’s energy. We jammed and ripped out the tunes, lost in the magic of music.

Then...bang!

The front door crashed open.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT GODDAMN RACKET?”

Oh...shit!

The blood drained from my face. A chill shot down my spine. The guys froze.

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