Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Lexi
The crowd in L.A. is fired up when we take the stage. It had been a long day driving in from Vegas just in time to do our sound check, get a quick bite to eat, and then start the show. I was dragging a little after we ate, but now that we’re ready to go, the adrenaline is surging through me.
I feed on the energy of the audience, so hearing them yelling for us gets me in the zone.
Crimson Edge had been amazing, and they’re still hyped up, milling around backstage as their roadies start loading out their equipment. Sasha is running around talking into her headset, and I can feel the buzz of excitement.
This is technically the start of the tour.
All of us have been headliners individually or with other projects, but this will be our first time headlining and I can’t wait.
The new single, “Hit It Like It’s Yours,” was number one last week, so we’re planning to start the show with it.
It’s hot right now, and we want to pull the audience in right away.
“Thirty seconds!” Lance, our tour manager, yells.
Tyler grabs his bass and swings it back and forth, while Stu jogs in place. Bash slips behind the curtain to get onto his drum set. He’s always the first one out, and as soon as his tech gives him the signal, he’ll start a slow, thunderous beat on the bass drum.
I love this part, right before we go on.
There’s an excitement that’s impossible to replicate in any other situation.
In a way, it’s addictive. I crave it. Miss it when I’m not on tour.
I’ve never done drugs, but it’s how I imagine a true high feels.
It’s one of many reasons I can’t imagine not going on tour for a year or more.
I’ve never gone more than a few months without performing, since I was eighteen.
Taking a year off feels like a death sentence.
I know that’s dramatic, and I’m not unaware of pregnancy hormones, but it’s more than that.
Tonight’s show is about preparing for the tour and testing out some new elements we added to it. It’s bigger and longer now, since we’re headlining, and I’m excited for the fans to see what we have planned.
The one thing I’m bummed about is the clothes I’ve been planning to wear. I’ve been slowly collecting special pieces—leather and lace in shades of gray/black and bright red—so that I can wear the same color scheme the whole tour. Now, I don’t know how long any of it is going to fit.
Does anyone even want to see a pregnant rock singer perform?
Rock and roll is generally a male-dominated industry so there aren’t a lot of examples out there.
Some of the female greats in rock music, like Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac and Deborah Harry from Blondie, have been open about their choice not to have children.
There are also quite a few artists I know of who have families, including my bandmates, but they’re men.
They aren’t the ones who have to be pregnant.
So talking to them is pointless.
We get the signal, and I push every negative thought out of my mind as I grab the mike.
“Hollywood—how the fuck are we doing tonight?”
The crowd responds exuberantly, and I take in the excited faces. People wearing T-shirts from our last tour. Their eager faces, fists in the air, chants filling the room, is what I live for.
“It’s time to hit it like it’s yours!” I yell, as Stu plays the intro to our newest hit.
The crowd is into it too.
The lyrics are gritty, all about partying and sex and falling in love.
We like to keep our lyrics light, for the most part, with fun themes that fall into the rock and roll fantasy. This one is no exception, and the melody is catchy, so by the time I get to the first chorus, the crowd is dancing and singing along.
Hit it like it’s yours
You’re gonna buy that ring
Don’t think about tomorrow
She’s gonna love that bling
You’re hittin’ it like it’s yours
Because you want it all
Hit it a little harder
She’s gonna make you crawl.
I have six costume changes planned for the show, and the first one is right after this.
Ford plays an extended intro to the second song while I run backstage, yank off my black leather jacket and replace it with a black denim vest. All I’m wearing underneath is a lacy black bra.
The black skirt I’m wearing will come off at the next costume change, replaced by the tiny black shorts I have on beneath it.
Everything is pretty well coordinated but I realize I’m hot.
“I need some ice water!” I yell at the nearest roadie. He nods and immediately runs to a cooler we have nearby.
But I can’t wait for it, so I run back onstage, and we launch into our next biggest hit, a fun song called “Wicked X.” It’s about a horrible ex-girlfriend who still seduces the guy I’m singing about every chance she gets.
It’s sexy but also more light-hearted than it sounds, since the guy in question is having the time of his life.
She's my ex
My sexy wicked ex
We're always having sex
And she makes me start to flex
Come on sexy girl,
Show me how it's done
Let's have a little fun
Before I head into the sun
X marks the spot
That makes this hot
I'll take a shot
You're my sexy wicked ex
Against the wall
Baby, we can do it all
Take me down
On the ground
You know what I found
She's my ex
She's the best
No one can replace my wicked X
The crowd is into every single song and by mid-set, we’re having a blast. The only issue is that I’m overheating, so I motion to the guys that I want to change the set list by switching two songs.
They’re pretty easy-going with stuff like this, so we slow it down, playing a ballad I wrote called “Nobody’s Lover.
” It gives me a chance to cool down a bit, and I guzzle a bottle of water before I sit down at the piano.
In the past, we’d used keyboards, but I wanted a real piano for this tour, and now I’m glad we made the upgrade.
Once the song is over, I get up and run backstage so I can change again while Bash does his drum solo. I feel better now, but I’m still hotter than usual.
“I’m dying,” I tell my roadie. “I need a sleeveless T. I don’t care where you get it.”
He looks startled but then calls out to Bash’s drum tech, who immediately pulls off his shirt. He’s kind of a small guy, so it’s not as big on me as it could have been. Once the shirt is on, I wiggle out of my bra, tossing it to the side, and then run back on stage.
“It’s hot in here,” I say to the crowd. “And it’s about to get hotter. Anyone ready for a raging inferno?”
“Raging Inferno” was never released as a single, but it’s insanely popular live, which is why we kept it in the set. Of course, now I have a decision to make.
The lyrics talk about going to a rage and diving off the stage.
Which is what I usually do.
It happens right after the second verse, so I have a couple of minutes to decide.
As always, fists are in the air the second Tyler begins to thump out the heavy intro on the bass.
“Baby, did you hear the rage?” I croon in a silky voice several octaves lower than my usual range. “Going up on fifty-eighth... we’ve got nothing but time to burn… wanna come feel me rage? I’m turning over another page…”
This is my favorite song to play live because the crowd gets into it, almost as if this were a rage party instead of a concert.
People start to dance, others start to mosh, and the energy in the room kicks up a notch.
I forget all about how hot I am, my pregnancy, and everything else.
I’m lost in the music, the magic of the performance, and how I’ve got the crowd eating out of the palm of my hand.
“Lexi!” One of the guys in the front holds up his arms. “I’ve got you—do it!”
Oh shit.
It’s almost time for my stage dive.
I catch a look of surprise on Tyler’s face as I put the mic back in its stand.
“Come on, Lexi!” Another guy holds up his arms.
“Lexi!”
There’s a group of guys in the front chanting my name.
I look to the wings at our head of security and give him a quick nod. He immediately starts to run, heading for the crowd so that he can get me out of there once I’m done.
“Lex…” I hear Stu’s voice but it’s too late, because I turn my back and throw myself off the stage. I feel hands on my back, my legs, and as always, they start moving me back, “surfing” along the top of the crowd.
And then I feel a dip.
Before I can catch myself, I start going down.
I feel a thud, a twinge of pain, and then the back of my head hits the hard floor.
Ow.