4. Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Jax
There’s nothing like sitting on top of an amp before a show.
James and I started this ritual back when we first formed Bottom Line. We would sit side by side, just trying to kill time before we had to play each set. The only thing different now is that this time it’ll be in front of a few hundred people.
Am I pumped? Yeah, for sure. Who wouldn’t be?
But am I also nervous since it’s been a minute since we’ve played a live set? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Heavy footsteps hit the stage, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Don. I can practically hear his scowl from here in the way his boots drag across the wooden floor.
“Alright, you guys have…” He checks his watch. “Five minutes until doors open.”
I hop down from the amp and take a sip from my water bottle, letting it sit in my mouth for a second like somehow that’s going to calm my nerves.
We’ve done shows before, sure—but a meet-and-greet ? This is brand new territory for us. We were never big enough for anyone to care about those. It wasn’t until we got invited on the Overcast Summer Tour last year that people even started paying attention to our music.
It was like someone flipped a switch. One minute, no one knew who we were, and the next, our very rough, halfway decent track was playing on the radio that we sent them only months before.
And by we, I really mean James since he’s the one who decided we needed a social media page for the band and needed to send the radio stations our one and only track.
I didn’t think we were ready for all that, but James shoots for the stars or nothing.
Someone has to be the positive ray of sunshine of the group, since it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.
If it were up to me, we’d probably still be playing in shitty pubs with overpriced beer and sticky floors due to my constant, debilitating fear of rejection.
So knowing we’re about to interact with a sea of strangers for the first time? Yeah, I’m a little frazzled right now.
At least it’s only this one show, and then we can go back to doing nothing for the rest of the month.
“This is gonna be so fun,” James says with a grin, running in place so fast it makes my head spin.
It’s really no wonder he’s become the fan favorite. This kid has more energy than the four of us combined. I mean, it’s not like I really mind. That just means I can count on him to rile up the crowd while I focus on actually playing .
He finally stops running, but now he’s shaking out his hands like he’s about to run another marathon. “How many people do you think are showing up?” he asks, eyes wide with excitement.
I shrug. “Don said a few for the meet-and-greet, and maybe a couple hundred tickets sold in total? Guess we’ll find out.”
The doors slam open, the sound echoing through the empty venue so loud it makes my nerves and adrenaline crash into each other. My stomach twists violently, and I still can’t tell if it’s from excitement or maybe anxiety. More than likely a mix of both.
Spinning around, I force down any of the negative thoughts that try to drown everything out and throw a fist out in front of me.
“Alright, boys,” I say, my grin spreading from ear to ear. “You ready?”
Each of them brings their fists to mine and shouts back, “Hell yeah!”
I swipe my Ibanez Gio Series from the stand, throw the strap on, and pluck a couple of the stings. The familiar electrifying sound spills through the speakers, bouncing off the walls. And just like that, every nervous thought I had before completely melts away. Now it just feels like… home .
Although it’s short lived because the second I turn around, my heart jumps straight into my throat when I see people starting to pile in as if someone opened the floodgates. Their voices rise in waves while they spread out across the floor, filling every single inch.
Gareth and I exchange glances, his eyes glimmering with nothing short of pride. All because they’re here to see us . Not another band. They weren’t paid to be here. They came willingly to see us play our music and to meet us.
We haven’t even fully released our record yet, but seeing every individual face at our feet is a feeling I can’t even name, and a moment I’ll never forget. If this isn’t what success feels like, I’m honestly terrified to know what it will feel like.
When everyone is inside, and the doors are closed again, a quiet falls around us. Fans look up at us with eager smiles, some waving while the rest stand there patiently, just waiting.
I slowly walk over to the mic and grip its stand before bringing it to my lips.
“How’s everyone doing?” I ask into the mic.
They clap wildly, and my eyes scan over the crowd, watching each and every one of at least a hundred people—not just a few like Don said. A hundred people came to meet us.
And one day it’ll be thousands.
“Okay,” I say, adjusting my guitar strap. “Let’s get started.”
When the lights dim, I lean in a little closer, and with a grin, I yell into the mic—
“Check!”
Casey hits the kick pedals, making the stage floor shake and my body buzz. James follows right on cue, leading us into the opening for our song "Pulse ."
The first note hangs in the air before Gareth and I jump in. We don’t miss a single beat as we sync together perfectly. That’s one thing that’s been hard to master over the years, and one day we all just… got it.
When the song is finished, I walk back to the mic and yell “check” a few more times. My eyes sweep across the faces below, and seeing their excitement pulls a smile from my lips. Just knowing we’re doing something right that they already have this much energy is unreal.
But then I see her .
And just like that, the entire world stops spinning and the crowd melts away. Now the only thing I can hear is my heart pounding in my ears.
She blends in so well that I almost missed her. But with the constantly shifting overhead lights, it caught the flash of her red hair just right, and suddenly, the air feels thin.
My eyes lock onto hers, and it feels like the breath is being ripped from my lungs. And the second she flashes me a smile? It takes everything in me not to call it quits and hop right off this stage.
The weird thing is that she didn’t seem to recognize me when we ran into each other at the supermarket yesterday. Did a friend drag her here? Maybe she still has no idea who I am.
Or worse… she doesn’t remember we met at all.
Yet here I am. Still thinking about the way her nose crinkled when I said merlot was a decent Friday night wine.
The memory sneaks up on me, and before I can stop it, a laugh slithers past my lips loud enough to echo through the venue. My eyes go wide.
Real smooth, Jax.
I nonchalantly back away from the mic like nothing happened, trying to play it cool even though heat is creeping its way up my neck.
Then my foot catches on a cable, and I stumble, not enough to fall, but just enough to hear a few snickers from the crowd.
It’s year nine talent show all over again.
I was a wreck because Amber Lillard—the one girl I had a silent crush on all throughout secondary school—was in the front row.
And here I am, ten years later doing the same bloody thing. History has a sick sense of humor.
Maybe if I trip again , people will think it’s part of the set.
I glance over at Gareth, who’s giving me a raised brow and a look that says You good?
I shrug, brushing it off like I didn’t just completely embarrass myself in front of a hundred people—and one redhead I apparently can’t stop thinking about.
We close out the soundcheck with one last song, and I’m so antsy it feels like it drags on forever. It was probably only thirty minutes total, but it felt like a full set.
“So,” I say into the mic with one brow raised. “You guys wanna hang out until the doors open?”
When the crowd responds with loud whoops, we take that as a yes and head toward the stage stairs. As soon as we step off, we’re thrown into a sea of fans. They circle around us like sharks, but thankfully, they’re respectful enough to keep a little distance.
I hang toward the back, just like with any other social event.
It makes more sense to let the others dive in since I’ve always been the shy one in the group.
Put me on stage with a guitar in my hands, and I’m fine.
Better than fine—I’m me . But in moments like this, with small talk, expectations and everybody suddenly standing way too close, I start looking for exits.
But then I see her again, and a flutter in my chest kicks into overdrive the second her eyes flick from her friend to me. It’s subtle, but I don’t miss it. And suddenly, I’m barely hearing whatever someone in front of me is saying because every part of me is tuned into her .
The urge to just say fuck it and walk right over to her is strong enough to make my legs restless.
If it weren’t for the fact that it would put a target on my back, and that it wouldn’t be fair to everyone else, I would.
So instead, I stand here, one hand folded over the other, and wait as patiently as I can.
“Hey, man! When did you learn to play like that?” a guy with shaggy, black hair and shredded, yellow Converse asks, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
Exits. Exits. Exits.
I nervously scratch the back of my head. “I, uh, started when I was about thirteen,” I reply sheepishly. “Didn’t start singing until I was about sixteen though.”
“That’s so cool!” He beams, then nods toward the stage. “Is that the same guitar you started out with?”
I nod, offering him a tight-lipped smile, waiting for him to tell me I should drop it and get something cooler .
“Sure is. Started with it, and I plan to end with it,” I finally answer.
His smile grows. “That’s awesome! I have the same one at home and was worried about it not lasting.”