26. Performance Check
Chapter twenty-six
Performance Check
Dex
There is a piece of paper taped to a dressing-room door with my name on it.
Not GRAVE INTENTIONS.
Not SPECIAL GUESTS.
Not MISCELLANEOUS PANSEXUAL WITH GUITAR.
Just DEX MERCER
I have taken six pictures of it.
Micah catches me taking the seventh. “You done?”
“No.”
Cami leans around him. “Did you get one vertically for Instagram?”
I lower my phone. “See? She understands branding.”
“You're not posting it until after the show,” Micah says.
“I know.”
Cami pats my arm. “He's nervous.”
“I am not nervous.”
“You're photographing printer paper.”
“It's historic printer paper.”
Micah smiles.
Asshole.
Today has already been insane.
The group recording happened this afternoon, which turns out to be exactly what you'd expect when you put a dozen frontmen in one studio and ask them to share a song.
Too much hair.
Too many opinions.
At least three men who apparently believe harmony is a personal attack.
I knew some of them on sight. A couple I've listened to since high school. More than one has a platinum record hanging somewhere, which feels unnecessarily aggressive.
Two I'd never heard of.
Most hadn't heard of me either.
More importantly, the bridge survived.
My bridge.
Technically our bridge because Austin and I beat it into shape together yesterday, but my changes stayed. So did two of my lyric suggestions.
Then I got assigned part of it vocally.
Which seems unsafe.
Now the benefit show is in full swing, there are several thousand people on the other side of the walls, and in approximately eleven minutes I am supposed to walk onto a stage where most of them have no fucking clue who I am.
This is somehow scarier than sixty thousand people.
That makes absolutely no sense.
Maybe because this felt more intentional.
Austin asked me to come.
I helped write part of the song.
People expect me to belong here.
Horrifying.
Cami steps in front of me. “Hey.”
“What?”
“You're doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where your mouth is making jokes but your eyes look like you're being hunted for sport.”
I consider that. “Very observant.”
She catches the front of my shirt and pulls me closer. “You're going to kill it.”
“That's a lot of pressure, Dollface.”
“Fine. You're going to perform adequately.”
“Thank you.”
“People may tolerate you.”
“Much better.”
She kisses me.
When she moves away, Micah is standing behind her.
I point at him. “If you say something emotionally supportive, I'm leaving.”
“You're on in nine minutes.”
Perfect.
“That's my guy.”
His hand closes around the back of my neck.
Then he kisses me too.
When he pulls away, he says, “You've played bigger crowds.”
“Accidentally.”
“You still did it.”
Fuck him.
I look between the two of them. “You guys are being really fucking inconvenient today.”
Cami smiles. “Love you.”
That is still new enough to hit me directly in the chest.
I narrow my eyes. “Dirty trick.”
Her smile gets bigger.
Micah squeezes my neck once before letting go. “Go.”
So I do.
The crowd does not know me.
I can feel that the second I walk onto the stage.
There's applause because people at benefit concerts are polite and because Austin Fletcher introduced me, which is basically cheating.
Then I reach the microphone. “Hi.”
More applause.
“I am Dex. If you've never heard of me, that's okay. My mom has.”
Laughter rolls through the venue.
I grin. “Mostly because I call her when I need money, but still.”
More laughter.
Okay.
Now I know what to do.
The nervousness burns off almost instantly.
This part makes sense.
Crowd.
Mic.
Guitar.
Noise.
Give me those four things and my brain finally agrees to point in one fucking direction.
Signal Saints’ drummer and bassist kick in behind me.
I'm doing a Grave Intentions song without Grave Intentions, which is weird enough that I refuse to think about it too hard.
So I don't.
I play.
I find Cami and Micah offstage.
They're standing together.
Cami is practically bouncing.
Micah has that quiet look he gets when he's trying not to show too much emotion and failing spectacularly, if you know him.
I wink at them.
Cami blows me a kiss.
It feels like home.
Then I turn back to several thousand strangers and make them mine for the next three minutes.
The first verse gets them listening.
By the chorus, enough people have caught the rhythm that I can feel the room shift.
By the second chorus, somebody near the front is singing along.
I have no idea how.
Maybe they looked us up after the stadium show.
Maybe they're psychic.
Doesn't matter.
The benefit song closes the show.
All of us come back out.
Austin gets the microphone first, thanks the organizers, talks about Lanternway, tells the audience where the money is going and why it matters.
He keeps it short.
No bullshit.
Then he looks down the line of musicians. “And this song got rewritten approximately ninety fucking times this week.”
The crowd laughs.
“Most of that was because musicians are assholes.”
A dozen middle fingers go up around him.
I contribute mine.
Austin points at me. “This asshole showed up and told me the bridge was lying.”
The crowd laughs harder.
I cover my face.
He keeps talking. “So if this next part makes you cry, blame Dex Mercer.”
Oh, fuck you.
The lights change.
The opening chords begin.
There isn't time to process it.
Voices move through the song one after another.
Different textures.
Different styles.
Different people giving the same words a different kind of weight.
My section is late in the song.
Right before the final chorus—during the bridge.
When my turn comes, the room changes.
Maybe only for me.
I step forward.
Sing the first line.
Then the next.
The melody lifts exactly where I wanted it to.
Not out of the grief—through it.
The whole fucking point.
Somewhere offstage, Cami is crying.
I know without looking.
Micah probably is too, but he'll deny it later.
By the last line, Austin's harmony joins mine.
Then another voice.
Then another.
The chorus detonates with all of us at once.
Several thousand people stand.
Lights hit the crowd.
Hands in the air.
People singing words they've heard exactly once because the chorus is easy enough to catch and because sometimes people want very badly to believe the same thing together.
For one weird second, I can't sing.
Because my throat closes.
Austin catches it.
He bumps my shoulder with his.
Just enough.
I get the next line out.
Then the next.
And finish the fucking song.
Backstage is chaos afterward.
People hugging.
Sweaty men shouting compliments at each other because apparently that's musician networking.
Cami hits me at running speed.
I barely catch her.
“You were so fucking good!” She kisses me before I can respond.
Micah reaches us a second later.
He doesn't launch himself at me because dignity still means something to one member of this relationship.
He grabs the back of my neck instead. “Proud of you.”
Three words.
Terrible.
Horrible.
I hate him.
“Can everybody stop emotionally assaulting me?”
“No,” Cami says.
A voice behind us says, “Dex.”
I turn.
Austin is there with Megan beside him.
Her eyes look slightly red.
I point at her. “You cried.”
“Shut up.”
“Tree huggers are so emotional.”
She hugs me. “Seriously. It was beautiful.”
“Thanks.”
Austin waits until she lets go.
Then he nods toward the hallway. “You got a minute?”
Oh. That's never ominous when said by a famous person.
I look at Micah and Cami.
Cami makes an enthusiastic go gesture.
Micah nods.
I follow Austin.
We don't go far.
Just somewhere slightly quieter near the dressing rooms.
He leans against the wall. “You have fun?”
“Fucking hated it.”
“Thought so.”
I grin.
Then he gets serious. “I wasn't bullshitting you yesterday.”
The grin fades a little.
“Okay.”
“You're good in a room.”
“A room?”
“A writing room.”
Oh.
“You listen. You push back when you mean it. You change your mind when somebody gives you a better idea. That combination is rarer than it should be.”
I don't know what to say to that.
Which continues to be an upsetting theme this weekend.
Austin crosses his arms.
“Signal Saints is doing a writing block in March for our next album.”
My heart kicks.
“Okay.” It comes out as not quite a question.
“Four weeks. Here.”
I stare at him.
He lets me get there.
“You want me to…?”
“I want you in the room.”
My mouth opens.
Closes.
He smiles. “Completely paid session.”
Fuck.
“If something you write makes a record, publishing and royalties will get handled properly. If nothing does, you still get paid for the time.”
“You're serious.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Austin's face does something between amusement and irritation. “Because you're good, asshole.”
Right.
That.
“You don't have to answer tonight.”
“Yes.”
He pauses.
“I literally just said—”
“Yes.”
“You should probably check your calendar.”
“I have a calendar.”
“You should check it.”
“I'll check it while saying yes.”
Austin laughs. “You really don't know how to play this cool, do you?”
“I am incredibly cool.”
“Sure.”
He pulls his phone out of his pocket and types for a second.
My phone buzzes.
Email.
I look down.
His business manager.
Dates.
Rate.
Travel.
Actual fucking paperwork.
“This feels aggressive.”
“That's intentional.”
I look up again. “This is totally different from the benefit, right?”
His expression changes slightly. “Yes.”
For some reason, I needed him to say that.
This isn't charity.
Not Austin letting some local guy he liked hang around because the cause was good.
This is real work.
“Okay.”
Austin holds out his hand.
I stare at it.
Then shake it.
“See you in March, Dex.”
Fuck me.
Cami and Micah are waiting in the hall.
One look at my face and Cami stands up straighter. “What?”
I walk toward them.
Micah studies me. “What happened?”
I hold out my phone.
Cami takes it first.
Her eyes move across the email.
Then get huge.
“Oh my God.”
Micah reads over her shoulder.
His hand lands on my back.
I can't stop smiling.
Which is annoying because I'm also maybe ten seconds from crying.
“Austin wants me back in March.”
Cami looks at me. “For Signal Saints?”
“For album writing.”
Micah's smile is slow and proud.
Fuck him.
“And it’s paid… well,” I add, because apparently that's the part my brain keeps circling.
Cami makes a sound and throws herself at me again.
Micah gets pulled into it this time because I grab his shirt.
For a second, the three of us stand there in a hallway like emotionally unstable idiots.
Then my phone buzzes.
Griffin
How'd it go?
I look at Cami.
At Micah.
Then at the phone again.
Dex
so funny story
Ronan
That phrase has never preceded anything reassuring.
Dex
I think I accidentally got a job
Micah looks over my shoulder. “Not accurate.”
Dex
okay FINE
professional music opportunity
Cami laughs.
Three dots appear from both Ronan and Griffin.
I put my phone away before they can start.
I'll deal with that later.
Right now, Austin Fletcher just asked me to come back to Chicago and write music for money.
Not pour drinks and flirt with bar patrons.
Not pick up a last-minute opening slot.
Write.
For Signal fucking Saints.
I look toward the stage entrance, where I can still hear the crowd filtering out into the night.
Yesterday, I was scared I might not belong here.
Turns out that was the wrong problem.
I do belong here.
Now I have to figure out what the fuck I'm going to do about it.