7. Beau
7
BEAU
I adjust the strap of my bass, trying to tune out Jarron's complaints while a brunette in cut-offs perches on the arm of his chair.
"Can't even make it to soundcheck. What kind of amateur hour bullshit is this?" Jarron strums his guitar aggressively. "Like we need this kind of drama right now."
"Maybe she got lost on her way from the trailer park," Austen snickers, sprawled across the leather couch with his boots up.
I focus on my strings, keeping my mouth shut. Poor girl probably burned through her savings just getting here. It wasn't long ago that I was in her shoes. Montana ain't exactly next door to Nashville.
"At least if she bombs, TMZ might forget about your Waffle House incident," Lyle chimes in, pointing his drumstick at Jarron.
"Man, shut up about that." Jarron shifts uncomfortably. "Those chairs were already broken when I got there."
The brunette giggles, twirling her hair. "I thought it was kind of hot."
"Everything I do is hot, sweetheart." Jarron winks at her.
I roll my eyes, plucking out our opening riff. The venue's already packed – can hear the crowd through the walls, that low rumble of anticipation.
"Ten bucks says she shows up in cowboy boots from Target," Austen says.
"Twenty says she cries when Monica tells her she ain't performing tonight," Jarron adds.
"Y'all are some assholes," I mutter, immediately regretting speaking up when three pairs of eyes lock onto me.
"Always the soft touch, Beau." Jarron shakes his head. "This ain't some charity concert. We've got a reputation to maintain."
"Yeah, and what a sterling reputation that is," I say under my breath, but nobody hears me over the stage manager calling for five minutes.
The groupies scatter as we warm up. I can't help but wonder about this mystery opener, hoping she's okay wherever she ends up tonight.
I adjusted my hat one last time, watching Lyle do his pre-show ritual of spinning his drumsticks three times between each finger. The roar of the crowd seeps through the walls, making my chest vibrate.
"Alright boys, let's give 'em hell." Jarron downs a shot of whiskey, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Extended set tonight since our little amateur couldn't make it."
"Could've at least sent a picture," Austen says, running his hands through his hair for the millionth time. "What if she's hot?"
"What if she's actually talented?" I mutter.
Jarron snorts. "Yeah, and maybe I'll win a Grammy for Best Gospel Album."
"Places, gentlemen!" The stage manager waves us toward the entrance.
We line up in our usual order - Jarron first, then Austen, me, and Lyle bringing up the rear. The familiar pre-show electricity buzzes through my veins, but something feels off tonight.
"Hey." Lyle nudges my arm. "You good, big guy?"
"Just thinking about that poor girl driving all this way for nothing."
"Nothing we can do about it now," he says, but I catch the sympathy in his voice.
The opening notes of our intro track start pumping through the speakers. Jarron rolls his shoulders, getting into performance mode.
"Time to make these Montana folks forget all about missing their dinner plans," he says, flashing that million-dollar smile.
I grip my bass tighter, following them toward the stage. The screams get louder with each step, but I can't shake the feeling we're making a mistake.
The roar hits me before the lights do. Thousands of faces blur into a sea of movement as we take our positions. My fingers find their home on the bass strings, muscle memory taking over despite the chaos.
"How are we doing tonight, Montana?" Jarron's voice booms through the speakers. The crowd's response nearly drowns him out.
I catch Lyle's steady rhythm as we launch into "Backroad Memories," our latest single. Austen's guitar riff cuts through clear and sharp, weaving with Jarron's vocals. The energy pulses through the arena like electricity.
Jarron works the stage like he owns it, that cocky smile plastered across his face as he belts out the chorus. Girls in the front row reach for him, screaming his name. He feeds off it, dropping to his knees at the edge of the stage.
"Show off," I mutter, but I'm smiling. For all his faults, the man knows how to perform.
Lyle kicks up the tempo, and we transition into "Midnight in Memphis." The crowd goes wild, singing every word back to us. Their phones light up the arena like stars, swaying in time with the music.
"Y'all are making us feel right at home!" Jarron shouts between songs, sweat already gleaming on his face. The answering cheer echoes off the walls.
We roll through our setlist, the energy building with each song. Whatever drama happened backstage, whatever's waiting for us tomorrow - right now, it's just four guys making music, doing what we love best.
We're halfway through "Southern Comfort," my fingers working the familiar groove, when I spot her in the crowd. Auburn hair catches the stage lights, creating a halo effect that draws my attention. She's not screaming or jumping like the others – just standing there, eyes closed, singing every word perfectly.
My bass line wavers for a split second as she opens her eyes, looking up at the monitors. A genuine smile spreads across her face, not the starstruck kind we usually get. Something about her seems different. Real.
"Getting sloppy there, big guy," Austen teases as he slides past me during his guitar solo.
I shake my head, finding my rhythm again, but my eyes keep drifting back to her spot in the crowd. Third row, stage right. She's wearing a vintage band tee, not the typical rhinestone-covered get-up most girls wear to our shows.
During "Last Call at Midnight," I swear she's harmonizing better than half our backup singers. Her voice carries just enough for me to catch snippets between verses.
"Keep your head in the game," Lyle calls from behind his drum kit.
The set flies by too fast. Before I know it, we're taking our final bow and heading backstage. I hand my bass to our tech and make a beeline for the exit.
"Where are you running off to?" Jarron calls after me.
"Forgot something in the crowd."
I push through the venue's side door, but the sea of fans has already started dispersing. Moving through the thinning crowd, I scan for that flash of auburn hair, that genuine smile.
"Looking for someone?" our security guard asks.
"Yeah, girl in the third row. Auburn hair, vintage tee."
He shrugs. "They all blur together after a while."
I spend twenty minutes searching before Lyle finds me.
"Bus is leaving, brother. Whatever you lost can wait till tomorrow."
"Yeah," I sigh, taking one last look around. "Guess it'll have too."