CHAPTER EIGHT
Ethan stepped closer and peeked into the crowd. “There’s nothing like the first show after a new album. I’m ready.”
“Me too.” Harris’ foot bounced, eager to get out there.
“Are you guys ready?” Ethan asked Wolf and Marshall.
“You bet!” Marsh answered.
“I’m always ready,” Wolf stated, impatience clear in his voice.
The lights in the venue dimmed. Sound effects blasted the long, loud howl of a lone wolf, then the rest of the pack joined in the recording. A roar rose from the fans that almost blew the roof off the place.
Wolf and Marshall ran on stage first. Harris ran out next, jumped on the drum riser, and held his fist in the air while the cheers and howls continued.
They all waited for Ethan. The guy took his time, smiling and absorbing the energy in the arena as he waited for the right moment to make an entrance.
Finally, he sauntered on stage, encased in a cone of light, with both arms in the air, and the crowd when fucking insane.
The band went straight into playing their first single off the new album.
It was fast and hard, and Harris pounded the ever-loving shit out of his drums. They were three minutes into the set, and he was dripping with sweat, so he ripped his T-shirt off, wiped his face with it, and threw it onto the stage floor.
A stagehand brought out a fan and placed it directly on him, and it felt wonderful.
“Hello, Sacramento!” Ethan yelled into the mic, addressing the crowd, once the song was over. “That was our new single ‘Loud and Down,’ and thanks to you guys, it’s sitting at number one!”
Fists pumped the air as the fans hollered.
“I hope you’re ready to rock, because we’re ready to roll!”
That was so cheesy that Harris hung his head and groaned. As soon as he looked up, Wolf turned from his spot on the stage and made eye contact with Harris and they both laughed together. They were so in sync sometimes.
The crowd didn’t care that Ethan used the outdated cliché and cheered harder. They loved him!
Wolf Pack transitioned into the next song, and then the next.
Lost in the sound of his double bass drum and the rhythm of the music, Harris played song after song.
He didn’t realize that they were almost halfway through their set until there was a short break.
While Ethan rested his throat and drank his special tea, Marshall played a repetitive riff, Wolf plucked a steady baseline, and Harris dusted his cymbals.
Since he wasn’t pounding his drums like a maniac, he was able to watch the crowd. It was a sea of rock and roll horns, raised fists, and whistles. He also took this time to appreciate the musical talent of his bandmates.
Marshall, a gifted guitarist, played with fortitude.
Even now, during this lull from the hardcore shredding in the heavy songs Wolf Pack usually played, Marshall put his entire body into playing his Fender.
His love for his instrument was apparent as he stared at it lovingly and caressed the strings into a softer melody.
Wolf, on the other hand, beat the shit out of a bassline.
Even when it was supposed to be subdued during this interval between songs, he plucked the strings so hard it looked as if he were going to pull them right off the fretboard.
The deep, sultry boom hit you right in the chest and almost knocked you over with power.
Watching his bandmates gave Harris a rush that he couldn’t contain, and instead of the soft shimmer of the cymbals, he broke loose with thunderous kicks to the double bass and a heavy round on his toms. After a couple of dozen hard crashes to his cymbals, while simultaneously pounding on his bass drum until his arms and legs were aching, he silenced the cymbals, jumped onto his stool, and threw his sticks into the crowd.
Everyone was cheering and screaming. Wolf and Marshall had stopped playing at some point and were watching Harris, big smiles on their faces.
Ethan was back on stage, watching him in awe, then brought the mic to his lips and extended his arm toward Harris.
“Ladies and gents, let’s hear it for Harris Young and his impromptu drum solo! You’re fucking awesome, dude!”
Wolf gave Harris an exaggerated bow, and Marshall clapped.
Harris, naked from the waist up and dripping with sweat, tried to catch his breath. A stagehand brought him a bottle of water, and he poured it over his head, which garnered an array of resounding screams of approval from the fans.
That set the tone for the rest of the night.
The out-of-control energy of the band and the decibel of the cheers and foot stomping from the crowd were loud enough to tilt the Richter scale.
When Wolf Pack finally left the stage, they were all flying high.
It was the first show of the tour, and it was fire!
***
The afterparty took place in a private room in the back of a swanky club.
It had its own DJ rocking tunes from Beartooth, Five Finger Death Punch, the Deftones, Bring Me the Horizon, and more.
Top-shelf liquor, champagne, and awesome finger foods were circulated via waiters carrying trays.
The room was packed. Harris had no idea who most of these people were, but everyone was having a great time.
The first show of the tour always filled him with a high like no drug—not even Iris’ pot brownies.
His arms were pumped, and he couldn’t stop air drumming along to the music.
When Marshall walked by, he pounded out a little beat into the guy’s huge, round shoulder.
“You’re feeling good,” Marshall stated, before slugging back the last of his drink.
“The show was awesome. I could have played all night.”
“It was a great crowd. I wish we were here for another night.”
“I can’t believe we’re heading out in a couple of hours.”
“Better make the most of it.” Marshall held up his empty beer. “Wanna do a shot?”
“Yeah. Let’s grab Ethan and Wolf.” Harris hadn’t seen either of them in a while and tried to scan the crowd, but it was too thick with bodies. “Do you know any of these people?”
“Not really.” Marshall pointed to a small group of people nearby. “Those two guys are with the road crew. I think I saw the singer from the opening band here a little while ago with some chick.”
“Ethan!” Harris yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth, when he spotted his friend.
Ethan looked around as if he wasn’t sure he heard someone calling his name, then saw Harris waving his hand and headed over.
“Sick party,” Ethan said. “Killer tunes and awesome drinks.”
“I know. We were gonna get a round of shots and celebrate,” Harris said. “Where’s Wolf?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
“This place is packed. We’ll never find him.” Harris began to worry Wolf took off, preferring to be alone than in the middle of a crowd. “You don’t think he went back to the hotel or the bus, do you?”
“Why would he do that? Look at this place. All the fun is right here.”
Marshall began to search the room, moving a few feet to the right then to the left and stretching his neck above the crowd. “Maybe he wanted some fun in private.”
Tightness clenched in Harris’ gut. Wolf had always had a notoriously prolific sex life on the road.
Available men threw themselves at him everywhere he went.
Harris wondered why the hell he’d forgotten about that.
He frantically raced through the room, asking total strangers if they’d seen Wolf.
He sent a bunch of texts but knew Wolf wouldn’t even notice with all the noise. Where the fuck was Wolf?
Harris spun around and headed for the restroom—just in case—and that’s when he saw Wolf with a guy pressed up against the wall.
Bile churned in Harris’ stomach, and he felt as if someone just punched him in the gut.
He bolted toward them, pushing people out of the way and almost knocking over a waiter carrying a tray full of champagne flutes. He didn’t even apologize or slow down.
When he got about three feet away from Wolf, he stopped. What the fuck was he supposed to say? Get your tongue out of that guy’s mouth? Get your hands off my man? Neither were appropriate. Wolf wasn’t his guy. They were friends. And friends didn’t cock block one another.
Harris’ entire body deflated like someone let the air out of a balloon, and heartache stabbed him in the chest. He didn’t move.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, paralyzed, watching Wolf make out with a random stranger.
He wanted to leave and run as fast as he could in the opposite direction, or at least stop staring.
But he couldn’t look away. People walked around him and in front of him, but he still didn’t move.
He was rooted to that spot as his heart crumbled a little more with each second that passed.
Finally, Wolf broke the kiss, took the guy’s hand, and started to walk away—directly toward Harris. He didn’t see Harris at first, then almost walked right into him.
“Dude. What are you doing standing there?” Wolf asked.
“What are you doing?” Harris asked, the words sounding accusatory.
“Nothing.” Wolf’s brows furrowed. “Are you OK?”
“No. I’m not. What are you doing?” Harris repeated.
“What?”
“What are you doing?” Harris was shellshocked and couldn’t seem to say anything else.
“What are you talking about?”
“With him?” Harris’ eyes shot daggers at the guy with Wolf, who flinched a little.
The guy looked from Wolf to Harris and back to Wolf, obviously aware that he was in the middle of something. “I’m gonna get a drink. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait,” Wolf called after the guy, but he was gone. “Why’d you chase that guy away? Do you know him or something?” Wolf’s eyes widened, as if he just realized something. “Did you just fool around with him? Did he just give you a blow—”
“No!”
“What’s up, then? Why do you look pissed off?”