Chapter 8 - Roxie
Roxie
I followed the others inside the concert arena and through the winding tunnels reserved for arena employees. The dressing room was behind the main stage, another large, open room with couches and a long table.
Milo tossed a deck of cards onto the table and said, “And now we wait.”
I glanced at my watch. “Five hours until doors open, and seven until you guys go on stage?”
“Don’t forget sound check,” Riot said while taking a seat at the table with his guitar. “That’s scheduled for an hour before doors open.”
I chose a seat across from Riot and opened my laptop.
For a while, nobody spoke—Cash was engrossed with his book on the couch, while Milo and Violet were totally focused on their card game.
Riot had a stack of blank sheet music in front of him, and plucked at his guitar while occasionally making a note on the paper.
I hated to disturb the peace, but after an hour I cleared my throat. “I finished the first tour poster, if anyone wants to see.”
“No shit?” Milo asked, scrambling over to look.
“I didn’t make one for tonight’s show, since I didn’t have time,” I explained. “This is for the Fort Worth show in three days. That’s the skyline, with an emphasis on their rodeo culture.”
“Daaaaamn. This is good!” Milo exclaimed.
“Hell yeah,” Violet said. “So you’re not just a pretty face.”
Riot came around the table and leaned over my shoulder. His arm brushed against mine, and his scent overwhelmed my senses and made it difficult to think.
“I love it,” he said in a soft, yet deep, voice. “You’re really talented.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice,” I said, feeling my cheeks turn red.
“Riot doesn’t give out compliments often,” Cash said from the couch. “If he says you’re talented, then he means it.”
“I complimented your bass during the show the other night,” Riot argued.
“Which,” Cash said, “is the first compliment I’ve gotten from you in over a year. And I wasn’t complaining. Just stating a fact for our new muse.”
“I’ll forward you the contact info for our marketing guy,” Riot told me. He was still so close that his breath tickled my neck. “Send him the artwork and he’ll post them to our socials.”
Preening from the satisfaction that I’d done a good job, I switched over to one of the freelance gigs currently on my to-do list. But it was hard to focus while I was in the same room with four honest-to-God rock stars.
They were exotic to me, and I found my gaze constantly leaving my laptop to watch them.
Riot had begun to pace the length of the room, muttering to himself under his breath. Every so often, he hurried over to the table and jotted down a few scribbles. They might have been musical notes or song lyrics. I couldn’t tell.
I must have been watching him a little too overtly, because Milo leaned his chair over and placed a gentle hand on my back.
“Like all self-absorbed artists,” he whispered, “Riot has a process. And he hates to be disturbed.”
“I do,” Riot said, glaring at the drummer.
Milo muttered an apology, then went back to playing cards with Violet.
Time went by much faster than I expected. When they went out for sound check, I could hear the music thumping through the walls. They returned just as trays of food were brought into the dressing room: chicken sandwiches, pasta, cookies, and big bowls of potato chips.
“Hell yeah,” Milo said while filling a plate. “This is a much better spread than we’re used to.”
“I pushed the label to improve our food while on tour,” Cash said with a satisfied smile. “It pays to be a headliner.”
Milo leaned into me in front of the cookies and said, “While on tour with Rainknife, all we got was a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of grocery store salsa.”
“Don’t knock grocery store salsa,” Violet complained.
“Vi has the food palate of a teenage boy,” Riot said from across the room.
She flicked him off.
The four of them fueled up on food while the opening band began to play.
Milo and Violet helped themselves to the bar, and offered me a mixed drink—which I declined.
Then, in what felt like the blink of an eye, a man wearing a headset knocked on the door and told the band they had five minutes before curtain.
“Showtime,” Riot said. “Everyone group up.”
I watched as the four of them wrapped their arms around each other in a group hug. I could hear them whispering encouragement to each other, but I wasn’t close enough to make out the words.
“Hey, Muse!” Violet suddenly called out. “Get in here.”
“I’m not part of the band…” I said.
“Shut up and join in,” Riot said with a sparkle in his eyes. “It’s a band tradition.”
“It’s weird when you’re just sitting over there looking sad and excluded,” Cash added.
Riot and Milo made room for me between them, and I got up and joined the hug.
“Fucking crush it tonight,” Violet said.
“No prisoners,” Cash said. “Leave it all out on the stage.”
Riot nodded. “Always.”
“And don’t fall in love with someone in the front row,” Milo teased. “We’ve already got our Muse.”
“I didn’t fall…” Riot protested, but by then the group hug was splitting up.
They filed out of the room one by one. Riot gave me a smile and a wink before he went.
“Kiss my drumstick?” Milo suddenly asked. “For good luck?”
I took the drumstick from him and gave it a polite kiss. Then, in a burst of silliness, I parted my lips and pretended like I was sloppy making out with it. With lots of tongue.
“Wow, stop slutting it up with my drumstick!” Milo complained. “He likes to take it slow.”
“Sorry,” I said to the drumstick. “I’ll wait until our third concert before going all the way with you.”
Milo roared with laughter. “I like you,” he said, pointing the drumstick at me as he went out the door. “You’re my new favorite member of the band. Don’t tell Vi.”
And then he was gone, and I was all alone.
It was easy to tell when Cherry Midnight began playing because the floor and walls practically vibrated from the bass. It sounded so much louder than the opening band. Which, I assumed, was by design. Nobody wanted to be upstaged by the opening group.
I ventured out of the dressing room and into the backstage area. The music grew louder, but it wasn’t ear-piercing since the speakers in the venue were pointed out at the fans. I passed black-clad roadies and other workers, but nobody stopped me or told me I wasn’t allowed back there.
I found a nice vantage point behind a huge stack of empty equipment crates. From here, I could see the entire stage and all four members of the band, although their backs were turned to me.
But that wasn’t what took my breath away.
Beyond them were thousands, tens of thousands, of fans. They covered the entire floor in front of the stage and filled the stadium seating in an arc. I’d been to concerts like this before, obviously, but I’d never experienced it from this side, with the entire crowd facing me.
Even though I wasn’t in the band, it was thrilling. Adrenaline immediately surged through my body and I felt my pulse pounding in my chest.
Riot’s voice was like an angel’s as he sang the first song, every note perfect and captivating. I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he clutched the microphone stand, his lips only an inch away from the mic.
And then the chorus was over, and he dropped back a few feet and started playing the guitar. An electric riff filled the arena, his fingers flying over the strings like he was born to play the guitar.
To my right, the audio-visual guy was quietly speaking into a headset: “Second light routine. Good. Now wait for the lasers… now. Bring up the overhead lights for a flash, but then turn them off. Perfect. Now hold here until the next song.”
The show lost a little bit of its magic when viewed from this side. But only a little.
The crowd moved like it had a mind of its own, one massive entity rather than thousands of individuals. They jumped up and down, screaming for Riot as he strode around the stage, head bent as he focused on his guitar. They were totally captivated by the performance.
And so was I.
The song ended, and the fans roared their approval. Behind her keyboard, Violet was grinning. Milo was panting hard at the drums, and Cash was tweaking the frets on his bass guitar.
“Thank you, Houston,” Riot said, voice booming over the speakers. At the mention of their city, the crowd lost its mind for a few seconds before Riot continued. “We’re Cherry Midnight, and we’re happy to be here with you tonight. Who’s ready to fucking rock?”
The crowd lost it again, and Riot turned around and said something to Milo, who immediately nodded.
Then Riot glanced over and saw me. He did a double-take, then a huge smile filled his face.
He winked at me, then turned back to the crowd as Milo began the next song.
In that moment, if Riot had taken my hand and led me back to the dressing room, I would’ve let him do anything he wanted to me. The surge of desire I felt was almost supernatural. That was the effect Riot had when he had a guitar slung across his chest, totally in command of the stage.
I remembered Violet’s warning: don’t hurt them.
It might be harder to follow than I originally thought.