Chapter 11. #3
“Nope. It’s my treat. Happy Birthday-Christmas-Valentine’s. I would put it on now so you can be dry. Also ‘cause it’s hot. Like I said. Chase should be on any second. I had a perfect spot near the side. We can go in and, like, hate-listen to him together.”
I’m not sure I’m even capable of hate-listening at this point. “I really appreciate this, uh, shirt. But …” Now I’m about to feel even worse than I already do. “I think I need to, um … go.”
“To take a shit?” she asks helpfully.
“To leave.” I meet her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
For a moment, I see genuine concern in her eyes. With all the cussing and rage she always exhibits, it’s actually stunning to see something sweeter in her eyes. “Are you okay?” she gently asks.
I nod quickly, ready to let out my automatic answer of yes.
And while nodding, I blurt: “No.”
“Oh, TJ …” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Talk to me. Was it a guy? Did he break your heart? I’ll kill him if you want.”
She says that so sweetly. And her face registers as unsettlingly sincere. Remind me to add her to a list of people never to fuck with.
“Sorry,” she goes on, “I just sort of assumed you’re gay. I have a gay brother. I’m getting gay brother vibes from you.”
I’m not even sure how to respond to that. “I just need to go.”
“I’m gonna fuck up whoever it is, okay? Like, fuck them up so bad, there’ll be nothing else left to fuck up when I’m done.” Again, she says this sweetly. “I’ve got your back, little bro.”
Whistling and howling erupts from the concert hall. Miranda and I turn to it. People around us rush back in, some abandoning the long-ass merchandise line, not wanting to miss the show.
She frowns at me. “If you gotta go, you gotta go. I sure hope I get to see you again. Maybe at the next show? You’re a good guy.”
Too many people tell me that without knowing me.
I sure don’t feel like the good guy tonight.
There’s someone who should be here instead of me, to see the singer he loves and worships. Someone I likely scared away. And every second I stand here still wearing his hat, I feel worse.
She takes my hand one last time, whispers, “I’ll mess him up, whoever it is, just say the word,” then smiles, nods, and lets go as she heads off to see the main act, leaving me in the lobby.
To the sound of the exploding crowd, I walk past the vendors, who are now staring at each other, like they finally broke through their wall of sexual tension—good for them—and head for the exit, clinging the Soul Biter shirt to my chest.
I stop. Through the glass doors: rain. Pouring, relentless rain.
Flashes of lightning. The scene sure gives this “House of Thunder” venue a fitting atmosphere.
All of that scary storming becomes the visual backdrop as the music kicks in from the concert hall—the steady, invigorating drums, a deep note ringing out from the bass guitar that joins the rhythm of the drums, and then chords on an electric keyboard playing their way in.
Finally, the rich, bright notes from skillful fingers on a guitar come to life.
The music is so full and engaging, even from out here in the lobby, that I barely register the joyous screams from the crowd.
It’s going to be a long-ass drive home.
Maybe I deserve it.
My hand is resting on the push-bar of the exit when Chase Holt sings his first note.
And I stop.
Struck by it.
I’m struck for some reason I can’t yet make sense out of.
I listen to his voice—and the lyrics.
“Quicksand, quicksand …”
“You know the danger, quicksand …”
I barely notice the flash of lightning and the rolling boom of thunder that follows. My complete attention is locked into Chase Holt and his lyrics.
“Haven’t given into him yet, have you?”
“But I know, I know, I know you want to.”
“Wanna toss yourself into his eyes, ‘cause he pleads the right way …”
“Yeah, he pleads the right way, don’t he …”
My hand drops from the push-bar as I continue to listen.
“You know the danger, quicksand, yet still you dip your toe …”
“Trusting dreams and nightmares can’t touch you, ‘cause they ain’t touched you before …”
It’s edged in pain, his voice. Angrier than the song I heard out in the rain at the Horseshoe. Grittier than the song I let play in my room that one night not so long ago. But that voice in the flesh …
That voice and those words.
“You know the danger, quicksand …”
“But you’ve only dipped a toe.”
“‘Til your toe talks your leg into it. ‘Til your leg talks your dick into it. Then your racing heart and your whole damned mind, ‘til it’s all you know. Yeah your whole damned mind, where those dreams come from …”
“And the nightmares.”
I turn away from the door. The unrelenting music pulls me in, not once letting go, as I slowly return to the concert hall.
“You don’t realize how deep he’s got you sinkin’ …”
“‘Til all you taste is sand …”
“And him, yeah, and him, yeah, and him, and him, and him …”
A staccato note and smash of drums, then silence.
“Then you sink some more.”
Music crashes back in like thunder.
The moment he’s in view, he’s a blur of colors and lights. His face, shadowed under the brim of a cowboy hat. People all around me, screaming, throwing hands. I cut through them like I’m not even there, like I’m a ghost.
“Is it better, tell me, is it better to sidestep the danger of you?”
“Why does it hurt, I’m beggin’ you, why does it hurt?”
“And I sink some more …”
Then I’m right there in the heart of the crowd. Chase Holt on the stage, attacking that guitar with all his heart, with all his soul, the light catching a glint of bright teeth as he bares them, anguish fueling his song.
“You know the danger, quicksand, but I can’t fall, I can’t fall …”
“I can’t fall, I can’t fall …”
The last chord strikes, drums crash to an end, bass line hangs in the air as Chase Holt holds that last note, then finishes:
“I can’t fall … for you.”
A breath of awe-filled silence.
Then the crowd roars around me.
Chase Holt lifts his head, shadow of his hat slipping off his face like a veil of dark silk, revealing his eyes—just as they land on mine, the only face in a sea of screaming adoration standing still.