Sympathy for the Blues (The Dusty Brooms #1)

Prologue

It’s almost time to head on stage.

The opening act is finishing up, as the sounds of applause drown out the remaining strums of the other performers’ guitars.

Ray tugs slightly at the collar of his flowy button-up blouse, showing off his chest a bit in the middle.

He loosens the fit so as to not be too tight, threatening to squeeze his racing heart.

It doesn’t matter how many times he’s been on stage now—every performance is one he looks forward to, and it gets his adrenaline pumping.

Gene, their rhythm guitarist, is going to enter from the other side of the stage with Pat, their drummer, and Santiago, their lead guitarist. Ray bites his bottom lip, pulling himself together.

Stefan, their bassist, is right next to Ray.

A blank expression paints Stefan’s pale face like always, as if this show is just some miniscule trivial thing.

That’s just his usual face though—unchanging.

You would never be able to guess he’s actually having the time of his life.

It makes Ray smile to himself. Stefan gives him a slight nod, mouth unmoving.

He’s ready. I guess I should be ready, too.

Ray runs onto the stage—bright lights blind his eyes and screams of ogling fangirls drown out as a white noise in his ears.

The scent of the stage atmosphere is something so unique to a show, something you can only smell while being right there in the moment.

Booze, weed, alcohol, vomit, and enormous amounts of sweat.

All before he’s even able to say his first word into the microphone.

“Hello everyone,” is all he manages to get out, before another wave of cheers and applause drowns him out.

He smiles at the sheer energy these people have.

They’re here to see the Dusty Brooms, and they sure are showing it with their rabid screams. It riles him up too, as he bounces his fists up and down by his sides to the rhythm of their claps, nodding his head, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Then he looks to his left and sees Gene.

They make eye contact as Gene flings the strap of his guitar up and around the back of his neck.

Gene smiles with that charming, handsome grin—and a deep tenderness in those gorgeous hazel eyes.

His striped button-up shirt is open down the middle, revealing his dark chest hair contrasting against his pale, bare skin, warm stage lights reflecting sweat dripping down.

Ray licks his lips, looking back to the crowd in an attempt to get his mind to focus.

We’re doing this.

Gene strums the opening riff of ‘Wild Girls’, and the audience roars again.

Song after song, Ray sings his heart out.

Spitting into the microphone the blues, the lyrics, the melody that keeps his blood rushing.

For every instrumental where he leaves his mic on standby, he claps along, he dances to the crowd, moving his body to the rhythm as the band backs him up.

Yes, this is it. Every person is here to see them.

To see what he and his band have created, to hear the wonderful music they all share in their souls to the world.

And maybe there’s quite a lot of girls here to see him shake his ass, too.

But either way, it’s exhilarating. He loves to perform, and be the frontman on stage with all eyes on him.

In-between songs is a short break, letting Ray catch his breath and the other bandmates wring out their fingers.

And during that time, Ray notices Gene step over to the back, snatching a bottle of Jack from the top of an amp by Pat’s drum kit, taking a swig of it for himself.

Oh, of course he’d do that, Ray thinks as he chuckles to himself.

Just another little quirk of Gene that, for whatever reason, somehow makes him all the more endearing.

A change in tune rings on Gene’s guitar, as he carries on with the opening chords of ‘Golden Sunset’. Ray starts singing the verse by himself, like usual. But for the chorus, Gene comes up right next to him, singing together with him on the same mic.

“Take me away, honey, where dreams are met.”

It’s like their voices are meant to harmonize together, with the right intonation, and the exact timbre that complements the other perfectly. No matter the lyrics, Gene’s higher harmony flows smoothly with Ray’s lower register, melting together as one in the singular microphone.

“I’ll drive you away through the golden sunset.”

For a moment, Ray takes his eyes off the crowd to look at the man next to him.

While they’ve shared a mic on stage plenty of times within the past few years, every time, every single time, it makes his heart race faster.

To be this close to Gene, feeling his breath on his face, smelling the alcohol on his tongue—in that moment, the whole audience fades away, the band vanishes behind him, leaving nothing but Gene in his vision.

And Gene looks right back into his eyes. He smiles at him—

“Woah-oh, baby, through the golden sunset.”

Song after song, the crowd keeps cheering. Song after song, the beat keeps thumping. And every time Ray sings with Gene so close, on that same microphone, the butterflies frizz in his stomach like mad.

What a ride it’s been each and every year, soaring to new heights and performing electric rock-’n’-roll to frantic, screaming crowds.

It’s not always been like this, though. Every band has to start somewhere.

In fact, it was a miracle that a small bluesy rock band like the Dusty Brooms was able to make it big out of Michigan at all.

Everything started with a chance encounter.

When Ray met Gene, it was like he stumbled upon the key to his destiny.

Two young men with a whole lot in common and dreams just waiting to be tapped into, brewing inside their heads.

So many nights playing music to each other, writing songs, strumming their guitars, and singing new lyrics that came to them easily.

A love for music brought them here, and catapulted them into a friendship like no other, not too long ago…