Chapter Nineteen Eleanor
We arrive at the club right as the opening act finishes their set.
With our names on the list, we’re granted access to the balcony above the main floor, which is off-limits to anyone with a general admission ticket.
It’s mostly empty, but I spot Jane standing off to one side and tap Adam’s elbow so he’ll follow me over.
She’s sipping a carbonated drink from a plastic cup, and lifts her brows in greeting before releasing the straw. “Hey, guys.”
It’s her tone of voice, and the way her gaze flickers back and forth between us, that tells me she’s figured out something is going on between Adam and me.
Given we keep showing up together… I suppose we haven’t exactly been subtle.
I decide I don’t mind her knowing. Jane is cool, and anyway, I agreed to go out on an actual date with Adam.
If it goes well, and keeps going well, more people will know, eventually.
Movement onstage snares my attention. It’s just a couple of stagehands doing some last-minute set up for Dempsey, but it’s enough to get the crowd buzzing with anticipation.
The stage empties, and the lighting shifts, and it’s like the entire club collectively holds their breath. Freddie Dempsey steps onstage, followed by Sheridan, Ralph, and Curtis.
They hit their marks, Sher and Freddie in front of microphone stands on opposite ends of the stage, each with guitars slung over their shoulders. I catch Adam’s eye, and he grins at me, hand finding the small of my back for a moment before slipping into his pocket.
Curtis hits his drumsticks together to count them down, and over the swell of cheers from the audience, they launch into their opener.
The energy in the club is a vibrant, tangible thing. A reminder of why I got into this business in the first place. A reminder of why I didn’t quit after Griffin, even when I wanted to run away and start fresh in some industry where no one knew my name. I love music, and I always will.
The band sounds great—if a little stiff. But it’s the last stop on a long tour, so I don’t think they can be blamed for having lost some of their spontaneity at this point.
The club is packed, and thunderously loud as the song finishes and Sheridan wraps both hands around the microphone stand.
“Hello Las Vegas!” She grins brightly at the responding roar from the audience.
One hand drops to rest along the guitar strapped to her shoulder.
“Ooh, we’ve got a fantastic crowd tonight.
I can feel it.” More whistles and cheers.
“Playing shows like this is a privilege, and we only get to do it because of you. Because you guys show the fuck up, and stream our music, and we want to thank you for that.”
Her gaze sweeps over the club slowly, like she’s straining to see each and every person’s face past the glare of the stage lights.
I’ve seen Dempsey live a handful of times now, between the gigs they played before signing with a label and then their last tour.
Sheridan is incredible at crowd work for exactly this reason—because it isn’t fake.
She isn’t just vamping. She isn’t a jaded musician reading from the same script night after night. She cares.
Curtis is smirking behind his kit, his eyes locked on Sheridan’s back.
Ralph is taking the opportunity to quietly retune his bass.
Freddie steps back from his own mic to say something to Curtis.
It draws Sheridan’s attention, too, and before the rest of the band seems to be ready, Freddie is strumming the opening chords of their next song.
The others are quick to jump in, seasoned enough they don’t miss a beat. Freddie has lead vocals on this song, so Sheridan takes her time returning to her side of the stage. When she does hit the mic for backup vocals, she looks sideways at her brother. Her expression is not pleased.
The tension onstage is palpable, but they make it through the next two songs without incident. Then Sheridan lets go of her guitar and takes her microphone off the stand, ready to address the crowd again. She barely gets three words out when Freddie starts playing over her.
My head rears back, hardly able to believe what I just saw.
I cast my gaze around the room, trying to get a sense of whether the general audience even noticed, but of course it’s impossible to tell from up here.
Jane definitely noticed, though. Beside me she’s pursing her lips and avoiding my gaze, but I catch her give a pissed-off little shake of her head.
Onstage, Sheridan sets the mic back on the stand and scrambles to jump in on vocals, only to step away again when they reach the bridge.
Freddie glares at her and jerks his head toward her mic.
She stares resolutely back while Curtis and Ralph continue to vamp.
After a drawn-out moment, Sheridan bends down to snag a water bottle from the base of her mic stand.
She takes a couple of long gulps, then sets it back down and jumps back in on rhythm guitar.
My gaze stays locked on Sheridan for the rest of the song. The band finds the pocket again, and Sheridan’s vocals are pitch-perfect, but there’s no passion in her voice. She’s singing like she’s numb.
The song wraps and while Freddie’s last guitar riff is still ringing out, Sheridan shouts into her microphone, “You guys have been great, thank you so much!”
She whips her guitar strap overhead and walks offstage.
A beat later Curtis follows, both drumsticks fisted in one hand. But Ralph and Freddie both look like deer caught in the headlights.
I glance over my shoulder at Adam, who leans forward with a frown. “That wasn’t their full set.”
It’s Jane who responds first. “No, they had twelve songs on their set list.”
Freddie hesitates another moment before he and Ralph exit the stage as well. A low murmur rolls through the crowd.
“… Do we think they’re coming back?” Adam asks, eyes locked onto the side stage, even though there isn’t any movement.
“I don’t know.” I give a sidelong glance at Jane. “Sher didn’t look too happy.”
Jane presses her tongue to her upper teeth. “Let’s give it a few minutes.”
Five minutes pass, and they still haven’t come back onstage. Club music starts playing overhead, and some of the crowd closest to the stage starts getting restless, a slow stream of them heading toward the exit.
“I’m going to head backstage,” Jane says. “You guys want to come?”
The backstage area of a club like this is probably pretty small. It’s not like they’re playing a sold-out arena—that’s where I’d like to take them, after we put out another album. But here and now, I’m unlikely to go unnoticed if I use my backstage pass earlier than planned.
Then again, if they’re really not going to come out and finish their set, I guess it’s not technically early. And if they do sign with me, I won’t be out of place at all.
Adam defers to me, and I nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Doubt settles low in my stomach, even as Adam agrees to come backstage with me.
It grows heavier, when we give our names to the security guard at the stage door, who checks his list and lets us through.
Solidifies when we round the corner and find Sheridan and Freddie Dempsey at each other’s throats.
Ralph squeezes between them, facing Freddie as he lifts both hands and tries to defuse the situation, while Curtis has one arm raised protectively in front of Sheridan, like he knows better than to fully hold her back, but is itching to take her place instead.
“—selfish prick, you know that?” Sheridan is yelling at her brother.
Fiona hovers in the background, her phone gripped tight in one hand while the other pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Oh, fuck off, Sher. You’re the one acting like a goddamn diva.”
Sheridan launches forward, only to have Curtis lift her off her feet and spin her around.
Once he sets her down, his hands hover over her shoulders and he speaks to her in a low, steady voice.
I can’t make out what he’s saying to her—or what Freddie says next—but it’s clear as day when Curtis spins around to face Freddie and shouts:
“Man, shut the fuck up. You think we don’t know you’ve been talking to other managers without us?”
My gaze darts over to Fiona. Her arms are crossed and her lips are pursed as she coolly observes the infighting. She doesn’t look surprised by this revelation, but then again, Dempsey already dropped their label and their publicist. She’d be smart to wonder if she was next on the chopping block.
“I’m not gonna apologize for exploring every option for my band—”
Ralph huffs, looking flushed and furious, puppy-dog eyes nowhere to be found as finally he speaks up: “When did you decide this was your band?”
“He’s always thought that,” Sheridan yells over Curtis’s shoulder. “He just used to be better at hiding it.”
“Think what you want,” Curtis says next. “But I’m never signing on with Billy Draper.”
I feel Adam stiffen beside me, feel him watching me. His gaze itches across my skin, but I don’t give in to the urge to scratch.
Billy Draper. Freddie reached out to Billy Draper.
The band is still slinging insults at one another, but I’ve heard enough.
I grab Adam’s arm and drag him away from the group, skirting past them right as Sheridan pulls one of Curtis’s drumsticks out of his back pocket and throws it at Freddie’s head.
It misses, and the whole display of sibling rivalry might even be funny in some other context.
But right now, I’m not laughing. Right now, the pieces are clicking into place and the only thought in my mind is that Adam could have made this so much easier on both of us.
I don’t know where I’m going. I turn down a hallway, and the bright lights are jarring compared to the darkness backstage. There’s a greenroom on my right, and I pull Adam inside.