34. Under Pressure
THIRTY-FOUR
UNDER PRESSURE
L ily
I frantically type out messages to Harris, my fingers flying over the screen as I explain the power outage and our late departure. Each of his responses is short and sharp, his frustration evident through every word. My heart pounds harder with every message, the anxiety in my chest growing by the second.
How far away are you? Harris demands. I glance at the map on my phone, my stomach sinking—it’s going to be tight. If nothing changes, we will make it without about ten minutes to spare.
We’re en route, but there’s traffic . I reply, biting my lip as I hit send.
His response comes instantly. This is not good, Lily. If you miss the show...
I let out a heavy sigh and place my phone on my lap, leaning into Marcus beside me, seeking some comfort. His arm wraps around me, pulling me close.
“Trouble?” he asks, his voice a low murmur, his warm breath tickling my ear.
I shake my head, not saying anything, staring out at the unmoving line of cars ahead. We have been crawling forward, then stopping for about twenty minutes now. The air in the cab feels suffocating, thick with tension. No one is talking. Phones are plugged in, filling the air with constant pings as they come back to life, but the usual banter is absent. Even Dylan, who is typically the first to lighten the mood, seems on edge.
Up front, the cab driver clicks through his map, viewing alternate routes as he complains to himself about the traffic, oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing in the back. The sun beats down on the cab, turning it into a sweltering box. Sweat trickles down my back, making my shirt cling uncomfortably to my skin. Marcus wipes his forehead, his messy blond hair sticking to his damp skin, and Dylan, sitting behind us, fans himself with a piece of crumpled paper.
"Looks like we’re in for a hot one," Dylan jokes, his voice weak, as if he’s trying to grasp at some semblance of humor. "Anyone up for a road trip sing-along?"
Enzo snorts from the back. " That’s exactly what we need right now. Why do you always want to fucking sing in the car anyway?”
Dylan shrugs in response.
Jax, sitting next to Enzo, is silent, his jaw clenched as he stares out the window. His dark hair hangs in his eyes, and it’s clear that he’s stewing in his own thoughts. The tension in the van is almost unbearable, each of us simmering in our own frustrations.
Suddenly, the car lurches to a stop, throwing us all forward in our seats.
"What the fuck?" Enzo barks, his irritation bubbling to the surface.
“Idiots,” the cab driver responds, gesturing out the windshield. I glance at the sea of brake lights ahead of us. Traffic is at a standstill, again, and with every minute that passes, our chances of making it on time slip further away.
Groaning, I pull up the map again. We’re still crawling toward the venue, but at this rate, we’ll definitely be late.
The minutes drag on, agonizingly slow, and we inch forward. My heart pounds in my chest as the pressure mounts. When we finally pull up to the venue—almost an hour late—the doors fly open, and the band rushes out, heading to the dressing room to grab their instruments. Dylan grabs my hand, pulling me along as we sprint toward the entrance.
The next half-hour is a blur. Bags are tossed into corners, instruments are hurriedly tuned, and the band is ushered onto the stage. Despite the chaos, they transform once the lights hit them. The moment they step into the spotlight, it’s like watching magic unfold.
They kill it. Every song, every note, is perfect, reverberating through the packed stadium with more power than I’ve ever heard before. The crowd roars, swept up in the energy, completely forgiving of the late start.
From my spot backstage, I watch in awe. Jax commands the stage, his voice raw and full of emotion, hitting every note with precision. His dark hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat, as he belts out the final chorus. It’s like he’s taken all the pent-up angst from the last day and a half, and he pours it into the music. The crowd eats it up.
Behind him, Marcus is a whirlwind on his guitar, his blond hair falling over his blue eyes as his fingers fly over the strings. Dylan hammers away on the drums, his energy never faltering, while Enzo—smirking as always—dominates the bass, playing with a fierce intensity that sends chills through me.
The stadium is electric, the crowd feeding off their energy, chanting and cheering long after the last note fades. Despite the stressful day, they’ve delivered a performance for the ages. I feel pride swell in my chest. They’ve pulled off something incredible, despite the rocky start to the day. The tension that had been so thick earlier was not visible on the stage at all. From the wings, all I can see is a band that rocks together.
Backstage, the mood is still tense, but there’s a hint of relief in the air. The band exchanges high-fives and brief smiles, their adrenaline still running high. Jax is the first to speak, his voice gruff but sincere. "Good job, everyone," he says, glancing at me for a moment before looking away. "We pulled it off."
"Yeah, but we can’t let this happen again," Marcus adds, his tone serious. "We need to be better prepared next time."
Dylan, still trying to lighten the mood, cracks a grin. "Hey, at least we know we work well under pressure, right?" His laugh is half-hearted, but it’s enough to ease the tension just a bit.
Enzo shrugs, his smirk back in place. "Whatever. Just don’t fuck it up again." He says this generally, and no one takes offense.
A sense of relief washes through me. Touring with the band is… fun. Except for the last two days, when the tension was so high, all I wanted to do was escape. I feel a weight lift off my shoulders as the band starts back up with their usual banter.
The harsh lights backstage cast long shadows, and the smell of sweat and adrenaline lingers around the band, clinging to their clothes. But stronger than any of that, a sense of camaraderie threads through the air, reconnecting the band, and reigniting my hope that everything on this tour is going to be okay.