Chapter Ten
BAX
The din of voices and sounds from all the moving parts that go into a successful music festival pour through the crack beneath the dressing room’s door.
Winter Fest is well underway, and an excited buzz has powered me all day. Pre-performance anticipation layered with nerves over what Luke Thompson—who is somewhere backstage—will think of our set. I tug on the purple Minneapolis Metros T-shirt I bought after Tyler got called up last week.
Layne looks up from drawing black liner around his eyes. “I thought you were gonna wear that black tee I picked out.”
“I changed my mind.” Leaning against the wall, I cross my arms over my chest. The logo is distressed, and I think the shirt fits well with our vibe.
He sucks in a breath, drawing himself up to full height, which is still way shorter than me, so I’m not sure why he bothers, and opens his mouth. Then closes it, shakes his head, and turns away. He tosses the eyeliner into his bag.
“Won’t Soren feel left out?” After nudging Layne away from the mirror, Everett studies his own reflection, turning every which way to inspect his Layne-approved leather pants and long-sleeved black tee.
“I’ll wear a Slash shirt to our next gig.” I’m half-joking, but now that the idea is out there, I want to do it. The Metros’ backup goalie returned to the lineup a week ago, so Soren is back with the Slash.
Gavin, sprawled across the small couch in the corner, opens his eyes. He went for a power nap twenty minutes ago and fell asleep immediately. My shirt gets an approving nod before he turns his attention to Everett’s ass. “People might start asking about your sudden hockey obsession.”
“Fine with me.” I scroll through my phone. Two texts from Soren and Tyler, letting me know they’ve arrived and picked up their passes. And one from Sage, thanking me for his and Rhys’s passes.
Gavin sits up, brushing his hands through his hair. “Is it time for us to go on?”
“Nearly.” Everett pulls him off the couch then smooths the wrinkles out of Gavin’s dark gray shirt. It’s unbuttoned to reveal the black tee beneath, and Everett slides his hands over that too. “Ready?”
He wraps Everett into his arms and rests their foreheads together. “Think so.”
Layne gives himself another glance in the mirror. Short sleeves showcase his tattoos, leather pants hug his legs, metal studs gleam on his black boots and match his silver necklaces and rings. “I’ll be right back. I want to check the crowd’s energy.”
He’s gone before any of us can respond.
With Everett and Gavin absorbed in each other, I text my guys and tell them where to wait backstage. This is the third year we’ve performed at Winter Fest. It’s always held at the same location, so we know the layout well.
Throughout the arena, there’s fake snow, small ice sculptures with a music theme, blue and purple lights everywhere, and vendors selling cold beers and hot spiked drinks.
Sage and Rhys’s VIP passes get them into special access areas where they can mingle with bands and have a drink.
Soren and Tyler’s lanyards are reserved for people with the band, allowing them into the private areas like the dressing room, and they can hang backstage while we’re performing.
After our set, we’re going to a hole-in-the-wall diner we found the first year we played here.
The guys and I unwind there post-show every year, and I’m looking forward to including Soren and Tyler in the tradition.
Hoping I can catch a glimpse of my guys, I pull open the door.
Layne stumbles into me. His eyes are too bright and wild. I grab hold of his arms. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But his hands clutch my shirt, and he presses into me like he used to do when we were kids and he got scared in the dark.
I pet his back, also like I used to do back then. “You look like a deer caught in headlights. That’s not nothing. Tell me.”
He shakes himself, then pulls away from me. “I just… it’s fine. I saw someone.”
Not much fazes him, so I can’t imagine who’d cause this reaction. Though I could see him being starstruck by Luke Thompson. “Was it Luke?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“Someone I didn’t expect.” He says it more to himself than to me, raking a hand through the hair he spent so long styling.
I wonder if that “someone” has anything to do with Layne’s mood over the last few months and the song he composed.
One of the organizers heads our way, speaking into her headset. She pushes the mouthpiece aside when she reaches us. “Five minutes. Please head for the stage.”
Layne ducks into the room and takes a swig from a hip flask that belonged to his dad. “Let’s go, boys.”
I grab his hand. “Layne, who was it?”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.” The tone is final and sad. He tucks the flask into his bag. “Come on.”
“Layne…” Blowing out a breath, I exchange a look with Everett and Gavin, and we follow Layne through the maze of backstage.
The number of people it takes to put on a show like this never fails to impress me. We gather into a little huddle, more of a group hug, and then it’s time.
We take the stage.
Waving to the crowd, Layne grabs the mic from its stand. “Hey, Minneapolis. Are you having a good time?”
They roar in response.
“I’m happy to hear it. It’s fucking cold out there, right?”
More cheers and laughter answer him. I get settled behind my kit. Everett and Gavin slip the guitar straps over their heads.
Layne looks back at us, checks that we’re good, then spins to the audience. “Let’s get you warmed up. One, two, three, four…”
As he counts, I clack my drumsticks together, then thunder my way into “Angry Robot.” The song is a fan favorite. It’s heavy, and the pace is lightning fast. My muscles burn keeping the rapid-fire rhythm, but I love the feeling.
The crowd is into it. Flashing the horns, nodding to the beat, singing along with us. Blue and purple lights flare, then flame orange like the rage in the song is strong enough to set off fires.
Panting into the mic, Layne paces the stage, working the crowd in the way that only he can do. His energy is palpable, and the audience eats it up. “Our next song is one that people always request at our shows. It’s a little older, off our first album. Let’s make some noise.”
With a smirk, Everett plays the opening chord of “Make Some Noise”, and the Flame Shade fans in the crowd cheer.
Layne’s voice is perfect. Everett and Gavin take turns rocking my way. Everything is seamless. No wrong notes. No wrong lyrics. No mistakes. We’re putting on the best show we can. I’m damn proud of my band.
Making music that makes people happy is such a rewarding feeling. We perform “Weight of the World,” “Creatures,” and “Make You Mine.”
By the end of “Make You Mine”, my biceps, triceps, and forearms are spent. I grab one of the strawberry sports drinks Soren gifted to me for the set and down half the bottle.
Off the side of the stage to my right, Soren is wrapped around Tyler. I point a drumstick at them, and the smiles on their faces light me up in the best way. Tyler told me the other day that Soren’s yoga playlist includes “Make You Mine”, and I know I’ll think of that every time we play that song.
“We’re all friends here, right?” Mic in hand, Layne walks from one side of the stage to the other. The crowd cheers. “Okay good. So, friends, do you want to hear a song that no one else has heard yet? We just finished it.”
The cheers get louder.
The song Layne’s mystery person inspired is next on our set list. I wish he would’ve told me who he saw.
“Someone unexpected” couldn’t be someone from one of the bands, because the lineup hasn’t changed in weeks.
Maybe it was a fan, a member of the event staff, or someone attached to a band in another way.
Layne swaggers to center stage. His grip on the mic is so tight his knuckles are white and the rigid hold of his shoulders flexes every muscle in his back.
He’s not been himself since returning to the dressing room. I know how personal the song is to him and I’m afraid that singing it will be too much for him considering the frame of mind he’s in. I lean over the drums. “Layne.”
He startles and turns toward me, one hand covering the mic. “What?”
“We can play “Shades of Dreams.” The song isn’t new, but if we switch to it, he can spin a reason that’ll charm the crowd.
Biting his lip, he shakes his head then flashes me a smile so fake I’m not surprised when it falls off his face. My stubborn friend faces the crowd. “This is ‘Lost.’”
Everett plays the opening chord. Gavin is ready with his violin. And Layne is about to break everyone’s heart.
As with every time he sings this song, goosebumps break out on my skin. Layne’s voice holds a quiver, and the pain laced into the words tears at something deep inside me. All I can do is play well to support him.
The roar of the crowd overwhelms Layne’s voice as it fades away with the last note. We knew this song was special, and the crowd agrees.
Layne sags against the mic stand. He doesn’t say anything or introduce the next song. Everett heads toward him, a bottle of water in hand, the perfect excuse to give him a moment to recover.
I stand up, holding my sticks high, twirling them to get the crowd’s attention on me and off him. Smiles, cheers, and a few “Let’s go Metros!” ring out as more people spy the logo on my chest.
The cheers increase from the Metros and Slash teammates in the wings and scattered through the crowd. On the side of the stage, Tyler grins, then hides his smile against Soren’s shoulder.
Layne gives me a nod. I hit the hi-hat four times and then drop onto my seat and kick in the driving beat of the next song.
The guitars join in. Layne races around the stage, growling out the lyrics of “Waking Nightmare.” He joins Everett for a bit, then Gavin, then dances to me. This song is an older favorite. A good way to reset the pace after the ballad.