Jude (Six Sinners #1)
Chapter 1
JUDE
‘Sinner’s Army, we love you!’ I growled into the mic.
‘Sinners! We love you more!’ came back the emphatic roar from the churning sea of fans below us.
Midnight, and the feedback from my custom Martin guitar cut through the humid air of Austin’s ACL arena with a reverberating ring.
The last chord of our signature sign-off and encore song, ‘Redemption’s Call’, echoed in my in-ears.
Signifying the power of a shared communion of true connection through music.
To our 20,000 screaming devotees, it was a masterclass in rock showmanship.
To me, it was relief, as the final chords of the set faded away and a thunderous roar rose from the audience.
We’d been playing for six nights straight, and I was way past shattered.
The six of us bowed out to screams, cheers, a wave of cellphone flashlights, and applause.
We gave one more final bow as wristbands, glow sticks, and confetti rained down on us, before heading backstage.
In the green room, we huddled together for a moment of thanks for getting us through another day.
It was a grounding ritual, a reminder of the purpose behind our expression.
I glanced at my brothers as we stepped back and fell into packing up gear, leads, and instruments.
Angel, my co-vocalist, was wild-haired, his black tresses falling to his broad shoulders.
Muscled and tall, he was always in a midnight vest, dusky denim pants, and military boots.
His ink was fire, as were his acclaimed electric guitar skills.
A fan of all things artistic, he sketched knockout pencil art in his off time.
Most of the scenes are from our tours, when he was not texting or brooding about his on-and-off-again fiancée, Evangeline.
Deacon was towering, dark, handsome, with a shock of striking, inky curls.
Of Mixed Kenyan and Australian heritage, he favored tees and jeans, and his saxophone playing almost always brought our grown male fans to tears.
He practiced martial arts whenever he had a chance and was a black belt with multiple awards.
He was a single dad to Raff, a highly precocious and the smartest nine-year-old on the planet.
Deacon juggled parenting duties with his ex-wife, Ana De Stella, a stunning ex-model now a world news photographer.
I didn’t quite understand why the pair got separated, because they seemed made for each other.
However, Deacon had his reasons, which he kept private even as he stood firm by them.
Bishop was our wild child.
His hair was a spill of black tresses to his shoulders, and his inked muscles were impressive.
He had an aversion to clothes in general and, offstage, almost always wore only shorts, open shirts, and slides, even in the middle of winter.
He played the bass guitar like a boss, too, baked like a dream, and was our secret resident nerd.
Levi was our violinist, our philosopher, and our spiritual guide.
A deep thinker, he was also an amazing lyricist, and many of our most beloved hits were because of his songwriting genius.
With locs and jewelry to die for, he was black British with Jamaican roots.
His parents settled in Sydney years ago when his mum came to work as a nurse down under.
He was the ‘dad’ of the band, always fussing over us, feeding us his mum’s jerk chicken and rice and peas whenever we were home.
Reign was our dirty blonde, shaggy-haired drummer who could make you weep with his runs.
His solos were legendary, as was his love for motorcycles and fixing cars.
I was grateful for all five men; we’d been through thick and thin together.
They’d been my backbone over the years, helping me cope with my anger at losing my dad so young, and working through the guilt of my misspent youth.
However, my past still haunted me.
At 34, I played every set like I was trying to outrun my own shadow.
Maybe I was.
‘You good, man?’ Reign asked, throwing a clean towel over my chest as we walked down the dressing-room corridor.
‘Yeah. Just spent,’ I muttered, my deep voice scraped and hoarse.
I was an introvert at heart and couldn’t wait for some downtime alone.
‘Jude, you comin’ for a burger?’ Levi asked, his hand on my shoulder.
His eyes, though tired, held their usual twinkle. ‘Spread we believed the fast life was a trap designed to shorten your career and wreck your sanity.
Besides, we’d already shredded our youth with drugs, homelessness, and even jail years ago; we just weren’t about that life anymore.
‘We’re out,’ Bishop called, throwing a chin-thrust my way.
I flicked a two-fingered salute as he and the crew stalked down the corridor, their second-wind adrenaline a contrast to my grinding, bone-deep exhaustion.
Post-show runs were standard, but tonight my engine was dead.
Early flight to catch, too.
I hauled down the hall, tossing brief nods to backstage crew as the post-gig crash hit like a sledgehammer.
Two months back, opening night had me running hot.
Ten thousand voices roaring under the rig, my guitar a live wire in my grip.
Now, weeks deep into the run, the high was dead, replaced by a cold numbness.
Stripped down to jeans and a sweat-soaked tee, I trudged down the venue corridor with my head down, my hard case in my hand.
I hit the elevator button.
Minutes later, I sat in the back of a black town car provided by Knights End Music, as the Austin at night rolled past the glass.
The city’s neon lights cut across my face.
We passed a strip of card houses and small-time casinos, my eyes locking onto them out of pure habit.
An old itch twitched under my skin, the ghost of a past I tried to bury.
I locked the craving down, holding the line all the way to my hotel until the car pulled up outside The Archer.
The hotel sat twenty minutes off the main strip.
Upscale, quiet, tucked away from the swarms of fans and tourists choking downtown.
I prowled inside to my suite, a silent, discreet sanctuary, just the way I liked it.
I laid my custom Martin, Grace, into her velvet case, shut the cupboard door, and dropped onto the bed.
My body was wrecked, and as I set the alarm, I welcomed the silence and went out like a light.
The loud beeping jerked me awake, and I knifed up from bed, pushed off, and threw my gear into a bag.
A couple of hours later, I was strapped into a first-class seat at Austin’s airport, staring out at the tarmac.
Eyeing the families, couples, and kids filing down the aisle around me, a sudden wave of isolation hit my chest.
The band was crucial, but over the last year, the hunger in my soul began to shift.
The wealth, the platinum records, the luxury mansion I now owned in Nashville, the toys; all of it was noise without my own family to share it with.
I’d built an impressive career, enough to bury the shame of my past, yet my heart was an empty desert.
Maybe that was why I wrote songs about beating despair and finding redemption, one brutal step at a time.
I needed to believe life would work itself out, even if my own peace remained out of reach.
I craved a woman to claim, kids to protect, and a home worth coming back to.
However, relationships made me cautious.
I had loved and lost, with the scars to prove it.
Yet, all I ever wanted was what my mum and stepdad shared; a deep, unceasing, incandescent, and intimate devotion.
The kind of passion and feeling in my most heartfelt songs and the chords I tracked.
One day, soon.
With an exhale, I slid on headphones and played our latest unreleased EP tracks, hoping to drown out the restless noise in my head and the ache in my heart.