Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Ty
? Thunderstruck – AC/DC ?
Opening night of the tour is finally here, and I am practically shaking with excitement. My phone vibrates with a text from Eric, letting me know he’s on his way in an Uber so I throw the last of my things into my suitcase and head down to wait outside the hotel.
A few minutes later, a blacked-out Escalade pulls up and Eric gets out to help load my suitcase into the back before opening my door for me and helping me in.
“You ready for this?” he asks as I click my seatbelt into place.
Am I ready for six months on the road, traveling the country and hanging out with one of my favorite bands?
Ready to spend every day with the man seated next to me, getting to know him on a level that I have a feeling most people don’t get to?
Ready to live my dream and—at least temporarily—be a writer?
“Fuck yeah,” I say, the smile I woke up with this morning still plastered across my face.
By the time we arrive at AT&T Stadium, my heart is racing with excitement and anticipation.
Eric and I grab our suitcases out of the back of the Uber and head into the RV.
I unpack my suitcase and tuck it away before collapsing onto the bed and firing off a text to the family group chat to let them know I’m all settled.
A knock at the bedroom door snags my attention from their replies and I yell for whoever it is to come in. Eric pushes the door open and smiles.
“You coming to sound check?” he asks.
“Hell yeah I’m coming to sound check,” I say, bolting out of bed. He laughs and turns to head down the hallway.
“Here,” he says, handing me a small envelope as we walk through the lot and into the back of the stadium. I tear it open and dump its contents into my hand—a lanyard with a badge containing my name and “AAA non-escort”.
“That’s yours for the whole tour, so don’t lose it.
AAA means Access All Areas, and non-escort means you can go anywhere you want without having to have someone with you.
A few pro tips…don’t wear that outside the venue, no selfies while you’re wearing it, and definitely don’t take photos of it, post it on social media, or give it to anyone else. ”
I nod before putting the lanyard on over my head, letting it fall against my chest.
“Looks good on you,” he says, and I smile. I walk beside him as we wind our way through the hallways and to the stage. Eric continues onto the stage itself, and I stop on the side. He makes it a few steps ahead before he realizes I’m no longer with him and turns around.
“Come here,” he says, motioning for me to follow, and I smile wider.
I join him at the center of the stage and look out at the stadium, trying to imagine what seeing it filled with eighty thousand people would be like.
How would I feel? Would I be nervous? Or would I feed off the energy of the crowd?
“What’s it like up here when these places are full?” I ask, and he smiles.
“Believe it or not,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets, not taking his eyes off the arena before us.
“It’s the only time my mind stays quiet.
The only time I can forget—about life, responsibilities, stresses—whatever is going on outside these walls.
I can just get lost in the moment.” He closes his eyes and tips his head back.
“Ninety blissful minutes where I can just…exist.”
With all the pressure people like Eric find themselves in on a daily basis—constantly being followed by paparazzi, dealing with criticism every time they make a decision or share their music with the world, being approached by fans every time they venture out in public—I can only imagine what it would be like to let that go. Even just temporarily.
I walk behind him and up the few stairs of his platform to his kit, running my fingers lightly over the smooth head of the snare.
My fingers twitch, itching to wrap around a stick and I feel Eric go still.
I look at him and realize he’s staring at my hand.
His eyes snap up to mine as the realization hits him.
“You play,” he says. I nod slowly.
“It’s been…a really long time, but yes, I used to play,” I say.
I don’t know why I’ve kept this from him.
He asked me the night we met if I played anything, and I said no.
Which wasn’t a total lie, since I haven’t played in years.
I even had the opportunity to bring it up when he asked me about my 3047 bracelet.
That song—that drum beat—was the reason I wanted to start playing.
He steps up, reaches into his stick holder, and hands two fresh sticks out to me.
“Show me,” he says.
I take the sticks from him and settle in behind the kit, adjusting the throne slightly before hitting each drum in turn, making sure my height and angles are right. The snare is a little higher than I would normally have it, but I refuse to touch anything else. I’ll make it work.
Right before I’m about to make the first hit, I notice something small and blue hanging from between the toms. I lean in closer and realize it’s the bracelet he took from me before the show last year.
“Oh my god,” I say, looking at him. “You still have this?” He just shrugs.
I wait for any sort of explanation, but he remains stoic, so I close my eyes and take a deep breath before I decide to play ‘Whispers’.
I’m almost halfway through when I look up and realize the entire band is now on stage, as well as Dani and Josh’s assistant, Kate.
They’re all staring at me, wide-eyed, but Eric…
Eric is staring at me in awe. Like I’m some sort of answer to a prayer.
I stop mid-bridge and set the sticks down on the snare before standing.
“Holy shit, Tyler,” Josh says, and I feel my cheeks heat. “Eric didn’t tell us you played.”
“I didn’t know,” Eric says, his eyes still on me.
“Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say you’re officially replaced,” Max jokes, patting Eric on the shoulder.
Everyone breaks apart as I make my way back down to the stage, feeling Eric’s eyes on me the entire way.
“That was…” he trails off before shaking his head and smiling. “You’re good. I wish you’d have told me you played.” I shrug as we make our way back to side stage, and I’m introduced to so many people I feel myself internally panicking as I fight to remember names.
I meet the stagehands, the sound engineers, and the filmmaker they bring on every tour. I’ve followed him on Instagram for years and feel as nervous to meet him as I did when I met the band for the first time.
“Alright, Ty,” Josh says after the introductions are over. “You’re officially part of the family, so it’s time for your initiation.”
“What do you mean?” I ask nervously, hoping they’re not going to make me do something embarrassing like run a lap around the arena in my underwear.
“In this family,” Josh says. “Everyone backstage gets a secret handshake.” I smile wide when he uses the word family, still not quite sure if this is actually my life or if I’m going to wake up any second back home in my bed.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s ours?”
Josh thinks it over and we try a few things before settling on two taps on the back of our hands, two taps on the palms, sliding our palms down to our fingers, locking our fingers together, and pulling each other in for a one-armed hug.
Kevin and I decide ours is a quick game of rock, paper, scissors (loser gets a noogie), and I laugh every time we practice it. Especially when he loses and dodges my fist so I don’t mess up his hair.
Max and I come up with a double high-five before turning sideways and bumping our hips together.
And then it’s Eric’s turn. He approaches me, bends his elbows at ninety degrees, and puts his fists out between us.
I mirror his pose, and he presses his fists into mine, and then leans down and touches his forehead to mine.
My heart hammers inside my chest and I close my eyes as his familiar scent envelops me.
He pulls away and smiles before turning and heading out to the stage for sound check.
I stand with my arms crossed as I watch Max mess around with his guitar, hitting a few chords and making some last-minute tuning adjustments.
Kevin’s bass rumbles low through the amps as he plays through some Primus to warm up.
Josh is standing in the center of the stage. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, his eyes scanning the arena, lips pressed tight as if he's mentally rehearsing every move. I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes. He’s calculating, even now.
It’s funny, the way soundcheck brings everything down to its bare bones.
In the moments before everything falls into place, it’s just…
noise. The sound of instruments getting tuned, the hum of monitors being tested, the odd feedback echoing back from the speakers.
I’m just standing on the sidelines, waiting for the moment when it all clicks, and it’s an almost painful kind of anticipation.
Then it happens. The first song starts to take shape.
The guitar riff locks into the bassline, and Eric enters with the drum fill, and I’m amazed at how—awful the sound is from the side of the stage.
Dani wasn’t kidding when we were in New York.
There is so much sound bouncing back that it almost hurts my ears.
I turn and head down the steps backstage to get to the arena floor, and the difference in the way the sound travels through the space is immediate.
My ears thank me as I make my way around the stadium floor, trying to find the perfect spot toward the back of the floor in front of the sound board.
I’d always loved being as close to the stage as possible, and while that’s still a great place to be, the sound right where I’m standing is perfect.
They go through a few snippets of songs as the sound is adjusted both from the sound board behind me and through everyone’s in-ears, before moving on to syncing the lights and pyrotechnics with the songs on the set list.
I make my way back toward the stage and by the time I climb the stairs and return to where I started, Eric is waiting for me with a small black box and a set of headphones in his hands. I look at him, confused.
“I forgot to warn you how bad the sound is back here,” he says.
“What?” I shout. “I can’t hear you! Are my ears bleeding?”
He laughs before pulling the headphones over my ears and clipping the small black box to the front pocket of my jeans, while I will myself not to physically react to finally feeling his hands on me again.
“This is a body pack,” he explains. “This will help with the sound if you decide you do want to watch from back here. You can customize what you hear—it could be everything, or it could be just Josh’s vocals, just my drums…
or you could also tell them you want to hear what’s in my in-ears—literally whatever you want.
” I grin and he shrugs. “Thought it might be cool for you to hear what we hear.”
“It’s very cool,” I say. “Thank you.”
“This is Adam,” he says, motioning with his thumb to the man standing beside us. “He’s our back-of-house sound guy. Tell him what you want to hear, and he’ll get you set up.” Eric rushes back to his place on stage as I introduce myself to Adam.
“So,” he says. “What’ll it be?”
“Give me what Eric has,” I say. He messes with a few things on a tablet and before they start their next song, I suddenly hear a voice say, “‘Black’ starting in 3, 2, 1…” in my headphones and when they start the song, I hear a very loud, very steady click, click, click with Max’s guitar and Josh’s vocals quieter in the background.
“Good?” Adam asks and I nod a little too excitedly. He laughs and says, “Cool. Let me know if you want a different mix tonight.” I thank him and he disappears backstage.
I look back to the stage, and I feel the moment it hits me—like a switch flicking on—this is it. This is what they’ve been working so hard for. It’s a strange kind of magic, and I still find myself unable to believe I’m here.