18. Chapter 14
Dear Maria, Count Me In
Rain
Tina escorts me back to the green room, and I expect her to snatch one of the guys next, but she doesn’t. She sticks by my side, and instead issues order after order to the two male stylists, whose names I learn are Derek and Dexter, about what clothes I am to wear on stage.
The next half hour passes in a whirlwind; I twist and turn as clothes are thrown at me like I’m in the makeover montage bit of every teenage rom-com.
Derek and Dexter, who I realize partway through are actually a married couple, finally agree on an outfit and so do I.
Big black boots, skin-tight leather trousers that lace up along both sides and at the front, with a corset top covered in what looks like graffiti prints.
It leaves my arms free for easy movement, and because it’s snatched, the corset makes my tiny boobs actually seem like they’ve got some oomph. It’s a magic trick, I swear.
And unlike all the times Lou has dressed me over the last few weeks, I don’t feel gross about it or like I’m being perved on in any way. In fact, I feel empowered.
The Double Ds, as I start to think of them, finish with me. Their final touch is the addition of a black lace choker around my neck, before Derek pats me on the back and says, “You’re gonna knock their socks off.”
“Whose socks? The crowd?” I ask, perhaps stupidly, but the two men just smile and shake their heads before directing me to the stage.
The audience is barred from view by a floor-to-ceiling black curtain that separates the stage from the rest of the club.
Like the couch backstage, it’s a pretty ratty-looking bit of fabric, but when I step out, I’m glad it’s there because I need a second to remember how to breathe.
Because under the blue and purple and yellow stage lights, I get a glimpse of my bandmates.
Tina’s worked her magic on them, too. Dutch is seated behind his kit.
His twists have been cleaned up, and he’s got dark eyeliner carved over his strong cheekbones in the shape of diamonds.
It makes his already dark eyes seem even darker.
But what’s really mesmerizing are his tattoos.
The club’s tech has managed some kind of miracle, because the lights make his dark brown skin shine.
Every line of ink on his arms and written across his bare chest is illuminated. He is beautiful.
Then there’s Dallas, who holds his bass against his hips as he checks its tuning.
His long, almost delicate fingers hold the instrument like it’s precious.
To him, it is. Tina has styled his hair so he can’t hide behind it, and instead of a hoodie, the Double Ds have dressed him in a long tank top, the arms of which hang low enough to reveal the scars on his ribcage.
I’m amazed he let Tina see them, but she clearly has, because they’ve been dressed up with makeup to look painted on.
I wish I could brush my fingers over them.
I wish I could smooth them away or paint over them for real.
Last but not least. There is Cohen. He’s just as handsome as he’s always been.
Unfairly, he might actually be getting hotter with age.
The boyishness his face held at eighteen has matured into something a little rougher.
There’s a fine stubble around his jaw now that was never there before.
His curls, though, are still the same. Only, they’ve been styled to look like someone’s run their fingers through them. Or grabbed them in the fits of passion.
Memories of doing just that surface unbidden.
Clothes-wise, he’s dressed as preppy as ever, but there’s an edge to the look that isn’t normally there.
Maybe because the clothes are mostly black, or more likely, it’s the black kohl that, like Dutch’s, is smudged around his eyes. It makes the green of them stand out.
The moment I’ve been gifted to watch them promptly ends when I step up onto the stage. The platforms I’m wearing add a good few inches to my height, but their large soles are so damn heavy that there’s no sneaking around in them. My every step beats against the stage floor like a war drum.
The three men’s stares land, and all at once we aren’t these bitter, damaged adults.
For an instant we’re those same dumb teenagers who got to chase their dreams. Their stares aren’t angry or unkind.
They’re laced with the lightness of hope and the weight of expectations, and with too many other emotions that I’m not brave enough to name.
That moment hangs suspended between us all, between past and present, and then it’s gone again as the stage lights dim, signalling that I have about two seconds to get to the mic before the curtains open.
I rush into place, wrapping both hands around the mic stand to steady myself.
Just in time, too, because the lights above us go out, and in the near-perfect dark, I hear more than see swathes of black velvet part.
The rest of the club is dark too, except for the under-counter lighting behind the bar on the far side.
A collective hush blankets the room. Without realizing it, the crowd breathes as one. Without the stage lights or any house lights, they can’t see us. They have no idea what is waiting for them.
Neither do I. Stage fright grips me in sudden clutches, making my throat too thick to possibly sing a single note. Until a familiar voice in my ear reminds me, “Sing your heart out, Rainy.”
Cohen.
He’s right beside me. Here in the dark. So is Dax, who takes a step closer on my left. Dutch can’t leave his kit, but I don’t need him to. His steady presence at our backs grounds us all. I’m not alone. Not here on this stage.
Then the countdown comes. Three single beats from Dutch and the now-iconic opening line, ‘Fucking love’.
All at once, the stage lights hit, Dax and Cohen let rip the first notes of ‘A Thousand Hearts’ and the crowd in front of us goes apeshit. Screams erupt from every direction. Followed by near-blinding camera flashes. I close my eyes, tune it out, and focus on doing what Cohen said.
I sing.
I sing my fucking heart out.
Twelve songs later, we finish with ‘Crash Meet Burn’ from our third and final studio album. The theme of endings runs through every verse. It’s heavier and slower than almost everything else we’ve played tonight. Because it was the last song we ever wrote together.
Tonight, it marks what I silently pray is a new beginning.
The packed club sings along with every word, sharing in my sadness that this show, this night is coming to a close.
Dutch’s drums fade away, the last of the music too, and finally, only my voice remains.
It rings out through the room, and though there’s a momentary pause when I finish, the audience once again explodes.
The cheers and thunderous applause roar a little louder as the guys move to join me at the front of the stage. We don’t bow or any of that Broadway shit, but we do raise our arms in triumph, and Cohen hollers, “Thank you, Steelsville!”
A chant comes back at us, “Pistols! Pistols! Pistols!”
Lou seizes the opportunity to jump out from the side stage and takes the mic from my hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, rock fans!” he shouts over the crowd, “Ocean County Records would like to thank you for being here tonight! And in front of their fans, The Preaching Pistols are thrilled to announce their return to the rock music world! Starting with a special, intimate reunion tour!”
He leaves out that this short tour is just a run-up to Deviant Dreams. It’s a tactic to drive ticket sales for these first shows. And judging by the response from the crowd as each successive city is announced, it will probably work.
Cambria, Nova Scotia. Huge cheers explode and don’t stop as Lou announces the other cities.
Mont-Royale, Quebec.
Barrett Hills, Ontario.
Watosk, Alberta.
And finally, finally, Lou calls out, “Calder, British Columbia.”
The volume inside the club reaches new levels. Even I cheer. Because it’s our hometown show, and hometown shows are always special, but this time it will be even more so, because that’s where we’ll do the big headline reveal.
With a final announcement, Lou stares down the barrel of the TV crew I’ve only just noticed smack in the middle of the floor, “Tickets go on sale tomorrow at 10 a.m.”
He then scurries backstage. Cohen follows, but not before lifting his guitar in the air and waving it for the crowd.
Dallas follows shortly after; more shy than Cohen always, he gives the tiniest wave and smiles too.
Finally, there goes Dutch, but not before he joins me near the front.
His smile is beaming, a mile wide, and I fight with my own eyes not to stare at the way sweat glistens along his every muscle.
There are these veins along his arms, in particular.
The sickest part of me wants to lick the sweat from them before he can shower it away.
Maybe it’s just the high of the performance, though, because he doesn’t look my way.
He’s got both of his drumsticks in hand.
He yells to the crowd, “Who wants ’em?!”
The floor shakes from the hundreds of fans jumping and crying out.
Pleased with their response, he lifts the sticks and, one at a time, tosses them across the room.
Both times the crowd shifts and cheers again when two fans on opposite sides of the bar are rewarded for their good hand-eye coordination.
Dutch, then too, gives one last wave before following his brother off stage.
I can’t bring myself to walk away, not yet.
Up here, I’m Rain Gamble, singer, rockstar. Away from the fans and the bright lights, I’m just Rain. The girl who made so many mistakes, who hurt so many people. Herself most of all.
There’s a final roar from the crowd just before the lights finally dim, and the curtain drops.
Reality sets in. I’m alone up here, and I hate it.
This is my second chance. Our second chance, and I don’t want to be the one to ruin it.
Secrets and fear sent me spiralling the first time around.
Not this time. If I tell them everything now, while the high of performing is still fresh for all of us, there’s a tiny fraction of a chance they’ll forgive me.