Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Ross
There’s a little scrambling as the crew adjusts the set list and finds me a wireless microphone.
And I just stand there, trying to distinguish the past from the present.
Almost nineteen years since I was on stage and yet, there’s no stage fright.
There are ghosts instead, ricocheting through me in the form of memories.
So many fucking memories.
Clara standing in the wings, leaning up to give me a good luck kiss before the show.
My old guitarist, Joey, flipping me off before grabbing his guitar and running on stage.
Rambo, my bassist, grinning as he pulls off his shirt and picks up his eight-string.
The roar of the crowd as they chanted.
Rock-its – Rock-its – Rock-its
The strobe light moving back and forth across the audience, highlighting their excitement. The full house. The fact that we were on our way to the top.
“You ready?” Kingston grips my arm, forcing me to look at him. “You got this, man. I’ll introduce you as—”
“No.” I cut him off, shaking my head. “If I’m going to sing, I’m going to be who I am. And I am Ross Rockit. For one more night anyway.”
He smiles. “Yes. Yes, you are.”
Then he turns and runs back onto the stage, leaving me frozen in place.
A warm hand on my arm makes me look down and Wynter smiles, her eyes dark with excitement and compassion and support. That’s the best way to describe how she’s looking at me.
“Go out there and own it,” she whispers. “For one night, take back everything you lost. And no matter what happens, you’ll always have one fan waiting right here.” She leans up on her tiptoes and presses a soft kiss on my cheek.
Damn, she’s pretty.
“Will you go out with me when this is over?” I ask spontaneously.
“I will.”
I press my lips to hers, firmly, letting her know I mean it.
Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second and then it’s time for me to go.
“…tonight we have a very special guest helping us out on vocals—anyone remember Ross Rockit from the one and only Ross & the Rock-its?”
The crowd goes wild as Kingston introduces me, and whether it’s because Kingston seems excited or because there’s genuine interest in seeing me perform again, I’ll never know, but it’s enough to propel me forward.
“Judgment Call” is a hard rocking tune with lots of energy that will get the crowd on their collective feet, so I motion to the set list and Tommy starts tapping the snare drum.
“Phoenix.” I lift my arms in the air. “How the hell are you? Is it hot in here tonight or is that just Onyx Knight?”
The crowd responds with an energetic bout of screams, and a lacy black bra lands at my feet.
Well, that hasn’t happened in a while, so I scoop it up and twirl it around my finger. “I think it’s time for a judgment call!” I launch into the opening lyrics and find they come easily.
Onyx Knight is talented.
No one achieves their level of success by being mediocre, and they definitely didn’t do it by being shoddy musicians.
They’re professional and smart, making it easy for me to fumble through the first few bars.
I know the music, the lyrics, and the songs, but this is different.
Being front and center for a band like Onyx Knight takes me to another level.
Another time.
And then the memories come, whiplashing through my heart and bouncing off my soul.
A quick glance to the wings and Clara is there.
Swaying in time to the music, her smile huge.
For the briefest moment in time, it’s as real as I am, but when it fades, there’s no pain, no melting, no nightmare.
This time, when I look back, Clara has morphed into Wynter, fingers laced together against her chest, as if she’s so nervous, she’s praying.
Luckily, even though my brain might be terrified, the rest of me knows what to do.
The rest of me remembers the beat, the moves, the music.
And when “Judgment Call” ends, we go right into “Symphony of the Broken.” Devyn wrote that one, and we sing it together, harmonizing as if we’ve done it a million times before, while Kingston wows everyone on the Baby Grand piano.
It’s riveting, even to me.
As the song comes to an end, Kellan comes up behind me, yelling in my ear, “Let’s do ‘Shooting For the Stars.’ We basically know it. You know it. The crowd will know it.”
There’s no time for me to say no, because Tommy is already pounding out the all-too-familiar opening bass drum rhythm.
Did they somehow plan this?
Something that I buried so deep I almost forgot it was there explodes out in a torrent of emotion that’s impossible to describe.
Sadness, excitement, guilt, longing, and a touch of nostalgia all hit me like a physical blow.
But instead of letting it take me down the way it might have even a few years ago, I lean into it.
This is the magic of rock and roll, and if I’m only going to experience it one last time in my life, I’m going to give it everything I have.
So I do.
I run back to the front and raise my hands over my head, clapping them together. “Who’s ready to shoot for the stars?”
To my complete shock, the crowd goes nuts.
They fucking remember.
Of course, they fucking remember.
You’re Ross Rockit.
Show them how it’s done, brother.
Joey’s voice is clear as day, even though he’s been dead for nineteen years.
I feel another pang of nostalgia, but I grin as I shake it off.
I’ll miss Joey later.
Right now, he’s next to me.
They all are.
Joey and Rambo and Dixon.
My friends, my bandmates, my brothers.
Tonight, I’ll do this for them.
For Wynter.
But most of all, for me.
Ross and Roll, my brother.