Chapter 3 #2
The confusion grows, whispers turning into questions. “What the hell is this?” someone stage-whispers loudly enough to carry.
Tommy’s drums crash in with perfect precision despite his misgivings.
The rhythm section locks together, building tension that stretches taut across the room.
The audience’s bewilderment slowly begins to shift, curiosity replacing their initial confusion as they realize this is intentional, not some bizarre mistake.
Guitar slung low, I stand motionless as the crowd’s confusion peaks. Someone wolf-whistles. Someone else laughs.
The moment stretches, a knife’s edge between disaster and triumph.
I close my eyes behind the mask and let my fingers find the opening riff.
The first notes ring out, and something miraculous happens.
My mind, which moments ago raced with a thousand fragmented thoughts, narrows to this single moment.
The melody builds, until the moment arrives for my voice to join the instruments.
Thanks to Luke’s vocal processing through his synth rig, as well as hiding my real voice from exposing me, it layers the harmonies with Stella, adding an ethereal reverb, and weaving in electronic textures. The sound that we’ve perfected becomes haunting and atmospheric.
Behind the mask, I’m not thinking about failure or judgment or everything that’s wrong in my head. I’m just the music, pure and uncompromised.
Sound waves ripple against my skin like physical touches. Each chord progression anchors me deeper into the moment, wiping the static from my brain and replacing it with perfect clarity. The crowd surges forward, pulled by something they recognize but can’t name: authenticity.
I move across the stage toward Stella for the bridge, and she matches my energy instantly.
She’s got a voice like an angel, the mouth of a trucker, and can destroy a bass unlike anyone I’ve met.
Our instruments converse while our bodies mirror each other’s movements.
She smiles, giving me the confidence I need to just let loose.
As we progress through the set, our connection deepens. Notes flowing into each other, spaces between songs filled with a tension that builds rather than dissipates. The masks don’t hide us, they reveal us, stripping away everything but the pure language of music.
The forty-minute set ends not with the frenzied reaction of superfans, but the satisfied appreciation of people who’ve discovered something moderately interesting and maybe a little unexpectedly good.
Backstage, we stand in stunned silence. Sweat rolls down my chest, the adrenaline still coursing through me. Tommy reaches up to pull his mask off, but Rachel slaps his hand away.
“Not until we’re in the car,” she hisses.
“Hey!” Tommy protests, rubbing his hand. “I can’t fucking breathe.”
Stella bounces on her toes beside me, barely containing the energy vibrating through her. She bumps her hip against mine hard enough to knock me sideways.
“Told you,” she says, giving her ass a little shake.
“Baby, you know what that does to me,” Tommy says. “Especially wearing that mask. It’s making me all hot.”
“Huh, I guess covering up your face does make you more attractive,” she quips.
“That was solid,” Dylan interrupts. “Genuine interest. They’re curious.”
Rachel checks her tablet. “The cars are waiting. Oh, and there’s already some positive comments online.”
Tommy’s voice comes muffled behind his mask. “You’re telling me that worked? They actually liked us?”
“If this comment is any indication of your success,”—her voice raises in a valley girl-like accent—“okay but like, why do they look like they’re about to sacrifice someone to the music gods?”
“See, I fucking told you,” Tommy spouts.
Rachel glares at him and he closes his mouth. “Also, the singer’s voice wrecked me a little, and I’m not dealing with it yet.” she continues to read with deadpan delivery.
Tommy tries to lean over her shoulder to read. “Anything about the drummer in there?”
Rachel scrolls down with deliberate slowness. “Oh, here we go. ‘The drummer has serious premature problems, like he rushes every beat and finishes way too early. Bet this guy’s the type who thinks thirty seconds counts as foreplay.’”
Tommy’s mouth falls open. “What the fuck,”
“Wait, there’s more,” Rachel continues with obvious satisfaction. “‘Zero rhythm, no stamina, and clearly doesn’t know how to make anything climax properly. Feel sorry for any girl who has to fake it through his performances.’”
Luke dissolves into laughter while Stella covers her face, shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles.
Tommy snatches the phone from Rachel’s hands. “That can’t be real. Who the fuck,” His eyes scan the screen. “@sugartits69.”
His head whips toward Stella, who’s crossing her legs, laughing so hard tears stream down her face. “You little,” Tommy drops the phone and lunges for her.
“Tommy, no!” Stella shrieks, but she’s laughing too hard to run effectively. He catches her easily, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.
“I’ll show you how to climax properly, Sugar Tits,” he growls, heading toward the door.
“Put me down! I’m gonna pee my pants!” Stella screams, pounding on his back while still giggling uncontrollably.
“Jesus, quit playing with my sister!” Luke shouts, but he’s laughing too hard to sound threatening.
“Everyone stop!” Dylan barks. “Cars are waiting. Don’t make me—” He stops mid-sentence, running both hands through his hair. “Jesus Christ, I sound like someone’s dad. Don’t make me be the dad! I’m twenty-four fucking years old!”
“They liked the music,” I interrupt him, still riding the high of the performance. “The masks just got them to listen. We need to step it up next time.”
I can’t stop the grin spreading beneath my mask. For the first time in my life, I played without the crushing weight of expectation.
And I’m already addicted to the freedom.