Resonance – By Monica Ross #4
"You okay?" Lobo’s hand found mine on my chair’s armrest. "You seem..."
"Just a bit buzzed." I lifted the beer. "Probably shouldn’t shotgun this.”
“Want me to grab you some grub?”
On stage, the band launched into their first song — their latest hit — and the crowd went berserk.
I laughed. “No! It’s cool. Just gotta slow down.”
Lobo slipped his arm around my shoulders. "This okay?" he called into my ear, lips so close I shivered at the feel of his breath on my skin.
This wasn't how guys usually treated me, probably ’cause I was all about engineering and Formula One, instead of wearing makeup and tight clothes that showed off my curvy ass and tiny tits.
I was more likely to get friendly shoulder punches than romantic gestures.
Even my last boyfriend had treated me like a buddy who happened to be female.
Until he found out who my brother was. Then he got all fake-lovey-dovey, and I told him to fuck off. Asshole.
But there was nothing buddy-like about the way Lobo's fingers traced small circles on my arm, or how he leaned close whenever he spoke. Unless he already knew? Was this all an act?
"You good, Ya?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The beer's pleasant buzz mixed with his woodsy scent, making my head swim.
This felt too real. Which only made me more terrified of losing it.
If he didn't already know who I was, would he still hold me like this once he found out?
Or would I become Karst's little sister, a connection to be cultivated?
He shifted, pulling me closer. "You fit perfectly here," he murmured, lips brushing my ear.
I had to get it all out in the open before things went any further. “Lo—" I turned in my seat, heart pounding, but my elbow caught the hand of the girl in the box beside ours.
"Hey!" She jerked up from her chair as I knocked a full cup of beer all over her.
"Oh shit! I'm so sorry!" I grabbed for the napkins I kept in my purse.
“My shirt!” A dark stain spread across her brand spankin' new white RISE tee. She looked at me. “What the fu—” The curse died on her lips, and her scowl morphed into wide-eyed recognition. "Oh my god. Oh my god . You're Soraya Wilk! You're Karst's little sister!"
The words seemed to echo despite the roaring guitars and crowd noise. Lobo's arm slipped from my shoulders as he shifted away from me. My stomach plummeted.
"I follow you on all the socials!" The girl was loud and drunk. "Is Karst gonna sit here? Are you going backstage after? Can I?—"
People around us noticed her screeching. The air seemed to compress, and my pulse thundered in my ears as faces turned toward me and phones rose.
"You’re confusing me with someone else." My voice came out strangled. I turned to Lobo, who sat frozen, eyes wide, shock all over his face. The space between us suddenly felt vast and unbridgeable.
Guess he didn’t know.
Beer Girl grabbed my forearm. "I'm sure it's you! You were in that video Karst posted last week of you guys drumming together last Christmas! I gotta get a pic?—"
I yanked free from her, escaped our box, and shoved through the crowd. Behind me, I heard the girl's excited voice: "That was really her, right? Karsten Wilk's sister!"
I didn't look back.
Memories crashed over me. San Francisco two years ago.
Another beer-soaked shirt, another excited fan's recognition starting a chain reaction.
Within minutes I'd been surrounded, pushed and pulled by people wanting a piece of Broken Wing.
My earring was ripped out as someone grabbed for a selfie.
My phone shattered. Glasses gone. By the time security reached me, I was pressed against a barrier, covered in bruises that would take weeks to fade.
Karst had been livid — at the fans, at venue security, but mostly at me for being in the crowd. The band's statement afterward only put more attention on me. Some Wingnuts had even tracked down my engineering school's subreddit.
Now it was happening again, the excitement spreading outward like a wave:
“Karst's sister is in the crowd!”
“Did you see her?”
“Soraya!”
I elbowed between people, fighting panic and the claustrophobia that came with being five-foot-two-inches in a crowd where almost everyone was taller.
My head spun — from beer, from fear, from the memory of Lobo's shocked expression.
Behind me, voices grew more excited, more insistent.
Someone grabbed my wrist, and I jerked away.
My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket, but I ignored it.
Where were the damn exits? The Bowl felt like a maze, every path blocked by people singing, dancing, staring, grabbing. My breath came faster.
A security guard appeared at my elbow. "This way, Ms. Wilk." He must’ve seen the commotion and heard my name. He radioed ahead and guided me through the crowd as another guard flanked me.
I hugged myself, trying to be small and unremarkable. But it was too late — the guards' presence only confirmed my identity. Phones pointed my way. More people called my name and grabbed my shirt. Someone snatched my cap.
That last added insult to injury, and I’d nurse the hurt for a good long time.
Security hustled me through a service entrance and down a narrow fluorescent-lit hallway. My phone buzzed again, and I read Lo’s texts:
Soraya, wait
Plz come back
R U OK?
Tell me ur safe!
Tears pricked my eyes. I started to type, but we reached the green room door, and there was Karst, all six-foot-four of him radiating worry and rage. Again.
Fuck. Me.
"I fucking told you!" He pulled me into a crushing hug, then held me at arm's length to check for injuries. "Are you hurt? Did anyone?—"
"No. I'm fine." My voice cracked. "Just stupid ."
"Not stupid." Green's quiet voice came from behind Karst. The band's front man lounged on a sofa, his usual calm a stark contrast to my brother's agitation. "Brave, maybe. Optimistic, definitely."
Teague, their lead guitarist, handed me a bottle of water. "Though after San Francisco..."
"I know." I slumped onto the couch beside Green. "I know, okay? I just..." I bit my lip and looked down, fighting tears.
"Who’s the dumb-shit you came with?" Karst demanded. "Security said you were with some guy. Why the fuck didn’t he protect you?"
“He’s not a dumb-shit, you dick!” I jerked to my feet and chucked the bottle at him, missing by a mile ’cause I couldn’t hit the side of a barn, but I did hit the wall. The bottle cracked and splattered water all over my brother and Johnny Red, the bassist, who just laughed. Typical Johnny.
“If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck,” Karst clapped back, swiping water from his face.
“Fuck you and the fucking duck!” I grabbed another bottle of water, hoping to actually bean my brother this time, but Green snatched it from my hand.
"Whoa, cuz." He pulled me back onto the couch beside him, ever the dad of the group.
Karst opened his mouth and raised his finger.
"Leave it, Kar." Green's voice held a warning. He’d always defended me when my big brother acted like an overbearing prick. Peregrine “Green” Langley was the coolest cousin a girl could have.
All the piss and vinegar went outta me. I'd wanted one normal night. One chance to just be Soraya, the engineering student who organized her napkins and geeked out about F1. Instead, I'd risked another San Francisco and probably lost Lo in the process.
"Just tell me who he is." Karst paced the room. "Some random fan boy who recognized you and got overly friendly?"
"He's a friend from school, and he didn't know."
"Didn't know?" Karst stopped pacing. "How could he not fucking know?"
"Because I didn't tell him!" The anger was back. "Because I wanted him to like me for me, not for —" I swept my arm out to include all four guys, "— you ." I pulled out my phone, and Lobo’s texts lit up the screen again.
Green wrapped his arm around my shoulder and rested his chin on my head. He tapped my phone screen. "Answer him, Yaya." He gave me that nickname when I was little. "The guy's worried. Let him know you're okay."
I nodded.
I'm safe he always made me feel like I couldn’t mess up, even when I knew I had. "It was my fault, and they’re just excited."
Marcus, the band’s manager, stuck his head into the room. "They're yanking some assholes from the Pool. Let’s give the crowd a few minutes to settle, then you’re on."
Around me, the guys stood, stretched, got ready to entertain thousands.
I bumped my fingers over my phone’s buttons. Lobo still hadn’t read my last message, but I sent another anyway.
If you wanna come backstage, I can ask Security to bring you.
Still no response.
When my phone screen went dark, I tucked it away. "In the immortal words of Freddie Mercury, ‘Another one bites the dust.’"
Marcus returned. “Time, guys.”
"Soraya, I’m—" Karst started.
"Don't be sorry, dipshit." I forced a smile. "Just go play your stupid drums."
"They're not stupid. You’re what’s stupid."
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
We said it the way we always did, teasing, being childish, but my brother’s worried frown remained as the band headed for the stage.
Teague tugged one of my braids.
Johnny Red took off his autographed Stones cap and put it on my head.
I donned ear protection and stood in the wings. From there I could see almost the entire Bowl. The band launched into "Beyond Broken," and while the crowd roared for Karst's thundering intro, I scanned the boxes, straight out from the stage.
No sign of his gray hoodie. No glimpse of those dark locks.
No Lobo.