4. Maggie Fucking Morgan
4
MAGGIE FUCKING MORGAN
FELIX
She Sets The City On Fire By Gavin DeGraw
I bound up the steps two at a time, my Converse scraping against the rough concrete. My heart races, though I can’t tell if it’s from the adrenaline of my first show on this tour or the thought of Maggie. Probably both. I shake my head, trying to focus. Don’t think about her, I will myself. Don’t think about those piercing blue eyes or the way she always manages to have the last word.
I scan the dense crowd of people, looking for my band, but my height offers no advantage today.
A hand catches the strap of my guitar, and I turn to see Dex, my drummer, his easy smile lighting up his face. His dirty blonde hair clings to his temples, damp from the heat, as he leans in closer. “Hey, man,” he says, tilting his chin toward the side, signaling for me to follow him away from the crush of bodies.
I let him lead, catching sight of Bash and Gunner up ahead, talking casually with the band that just wrapped their set, the kind of easy camaraderie between them a dynamic that feels foreign to me at the moment.
When the fuck did they become friends? We just got here.
I fidget with the pick ring on my finger, twisting it in restless circles while shifting my weight on the balls of my feet. The rhythmic thrum of my pulse echoes in my ears, perfectly in sync with the anticipation tightening in my chest.
“They’re just hanging until the headliner comes out later tonight.” Dex gestures toward the thinning crowd on the lawn in front of the stage.
Bash appears beside me, clamping a hand down on my shoulder. “You ready for this?”
“My whole life,” I reply, my voice steady but threaded with a current of raw energy.
He nods, his light brown hair falling forward before he effortlessly tosses it back.
The stage looms ahead, framed by tangled cords and battered amps. It’s not much, but this space is my sanctuary, where nothing exists but the music. My gaze flicks to the rest of the band as they take their places.
In front of the mic, with my guitar in hand, I feel like I’m in the right place, like this is where I belong. I felt it ever since the first time my dad took me on stage with him. It’s something I’ll never forget. I’m sure he curses himself every day for doing it since I told him I wanted to be a musician too. It wasn’t just being on stage that made me feel whole, it was the way the lyrics and the music came to life in my head.
“Hello, Palm Springs,” I say. My voice is rough, but loud enough to cut through the noise of the crowd. “We are Velvet Drift.”
I know they’re not here to see me, but I’m ready to give them one hell of a show. As I hit the opening chords, I’m met with a surprisingly enthusiastic roar from the crowd. It’s nothing compared to what I experienced at my dad’s concerts, but this is how I wanted to do things, to be an unknown so that I can pay my dues.
A breath of sound ripples through the crowd, their voices rising and falling like ocean waves as I press my mouth to the mic. I let it wash over me, fuel me, launching into the vocals of the first song. My little brother Gus’s influence is all over this one—a deep, gritty anthem that thrums with raw emotion and showcases my vocal range. My fingers fly over the strings, the grooves biting into the pads of my fingers as I push every ounce of life into my sound.
The crowd starts to take notice, a patchwork of voices that flicker and overlap in a wave of energy, bright and alive. The noise swells and the crowd begins to move. I don’t have to look at them to feel the way they’re responding. The air is different—thicker, hotter, charged with collective energy. My chest tightens in that sweet, familiar way, a mixture of exhilaration and something bordering on vulnerability. This is why I do it, why I’ve bled for this, why I’ll keep pushing. The crowd and I are speaking the same language now.
As I lean back from the mic, allowing Bash to take his solo, my eyes are drawn to a pair of tanned, toned legs clad in sexy-as-fuck black high-tops, confidently resting on the tall speaker beside me.
My breath catches for a moment as she glances away from the viewfinder, her gaze locking onto mine. A faintly defiant smirk plays on her lips, one I’m becoming all too familiar with.
Maggie fucking Morgan is going to be the death of me.
I glance at the speakers again, trying to figure out how she even got up there without breaking her neck. She’s perched like some reckless bird, balanced perfectly but looking like she’s one gust of wind from tumbling into the void.
I can’t stop myself; a laugh escapes me, sharp and unguarded, and I throw my hands up in mock disbelief, the guitar dangling briefly against my hip. The crowd loves it, erupting in cheers that ripple like shockwaves across the field.
Maggie holds her ground, raising her camera once more, a quick grin breaking across her face, her expression a mix of challenge and triumph.
I refuse to back down. Not tonight. I lean into the bridge Bash is nailing, angling my body toward the speaker tower as if silently asking her, What the fuck are you doing there?
Her response is unmistakable as she mouths, Filming you, obviously.
I raise an eyebrow, giving her a lopsided grin and a shake of my head, but even I can’t hide the way my chest tightens as adrenaline mixes with something warmer, something more dangerous.