Page 1 of Electric Wounds
ONE
A NEW ADDITION
Jax
The stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke clings to the walls of the dimly lit backstage room like a bad memory. Echoes of a screaming crowd seep through the thin walls, a reminder of the chaos left behind on stage. It’s the aftermath of another wild night, but for me, Jackson “Jax” Ryder, lead singer of Electric Wounds, it feels like a battlefield. I sit hunched over in a battered leather chair, the weight of my past mistakes heavy on my shoulders, the scent of my own sweat mingling with the heady aroma of the room.
My fingers trace the fading scars along my forearms, a stark reminder of battles fought and lost to addiction. The ink on my arms, intricate designs that once symbolized rebellion, now feels like chains, tying into the marks that will forever remind me of the past.
I glance around the room. Marcus, our guitarist, leans against the wall, his chiseled arms inked with Japanese waves and dragons. His blond hair is tousled, and his piercing blue eyes focus intently on tuning his guitar, oblivious to the world around him. Beside him, Enzo, our bassist, with dark, brooding eyes downcast and jet-black hair falling over his face, humsa soft melody. Enzo's tattoos, a sporadic blend of dark and colorful ink, shift with each flex of his muscles, mesmerizing me briefly. Dylan, our drummer, with a muscular frame covered in geometric patterns and tribal designs, taps out a rhythm on his thigh, his gaze distant, lost in some private thought.
The door creaks open, breaking the silence. Harris, our manager from the label, steps in, his presence as unwelcome as the label’s constant interference. “Jax,” he says, his voice a blend of authority and impatience. “We need to talk.”
I sigh, standing up to face him. “What now, Harris?”
Harris adjusts his tie, a habitual gesture of discomfort. It’s like his suit suffocates him, and he would rather be wearing anything else. Be anywhere else, for that matter. “The label’s not happy. Your little stint in rehab cost us a lot. They want assurance that you’re clean, and, more importantly, that you stay clean. They’ve hired someone to keep an eye on you.”
I narrow my eyes. “We don’t need a babysitter. The label seemed fine about my return. We’ve already had several sold-out shows. What changed?”
Harris smirks, ignoring my question. “She’s not a babysitter. She’s your new handler. Just out of college, top of her class. The label thinks she can keep you in line.”
“Why are they sending her now, after several shows?” I ask again, my voice tight. The walls feel like they’re closing in, another consequence of the mistakes I’ve made over the past year and a half. A reminder that my decisions don’t just affect me—they affect the rest of the band. We used to be close, but now we barely talk. Well, they barely talk to me. They don’t seem to have issues with each other. They weren’t the ones who caused all the band’s problems, so they probably find some solidarity in that. Standing in the same room with me is forced by necessity, not by desire.
Before Harris can respond, the door opens wider, and a woman walks in. She seems out of place in the gritty backstage gloom. She’s young, blonde, and petite, her beauty almost ethereal. Her blue eyes scan the room, taking in the scene with a mix of determination and trepidation. Her golden hair falls in soft waves around her face, framing her delicate features perfectly. She has a natural, effortless grace about her, dressed in a simple blouse and jeans that hug her slender frame just right. Her smooth, fair skin stands in stark contrast to the rough, tattooed landscape surrounding her.
“Gentlemen,” Harris says, stepping aside. “Meet Lily Thompson.”
Lily steps forward, her confidence wavering under our intense gazes. She’s like a burst of sunlight in our shadowy world, a beacon of something pure and untouchable. I immediately want her gone. I can tell my bandmates are equally unsettled by her presence, and the silence stretches long past what would be considered polite.
She doesn’t shift or move. She stands in the doorway, waiting. I give it a few more minutes, observing her. I imagine I can see her visibly steeling her spine as the silence continues. Harris is no longer fidgeting. He stands off to the side like he’s equally invested in Lily’s reaction to our displeasure. He makes no move to step in.
Eventually, I scoff, a loud and rude noise, drawing her gaze immediately. It narrows slightly before she resumes scanning the room and taking in my bandmates. “I’m here to help,” Lily says, her voice steady despite the tension. “The label wants me to make sure everything runs smoothly. I can tell you don’t want me here, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Marcus sets down his guitar, his eyes raking over her appreciatively. “You sure you can handle us, sweetheart?”
Enzo smirks, crossing his arms. “You can handle me anytime.” He cocks an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to react to his innuendo. Lily just shakes her head, ignoring his comment as her gaze flits between us.
Despite my unhappiness about the situation, I also feel a surge of protectiveness toward her, a feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time. I squash down the instinct, eyeing her up and down and adding my own sarcastic response, “Let’s give her a chance, boys. If the label thinks she’s up for the task, then let’s see what she’s got.”
“I’d love to see what she’s got. You gonna give us a show?” Enzo asks, dragging his eyes down her body slowly, like he’s undressing her with his eyes.
“That’s enough,” Harris says in a firm voice, finally stepping in. Harris handles our gigs, hotels, and makes sure everything runs smoothly, but he doesn’t always go on the road with us. He prefers handling things long distance, when possible, to stay close to his family. It makes sense the label is assigning someone to stay on top of us, with the ability to report back immediately. Harris probably jumped at the idea if it means he can spend even less time on the road.
He turns to Lily, speaking in a low tone. “If you need anything, just call or text. You have my number. It can be at any time. The label trusts you to keep them in line, but I’m your backup if you need it.”
Lily nods, a hint of relief in her eyes. Maybe our silent treatment has shaken her despite her calm demeanor. “Thank you, Harris. I promise I won’t let you down.”
He nods, patting her shoulder before turning back to us. “Behave.” He locks eyes with each of us for several seconds, then heads back to the door. “Show Lily the bus. You need to load up tonight and head to Denver for your next stop,” he orders as he leaves, not bothering to turn around.
Harris can be a hardass, but he makes sure things run smoothly for us, and we always listen to him, so he doesn’t stick around.
“Ready to see your new luxury accommodations?” Dylan jokes, standing and slinging an arm around Lily’s shoulder. Her body tenses, but she doesn’t shove him off, allowing him to guide her to the hall leading to our tour bus. The rest of us stand, exchanging glances before trailing behind.
TWO
THE BUS
Lily
