Page 59 of Electric Wounds
Before I can respond, Enzo’s voice cuts through the air. “Oh, come on, Jax. Stop wallowing in self-pity. We all fucked up at some point. Get over it.”
“Enzo,” I snap, glaring at him. “That’s not helping.”
He shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips. “Just saying it like it is.”
Dylan, his happy heart always trying to make everything into a joke, adds, “Yeah, Jax. If we wanted to hear about someone’s life falling apart, we’d watch reality TV.”
Instead of making the situation better, the joke falls flat, and an awkward silence settles over us. I glance at Jax, who looks even more miserable than before.
Marcus steps in, his voice firm. “Enough. We need to focus on the show. Let’s go through the pre-show ritual.”
Everyone nods, grateful for the distraction. The band gathers in a circle, and I stand off to the side, a fly on the wall for theirpre-show routine. Marcus pauses, waiting for Jax to step in, but he just stands there. Part of the circle, which is a start, yet his shoulders are slumped, his head down turned, like he’s already defeated.
Marcus shakes his head in irritation but doesn’t comment. He leads the band through the familiar routine, his voice steady and grounding. He ignores Jax’s lack of participation and hustles the band out of the dressing room once they finish.
I trail behind the group towards the stage, the roar of the crowd growing louder with every step. Jax’s steps slow, and I place a hand on his back, giving a tiny push to keep him moving. He straightens his shoulders and steps on stage while I take my place at the side, watching the band get into position.
The lights flare, and the audience erupts in cheers. The first notes of the opening song fill the air, and the energy in the room shifts. The crowd is extra wild tonight, their excitement practically vibrating through the walls. It’s like they can feel the band’s struggle and are determined to lift them up.
Jax’s voice soars over the crowd, surprisingly powerful, considering his downtrodden attitude all day. He pours his heart into every note, and I wonder if the crowd can hear the difference today. His presence on stage is mesmerizing. His dark hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat, as he belts out the lyrics with raw intensity. Jax turns to face me, and his usually guarded eyes are open, revealing the depths of his emotion. It’s like he’s laying his soul bare for me, and for the crowd. They respond with an overwhelming wave of support, and I, well, I’m not sure how to respond.
I tear my gaze away, scanning the rest of the stage. Marcus is in his element, his fingers moving with precision and passion. His blond hair catches the light, giving him an almost ethereal glow as he plays with fierce determination. Dylan is a whirlwind of energy behind the drums, his muscular arms moving witha relentless rhythm as he drives the beat higher with each pound of his drumstick. Enzo, with his dark hair and brooding presence, anchors the performance with his deep, resonant bass lines. His usual smirk is gone, replaced with a look of fierce concentration.
As the set continues, I see glimpses of the band I know and love. The connection between them, the way they feed off each other’s energy, is still there. They’re basically a family. They spend so much time together on and off the road, and no amount of adversity can change that.
The crowd sings along to every word, their voices blending with Jax’s in powerful harmony. He points the mic out to them at a few different points, letting the audience carry the words while he takes a step back and they eat it up, screaming the chorus to every song. But like everything else, the show eventually must end. Jax announces their final song, and the crowd groans collectively.
After the final notes ring out, the guys leave the stage, their faces flushed with exertion and relief as they head to my spot in the wings. They exchange fist bumps and grins, their adrenaline still running high. Enzo wraps an arm around my waist, tugging me tight against his sweaty body.
“You pulled it off,” I murmur, grinning at them.
“Yeah,” Marcus adds, his tone serious. “We need to stay prepared, but we can do this. We have fifteen more shows.”
“Fifteen? That’s nothing.” Dylan grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes the way it usually does.
Enzo shrugs, his callous smirk firmly in place. “Sounds like you’re starting to lose your touch, Marcus. Fifteen is hardly anything.”
“Let’s grab our stuff and get out of here,” I suggest. A wave of gratitude for having the bus back washes over me, as I think ofsnuggling up on the couch and just letting go of today and all the stress that we’ve had recently.
Dylan nods, taking off towards the dressing room and the rest of us follow. Enzo keeps his arm wrapped around my waist, matching my pace as we stroll through the backstage. A general sense of exhaustion hovers over the band, but so does a feeling of hope. They needed the performance tonight to get back on track.
Suddenly, a piercing shriek echoes from the direction of the stage. My heart jumps into my throat as everyone freezes, listening. The shriek is followed by shouts and the unmistakable sound of panic from the crew. It’s different from the usual chaos backstage.
“What the fuck?” Enzo mutters, his eyes wide as he turns toward the noise.
“Let’s go!” Marcus shouts, already moving toward the stage.
We follow, adrenaline spiking again. Dodging equipment and crew members, we push through the backstage area, the noise growing louder as we approach the chaos. I question whether moving towards the noise is the best idea or not, but I’m pulled along behind Enzo, my protests lost in the surrounding commotion.
When we finally emerge from the wings, we’re met with pure pandemonium. The crowd has erupted into chaos. Fans chant, a cacophony of sounds that might be calling for an encore, or maybe just continuing to sing the band’s songs long after they’ve left the stage. Their voices blending into a deafening roar. Those closest to the front shove against the barrier, their faces desperate and wild with excitement. Security guards struggle to hold them back, their efforts barely containing the aggressive surge.
Some of the female fans scream and cry, arms outstretched toward the stage as they notice the guys return. The energy in the room is frenzied, dangerous—like a powder keg waiting toexplode. Strobe lights from the stage flash erratically, casting frantic shadows over the mass of bodies.
“What the fuck?” Enzo mutters, eyes wide with disbelief.
“We have to fix this,” I say, barely audible over the roar. Panic swells inside me, but I push it down. We need to do something before someone gets hurt.
As the guys step further onto the stage, the crowd notices and surges forward even harder. The pressure against the barriers increases, and I can see the strain on the security guards' faces. They’re losing control. Sweat glistens on their brows as they push back against the tide of bodies, and it’s clear they’re fighting a losing battle.
