Page 33 of Composed
We created a legacy with our sound all those years ago—one that will outlive us all.
Maybe that can be enough.
Ball cap slung low on my forehead, hood pulled tight, and my inked hands hidden in my pockets, I do a pretty good job of pretending I’m not one of the rock stars everyone came to see. I shove through the crowd.
Pretty sure Tommy’s gonna be freaking out in the mock-up green room we set up in the back of the club we rented for tonight.
I was supposed to be here an hour ago but I got caught up in the heaving Sunday traffic. It doesn’t help that I left late, since I wasn’t planning to show at all.
Axel went out of his way to get this set up in less than a week, posting cryptic clues on the band's social accounts. He promised a chill set, a couple beers, and no more than five hundred fans crawling into the space.
He either forgot we’re sitting at the top of the rock industry right now, or more likely—helied.
This place is only fit for a couple thousand, and I’m pretty sure we’re pushing that capacity.
I sneak through a thick black door in the corner of the room.
The racket dulls as it clicks shut, and I tip my head against the wood. I rub my thumb and forefinger over the beaded bracelet in my pocket as I catch my breath.
Peace is short-lived when another door shoves open and Tommy pokes his head around the frame.
He clicks his fingers. “Fucking finally. Get a move on, kid.”
“I’m coming,” I say. “Everything set up?”
He nods. “Just waiting on you.”
Isn’t everyone, always?
I follow him into a large, open room. A couple of tables lean against the far wall, laden with food and drink. The blended scent of weed and tobacco wafts through the warm air.
Music plays in the background, low and grounding as our techs run around, instruments and equipment in their hands.
Carter sits on one of the couches, hunched over his phone, Saint smokes a joint in the corner, and Axel bounces on the balls of his feet, beer bottle hanging lax in his fingertips.
I snatch up a bottle of water and twist the cap as my stomach rolls.
I haven’t felt like this before a show in forever. Not since around the time we went on our first arena tour. But something’s different today.
Flicking my gaze over the room, I catch sight of a woman leaning against the wall.
Colour me shocked.
Wearing light wash jeans, a white tank, and pale pink cardigan, she stands out like a sore thumb in the sea of black. She twists her white gold ring, the diamond catching the light as her brown eyes dance over the room.
I can’t remember the last Theo rocked up to watch us play. Between our old label focusing on international tours and her being tied up teaching ballet, she hasn’t made it to many shows in recent years.
I press my back against the wall and nudge her shoulder. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Saint practically begged.” She tucks long, icy blonde hair behind one ear and peers up at me with a cheeky grin. “And you know I’m a sucker for that man on his knees.”
I choke on my water. “Too much information, woman.”
“So you don’t want to hear what he did wh—”
I clamp a hand over her mouth.
Her fair cheeks pinken as she giggles.
