Page 28 of Reverb
They paused after the next song to more shouts and thunderous applause. She downed half a bottle of water that had been placed for her on the raised platform that held Zavier’s kit. Fireworks went off in her chest. Third song, “Finding Light.” This was it.
Zavier quirked an eyebrow and gave her a questioning look.
“I’m fucking ready.” No idea if Zav heard her over the audience or Ray’s ramping them up, but she bet he could read her lips well enough, since he grinned back.
She swung around and found Ray waiting, mic in hand, teeth blinding in the spotlight. They were playing this part cool—not letting the crowd know anything was different. So they’d decided to start “Finding Light” like they always did, with Domino’s guitar sliding over notes and Mish adding a rhythm. Then Zavier joined his beats to her bass and they settled into a kind of duel until Ray layered his voice on top for the first verse.
Mish danced over to Ray, then shimmied backward to the mic that had been set up for when she’d lend her voice to backup vocals. She sang the refrain with Ray, which wasn’t that unusual, but when it came time for Ray to sing the next verse, he danced away, and Mish’s voice rose above Domino’s guitar.
For a moment time seemed to drop away. Everything happened—nothing stopped—but that instant when the words poured out of her throat and rang into the screaming, shifting throng before her, when the realization hit that she and not Ray was singing, when the energy and sound slammed back into her—that carved itself into her memory and soul.
Ray bounded next to her for the chorus, throwing his arm over her shoulder and staying there while she played her solo. Then they were both dancing away when Domino took over. Ray sang again, then she did, and this time she saw the outstretched hands and the open mouths—some singing, some screaming, some in ecstasy as her voice soared, carrying words and love into the night.
When it was all done, the stage shook from the reaction of the crowd. Mish waved.
Ray chuckled, and though that was amplified, it still bore all the love he had for her. For them all. “Honey, you do have your own mic.”
It was an unguarded line, one that was pure Ray and would have been at home on the bus or in the studio. She slid up to hers. “Well, how ’bout that? I do!”
Laughter and shouts from the fans.
His grin was joy. He turned to the audience. “You like Mish singing?”
God, the noise. Part of her wanted to cry from happiness. She leaned in. “Thanks, everyone.” She plucked out a cord on her bass. “Been wanting to do that for a long time.”
She saw, then felt Domino bump up next to her. “I think you should sing with Ray more often.” The venue went wild again. Dom rarely spoke during concerts—and there was more than a little of the wry, sneaky Dominic in the quirk of Domino’s blood-red lips.
She hip-checked him, and he laughed and spun away. “Maybe I will,” she said.
From Ray’s beaming, she was sure she would. She swung her gaze out over the people in the pit and their smiles, and met the smoldering gaze of David Altet, who stood between the pit and the stage, looking up at her. He had on one of his soft smiles, and everything about him, from his stance to his crossed arms, spoke of pride and fulfillment.
Of course he’d be out there in the crowd, watching over her. He nodded once, his smile curving up, before he mouthed two words she read easily on his lips.
Rock queen.
Heat rose to her cheeks and a smile followed, and she backed away from the stage’s edge to grab a few swigs of water before they started their next song.
The rest of the concert flew by, and when they were done, they bounded off the stage, much as Two Times Strong had. Performing never, ever got old. Not when they were here, and now, and living their dreams.
Chapter Seven
Mish was still buzzing a high from the show. The way the audience had responded to her singing—wasn’t anything better in the world than those screams and the joy in those faces. Even now, as she sat and signed and talked to the fans, they were glowing and complimentary.
The woman who came up next had bright-red nail polish and lipstick—close to the color of Mish’s guitar—and she wore a pendant with the band’s logo on it. Bright eyes, brighter smile. Probably college-age.
“Oh my god, you were amazing. I mean, I’ve heard you backing up, but like, tonight was so amazing.” She pushed a poster toward Mish. “Oh god, I’m babbling. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She was blushing furiously.
“Hey, it’s okay. And thanks. Been wanting to sing for you all for ages.” She pulled the poster over. One of the few that featured Mish in the center. “You want me to make it out to you?”
“Yeah,” she breathed. “I love you. I mean—your music.” Her blush grew.
Mish couldn’t help her smile. She got it. She’d also had crushes on so many of her musical idols. “Gotta know your name if you want it on the poster.” She winked.
“Oh. Claire. It’s Claire.” Then spelled it out.
Mish wroteTo Claire, with love, Mishand slid the poster back over. The woman gushed, and the staff, bless them, directed her away.
Mish held up her hand to the next fan. “Give me a sec.” Singing tonight had stressed her voice more than normal, and she needed to soothe her throat a little.
