I strutted across the stage, song after song. The passion around me—from the band, the roadies behind the show, the fans—consumed me, helped me stay in the moment, helped me push aside the world outside the arena walls.
And then came the opening strains of the song I’d been dreading. Hailey’s song. I’d written it for her before I left Northbridge, not that she knew my love for her had inspired the lyrics. “This One Moment” was our biggest hit. Everyone expected us to play it. It was the ballad that had critics comparing us to the bands I respected and admired.
The stage lights dimmed. A spotlight poured down on me, but it wasn’t enough to push away the darkness growing inside me. I placed the mic in the stand and poured every emotion inside me into the song, as I did every time I sang it. The pain in my words was clear from the emotion in my voice. Girls mouthed the words, as if they too could relate to them. I closed my eyes, blocking out their faces. Only one face filled my thoughts every time I sang the lyrics.
And she was now in a coma.
That thought just about brought me to my knees. But somehow I kept myself together as I finished the song—the final one of the set, thank God.
The last notes of the music rang out over the audience, and the crowd burst into the loudest cheering of the night. I’d be surprised if the applause for Crazy Piper could top this.
We waved our appreciation to the audience and left the stage so the crew could set up for the main act. As I climbed down the last step, the roadie handed me my guitar, already in its case.
I high-fived my bandmates, our usual post-performance tradition. “Don’t go too far,” I told them. “Remar told me some reporter from Rock News wants to interview us.”
The guys groaned. Post-concert interviews were the worst. Everyone wanted to get out of there and relax, not answer a bunch of ridiculous questions.
“Can’t Mason at least shower first?” Kirk said, smirking at the drummer. “He reeks like something from my old hockey bag.”
Mason leaned closer to the dark-haired bassist and lifted his arm so his armpit was near Kirk’s face. “And I bet it’s turning you on something fierce.”
Kirk shoved him. “Yo, dude, save it for the women.”
“No clue,” I said, answering Kirk’s question and ignoring their antics, even though normally I would’ve joined in. “Gotta do something first. Catch up with you in a few.” I started to make a beeline for a side corridor, where I wouldn’t be overheard, to book my plane ticket.
I didn’t get that far.
A girl stepped away from the wall she’d been leaning against near the stage. She wasn’t the usual variety of female who hung around concerts, hoping to see her much-beloved stars and possibly get lucky. Her straight blond hair hung to her shoulders and she had nice tits, but nothing compared to most of Mason’s girls. Even her outfit was different from what most girls who hung around backstage wore. She had on jeans and a thin cardigan, and looked like she’d be more comfortable in a library than at a rock concert. Only the media badge hanging around her neck betrayed her reason for being here.
Shit.
She held out her hand to me. “Hi. I’m Jodi Merrill with Rock News.”
I shook her hand, though I’m sure she regretted that considering I’d just played a forty-minute set under hot stage lights and I was positive I’d sweated at least two gallons of fluid. But if my sweaty hand disgusted her, she didn’t show it. “Tyler Erickson.”
She also shook hands with each of the guys, not once flinching at how sweaty they were, and indicated for us to follow her, away from the backstage craziness.
Pretending to listen to her glowing review of the concert, I fought back the need to remove Hailey’s picture from my pocket and examine it. It wasn’t as if that would save the girl I loved. All it would accomplish was to let everyone know she existed.
A few minutes later we were sitting in a room with nothing more than a table and several plastic chairs. Nothing like where Remar had been waiting for me. But as sparse as the room was, life and energy weren’t taking a vacation. They were all around me, doing their best to soothe my agitation at being here instead of being on the phone with the airline.
Jodi placed her iPhone in front of her on the table. “Is it okay if I record the interview?”
“Sure, go ahead,” I said. Not that it ever made a difference. Even when they recorded the interviews, reporters still kept quoting us out of context.
My knee began bouncing, counting away the seconds the interview was delaying my escape.
“First off, thank you for agreeing to let me interview you guys.”
I almost snorted at that. The way I saw it, we hadn’t been given a choice.
The interview proceeded as they normally do. Jodi first asked us about our musical influences. Next came the questions about our pasts, which I faked as usual.
“Have you always lived in L.A.?” She looked at each one of us, but paused on me for what felt like the longest.