Calum
I could hear the crowd before the curtain lifted. Their excitement roared through the venue, making the hairs on my arms stand up. I drew in a breath, exchanging a look with my bandmates just as the curtain rose to reveal the mass of bodies in front of the stage.
The Commodore Ballroom was at capacity: there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. Adrenaline rushed through me. Arms reached out toward the stage, fingers straining toward us. The wave of sound pulsing off the audience helped ground me as I took my place in front of my microphone.
“Hello, Vancouver! We’re The Forgotten Flounders!” I yelled, and the audience roared in approval.
My heart raced with the rush of performing. I fed off the crowd’s crazed energy; the cheers, the screams, and the buzz of excitement were both intoxicating and invigorating.
Glancing over my shoulder, I nodded at my best friends. Darius McKenzie, the bassist, and Evan McCreery, the drummer are my brothers by choice. Dare bobbed his head in time to the beat Evan tapped out with his drumsticks, starting the intro to our first song of the night.
Adrenaline pumped through my veins. It was one of the few times I felt free and light, being up there on stage with my boys. The spotlights were beating down on us, with thousands of fans filling the venue—all of them there forus.
Music was the only way I could escape the persistent knocking of regret in my mind—the only way I could say all the things I couldn’t express adequately. Performing is what I was born to do, and the music was the only thing in my life that I hadn’t screwed up. Yet.
Nodding my head, my foot tapping in time to the beat Evan set with his sticks, I waited for my cue to start strumming. The crowd was a deafening roar in my ears, a constant buzzing that made my grin grow even wider.
I lost myself in the music, the glaring lights pointed at the stage, and the sound of the crowd singing along. My fingers moved along the strings and I let go, allowing the music to drive me, riding the high of performing.
Nearly four hours later, after our second encore of the night, we took a bow before walking off stage. Adrenaline dropping with each step, my smile fading too, exhaustion and weariness settling in.
Pulling the strap of my Fender off, I handed it to the roadie waiting with his hands outstretched, giving him a subtle nod of thanks. Dare handed over his bass, and we continued backstage.
“I need a fucking drink,” Evan declared, signaling another night of partying.
I grunted, running a hand through the dark—and now sweaty—hair falling across my forehead. Although a stiff drink wasexactlywhat I needed, the allure of another party just wasn’t there. I worried they’d be able to sense my silent, roaring discontentment. It was growing each day, an invisible pressure behind me.
Some nights I could fake it. Most times, I could wear the mask, make an appearance, and look like I fucking enjoyed myself while doing it. Other nights, the safest course of action for everyone involved was me taking a glass of whiskey alone in my hotel room.
Touring was a big deal to Dare and Evan, they loved it in a way I didn’t. I craved the release and rush of performing, but every minute in between was a struggle. I was restless, even though we were always on the road, continually moving. I did my best to keep the restlessness inside, buried beneath the music, weed, liquor, and the occasional quick hookup with nameless women.
But the restlessness was growing, and it grew bigger every day that passed. I knew why, even if I refused to voice the thought, even to myself.
My internal ruin; the thing I actively avoided thinking about while simultaneously thinking aboutall the fucking time.
Yup, the sooner I hit the hotel room’s minibar, the better. Unfortunately, show nights were a mandatory appearance requirement for us all. The label wanted us to be seen, especially after concerts. I’d put a begrudging hour in at the after-party, then I’d call it a night.
Our progression halted suddenly, and I lifted my head, taking notice of the greeting party waiting backstage. It wasn’t a group of pretty fans with VIP passes pinned to their low-cut tops, which was the familiar greeting party after one of our concerts.
Frowning, I took in our band’s personal assistant and public relations manager, Tai Sayson, and our agent Paul Bodem. They stood in the middle of the hallway leading to our dressing room, matching looks of concern on their faces. Their presence was heavy and ominous, like the feeling that settled over me.
“Two encores aren’t going to bankrupt the label.” Evan joked from behind me.
Tai’s dark eyes went to him briefly before returning to rest on me. The sympathy in them set alarm bells ringing. This wasn’t about the encores, and my stomach felt heavy with trepidation.
“Calum, your mother called. I’m so sorry but…your grandfather died.”
Black dots spotted my vision and my ears roared, making me lose my balance. I staggered, steadying myself by gripping the railing beside me. In a beat, Dare and Evan were flanking me. Pulling my hand away from the railing, I waved them off, my unfocused gaze on Tai. “I need a flight home. Now.”
Nodding with understanding, Tai handed me a thick envelope. “Your tickets are in here. Your flight leaves tomorrow morning at five o’clock. It’s the soonest one out.”
“We’re going too, right?” Dare demanded, his brows furrowing, eyes moving from me to Evan and back to Tai again.
“Sorry, just Cal. This week is packed with appearances. The talk show, the radio interview, and the movie premiere forNoir Night…I just can’t spare all of you.”
“Frank Murphy is the reason our band makes you the millions.” Dare scowled, crossing his muscular arms. “We’d like to pay respects to the man. He made us who we are today.”
“If the funeral falls in between appearances, we will make sure we get you and Evan on a flight for it. But if not, I’m sorry. Our hands are tied.” Paul interjected sympathetically.
