We stumble offstage into the half-dark of backstage, our ears ringing, our hearts still pounding. A crew tech hands me a towel, but I’m too wired to use it. My skin feels electric.
“Holy hell,” Eli says, collapsing against a wall. “We just leveled that place.”
“No,” Drew says, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, “we nuked it.”
Miles grins, slow and stunned. “That was… something.”
I laugh—loud, unguarded, the kind of sound that comes from the chest. “Something good?”
“Somethinglegendary,” Eli says. He snatches up a bottle of water, unscrews the cap, takes a swig, then immediately replaces it with a small bottle of tequila from his jacket. “Post-show tradition, gentlemen.”
“You’re gonna be a tradition if you keep that up,” Drew mutters.
“Don’t act innocent,” Eli says. “You know the rule. One shot for the stage, one for the kill.”
He pours into four plastic cups he grabbed from fuck knows where. The smell alone makes my head swim. We each take one. The liquid glows amber in the flickering backstage light.
“To us,” Miles says, voice steady even now.
“To tonight,” Drew adds.
“To the madness,” Eli throws in.
I lift mine last. “To whatever the hell comes next.”
We clink, drink, and collectively groan. The burn slides down hot, then smooth, and the laughter breaks loose again, shaking the room.
We’re still laughing when a deep voice cuts through the noise. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
We turn as one. The man in the doorway is tall, mid-forties, skin the color of polished walnut, suit sharp even in the dim light. He’s got the kind of presence that makes everyone stand straighter.
“Simpson Cole,” he says, holding out his hand. “I run A&R for Horizon Entertainment.”
My fingers tighten around the empty cup. Simpson Cole.ThatSimpson Cole—the guy who discovered Waverly Lane and signed The Hush before their stadium tour. The guy every up-and-coming band prays will remember their name.
He shakes each of our hands in turn, grip firm, eyes assessing. Then he looks at me.
“Rafe, right? Front man.”
“That’s me,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking with disbelief.
He smiles. “You’ve got something special, kid. That whole set—raw, dangerous, but tight. You don’t see that balance often. The song in the middle—‘Crimson High’? That one hit hard.”
My pulse jumps. Another of Ollie’s songs. “Thanks. That one means a lot.”
“I could tell,” he says, grin widening. “Felt like blood onstage. Authentic. You don’t fake that.”
He slips a card from his jacket and presses it into my hand. “I want to talk. Not tonight—you’ve earned the right to celebrate—but 11:00 a.m. tomorrow, my office at Horizon. Don’t be late.”
I glance down at the card—heavy stock, gold lettering—and have to blink to make sure it’s real. “We’ll be there.”
“I hope so.” He reaches into his pocket again, this time pulling out sleek black passes with a silver crest stamped across them. “In the meantime, you boys should blow off steam. Club Échelon. Private, off-Strip. Everyone who’s anyone passes through eventually. They’ll know to let you in. No cameras, no press.”
He looks at us, a spark of humor in his eyes. “Consider it a welcome to the next level.”
Then he’s gone, leaving the passes glinting in our hands and the room echoing with stunned silence.
Eli’s the first to break it. “Holy. Shit.”
