One last encore before the band takes a break and I head to Heart Ranch for my brother’s secret wedding.
They grin back, each taking a moment to prepare for the final song of the night. Bronx is drenched from head to toe, his ginger hair dripping with sweat. His drum skins are speckled with puddles.
Golden balances his guitar against his leg, peels his sodden shirt over his head, and tucks it into the back pocket of his pants.
I shake the water and sweat out of my hair and wet my throat with a pull from a fresh bottle of water a stagehand offers me. Another perfect night for L.A. Riot is coming to a close.
The crowd screams for more as I step up to the microphone.
I wave to the sea of faces I can barely distinguish from each other below the stage. Salt and beer and body odor from thousands of people fills my nostrils as I inhale.
It smells like what dreams are fucking made of.
“Thanks for showing up tonight. You’re the reason we get to make music. The reason we get to do what we love. Without you we wouldn’t be L.A. Riot.” The last few months wouldn’t have been spent on a sold-out tour. We wouldn’t have left my brother’s basement.
Nepotism at its finest, our haters say, considering my brothers Rebel and Rogue are both famous movie stars. But those people weren’t there for the blood, sweat, and tears we put into our music before we made a name for ourselves. They didn’t show up to the hours of practice, the tiny bar venues we begged to give us stage time, or the open mic nights. They don’t know what it took for my brothers and I to climb out of the gutter we were tossed into. Not like our real fans do.
A woman riding the shoulders of a man in the pit screams my name before she whips her L.A. Riot T-shirt up over her face and flashes us her tits.
Ignoring the tits, I seek out the woman I’m looking for. Kelsey Peterson. Our band manager and my ride or die bestie since before L.A. Riot was more than a few scribbles in my notepad.
I watch her bouncing around in her tight miniskirt, L.A. Riot crop top, and sky-high boots until she notices my eyes on her. The lanyard around her neck sways as she lifts an arm above her head to wave back at me from where she waits off to one side of the stage.
Her makeup is dark. Her hair freshly shaved at the sides and the top curled and pinned. I’m going to enjoy digging my fingers into those strands and yanking those pins out while she’s riding me later tonight.
I draw a circle in the air with one finger as the crowd chants for an encore. Time to wind this up. I’ve got a long night ahead of me. A woman to make mine. A flight to catch in the wee hours of the morning. “You want one last song? How about the one that started all this?”
The crowd screams.
I hum against the microphone. “That’s right. It’s time we remind you that you have us in a chokehold.”
The crowd falls silent. Thousands of people fill the stadium, and you could hear a pin drop.
I pour my heart into the first quiet line of the song. “You’ve got me in your chokehold, baby.”
A woman close to the stage screams and faints, collapsing into the arms of the people surrounding her.
“Help her.” I point her out to the medic team we always have waiting for situations like this.
Neil and Golden riff-off softly while we make sure she’s okay.
“She’s okay, folks,” I reassure the crowd as Neil and Golden prepare to start the song over.
“You’ve got me in your chokehold, baby.”I sing the words that changed my future trajectory.“Your name’s inked beneath my skin.”
Kelsey clasps a hand to her throat, her pillowy lips forming the words right along with me.
“I can’t breathe without you.”I’m a pussy, which means she has no clue she inspired this song.
Before my brothers became famous, before I became Rebel and Rogue Maddox’s famous little brother, before L.A. Riot became a worldwide phenomenon, there was a sarcastic rock chick—with an affection for all things candy skull—who believed in me. It’s hard not to have a crush on someone like that.
“I’m on my knees.”
We used to ride our skateboards in high school and dream about the day we’d end up here. In a packed stadium. My music shaking the walls. Her singing along.
“Your hand wrapped around my throat.”
She always had faith in the band. In me. Our fans think this song is about my obsession with music. And it is. In part. But our music wouldn’t be the same without her.
