Annie:I’m crying.
My lips twitch. She probably is.
Me:One more sleep until we hit the stage.
I tap Send.
Rock:Celebrating early, baby!
A picture of a bong pops up on the screen.
Tag:Same bitches
Another picture swooshes: Tag’s hand wrapped around a beer bottle.
Zach sends a photo of his daughter holding his bass guitar, the instrument as big as she is.
And then there’s Annie.
She sends a picture of the moon.
Annie:One more sleep. One more honey moon.??
***
The energy tonight is absolute electricity, and The Soundproof is alive with it.
Nestled between an unassuming alley and a bustling dive bar, the venue boasts velvet curtains, blackened rafters, and a stage worn by decades of stompedboots and shattered snares. The hallways vibrate with basslines and setlists past as we wait in the green room beneath the stage, a cramped space that smells like old amps and bourbon.
The walls are riddled with signatures and Sharpie-scrawled lyrics from every act that’s ever come through. Some legends, some forgotten. I hear the crowd buzzing with anticipation, most here for the headliner, some curious about the no-name band opening for Unbidden.
Luckily we’ve come prepared.
A worn graphite-gray couch sinks in the middle of the room, half covered in guitar cases and leather jackets, while the hum of the audience filters through the floorboards above, revving my pulse. Tag paces near the minifridge, tapping out beats on his thighs. Zach tunes his bass for the fifth time, and Rock chats with Crowley against the far wall.
“—which is prime for maximum shreditation,” my drummer says, his grin goofy and eyes half-lidded. “Are you a shredator?”
Crowley looks perplexed. He folds his arms over a crisp white button-down and sharp checkered tie, the look toned down with the addition of a faded leather vest. He’s part businessman, part rock aficionado. “Not sure. Am I?”
Rock eyes his outfit. “You’re suppressing the shred. But there’s potential.”
Shaking my head, I glance at Annie curled in the corner with her notebook, mouthing lyrics like a litany. A smile pulls as I approach, returning my guitar to its stand as the inlays sparkle under the overhead fluorescents. “You’re in the zone.”
She flicks me a look, face paler than snow. “Is that what on-the-verge-of-puking looks like?”
Now that she mentions it, she does look borderline green.
I crouch down beside her, dropping to my butt. “Nervous?”
“That’s a word for it.”
“You’re going to kill it out there.”
“Or die trying. Actually, that’s more likely.” She gulps. “Probable, even.”
My eyes rake down her thigh-length leather dress. Raven black and skintight. A vision pops into my head, but it has nothing to do with her text about loving to give blow jobs.
Nope.
