Bash shrugged. “I used to. Now, I get amped, like a nervous energy running through my body. Today is a little different. Different crowd. Different expectations. More pressure.”
“Different expectations?” Ryker asked. “How so?”
Bash tapped a simple beat, and his leg bounced in time. “No one here paid to see us. We’re like interlopers, bringing our sound to them. They don’t really have a choice. They can watch us or go work out. I’ve never seen so many people working out. It’s like that’s all you folks do.”
That was true, but they were airmen and warriors. The job demanded a minimum level of fitness and endurance. The days were long and boring. Bash had that right.
Bash continued, “And, if it’s not epic, we’ve totally blown it. Our fans come to our concerts and return home to their families. Sleep in comfortable beds. They might even hit the bars afterward and tie on a few drinks before heading home to their very safe and normal jobs. What they don’t do is watch our concert and then pick up a gun and go out on patrol.”
Not everyone on base went on patrol. They had medics and cooks, people who worked postal duties, mechanics and engineers, and a whole host of other jobs that needed to get done, but he didn’t want to contradict Bash. Those who headed outside, like him and T, willingly went into danger. He hadn’t really thought of it that way. His job was the only normal he’d ever known.
“I don’t think you need to worry about being second choice. The USO does a fabulous job of bringing in entertainers. I’m not a country fan, but bring one in, and I’m right there. The boredom of this job makes things like what you do special. And everyone outthere knows you’re doing this on your dime. We know it’s a choice you make to come to us.”
“I suppose,” Bash said. “How are you holding up?”
“I’d be a mess, to be honest, except I’m remembering what Timmy used to always say.”
“Who’s Timmy?” Bent leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees. Like Spike, he’d been strangely quiet.
Spike hadn’t said a word. He sat back in his chair and played his version of air guitar. Ryker watched the dancing of his fingers and recognized the frets and chords. He was playing the opening of “Heart’s Insanity,” his own private rehearsal. Even his lips moved, mouthing the words to his part of the song.
“He was the drummer of my band back in high school,” Ryker explained.
“And what did he say?” Bash stopped tapping the table and returned to twirling the sticks.
Spike looked up, but his fingers kept moving. Ash kicked back, tossing his arms out wide to rest on the armrests of the chair. Noodles stared at his hands.
“He said, ‘Fuck them. Play for yourself.’” He smiled, remembering his friend.
Timmy had gone into law and decided to run for some local political office. They’d never made their dream of making it big, but their band had rocked the local scene for a small slice of time.
“Sounds like great advice,” Ash said. He slapped his knees and stood. “You guys ready to rock this?”
Ryker wasn’t the least bit ready, but with Timmy Saunder’s words in his head, he rose with the rest of the band. They closed around the small center table in a circle and wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders. They brought it in close, bowing their heads until they touched.
Ash began a low hum. The power of his voice filled the air. It stood on its own, becoming a creative force, rushing in and around every person in the room. Ryker stood in awe as Bash lay in a beat with the tapping of his foot. The hum increased in tempo as Bent and Spike joined in. A crescendo built until Noodles added the rasp of his voice, laying down an otherworldly sound. Notes filled the air, a rising power surging back and forth until it encapsulated them into a unified whole.
Ryker barely dared to breathe. To his left, Bent wrapped his arm across Ryker’s shoulders. Spike stood to his right. Directly across from him, Ash quieted suddenly. Then, he bowed his head and said a prayer, stunning Ryker.
He said, “Amen,” with the others and then broke apart, finding himself the only one standing still.
The others adjusted their wireless headsets and headed for the stage.
Forest and Smiley, who’d stood apart from the band’s preshow ritual, gave him a thumbs-up.
When he came over to them, Smiley said, “Break a leg.”
“Thanks.” He wouldn’t be going on with the band.
They would play the first three songs off their set list and then break to talk to the troops. Ash would tell them about the surprise and then introduce Ryker.
He glanced at the small flight of stairs leading to the stage and cursed the jangle of nerves rattling in his body.
This was really happening.
THIRTEEN
Beat
