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As we walked up to the stage and the security guard checked our credentials and lanyards, my collar felt too tight around my neck. It was just an old T-shirt. Sleeveless, but not the normal button-up I tended to wear for performances.
I pulled at it, grumbling under my breath.
“Hey. What’s up, my man? You okay?” Miami slung his arm over my shoulders.
“Where’s Coleman?” I couldn’t tell him that I felt like ants were crawling up my back. Or that I needed another hit of pot like I needed to breathe. “Where’s my fucking brace?”
“Uh…not sure. Are you two okay? Fighting?”
“No. I just want him here.”
The roadies were finishing up on stage, and we were almost ready to go on. But I could not fucking do this. I dropped to the stage floor and put my head against my knees.
“Fucking hell. Get Coleman. Someone get Coleman now.” I knew it was Miami bossing everyone around as usual, but that was only on the surface. Below that, I felt like I was sinking.
Drake’s deep voice thrummed beside me, but I couldn’t make out the words. Someone put my brace in my hands, but I didn’t even look up.
Warm arms were around me. Familiar ones that felt like home. “Zig, babe?”
“Coleman.” I gasped and stuck my nose against his throat. I felt like a teenager again. Being kicked out on the street. “This is crazy.”
“Babe. I think you’re having a panic attack.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Coleman kissed the side of my head. “I’ve got you.”
“I love it when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Kiss my head.”
Coleman grabbed my face and planted little kisses all over it. “I love you to death, Zig.”
I took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ve got this.” I exhaled a little easier. “Maybe.”
“Take your time, Zig.”
I took a few more deep breaths. The world started coming back into focus. Coleman’s arms around me helped ground me or center me or whatever the fuck you want to call it. I felt better. “I’m going to go bang the fuck out of my drums now. I don’t know what’s after that, but this I’ve got. Right now.”
“You sure?”
I nodded, and Coleman helped me to my feet and getting my brace on under my shirt. It felt tight and constricting, but it was supposed to feel that way. And maybe it felt a little bit like it was helping to hold me together, too. I shook out my arms and looked around at the concerned faces of my brothers. Miami, Jinx, and Wolf. I stuck my hand out to do our mantra. The guys stuck theirs on top of mine and Miami counted off the one, two, three, and we yelled, “Fuck yeah!”
The guys made their way out, and Mick slapped a set of sticks in my hand. “Thanks, man.”
“You got it, boss.”
I twirled one stick above my head and headed to the drums. When everyone was in position, I whooped and started counting out our lead song. I was fine, sliding into the zone.
We played it like it was a dream. We moved straight into the next song on the line-up,More like a Ballad.The third wasTattoo You. By the time Miami screamed out the last, “Standing on the brink, Tattoo you,” I was hot and sweating.
I stood and grabbed a towel, but my shirt was soaked. I set the rhythm for this show. They followed me like ducklings. That’s how it went. So, if I needed a second, I got it. I looked around, making sure everyone was okay. They all took the time to get a drink while I walked out to center stage.
Miami chuckled into the mic. “This is becoming a habit, Ziggy.”
“Fuck yeah!” I yelled, and it was picked up by Wolf’s mic. The crowd screamed as I tugged my shirt over my head. Of course, I tossed it into the crowd, followed by one of my sticks that I still had in one hand. The crowd always loved shit like that.
