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Cameras flash, drones flying by to get the perfect shot as we play, despite the photographers creeping in the alley between the stage and the barricade that barely holds back the mob of lifted horns and screaming fans.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Rex strutting across the stage to Toby, the two singing into the mic together as Rex slings an arm around his brother from another mother. They stay like that for the next line in the song, the vocals harmonizing together, and Rex breaks away to come back to center stage and hold the mic out to the throng of wild screaming.
But when he leans over the stage monitor and counts down with his fingers, the mass before us engages the chorus on mark and sings our song back to us.
Chills race down my spine and pull up the corner of my lips as each word echoes from the venue, louder still when Rex uses his free hand to gesture for more. He sets back on his heels, his grin unmatched as he looks from me to Toby and back again with a shake of his head. Meanwhile, the drove of patrons sing through the entire chorus and only stop when Rex motions for such and takes back over for the next verse.
“Y’all don’t even need me,” Rex says on a laugh into the mic between lines as he paces the front of the stage and begins the next lyric like he didn’t just use his breath to speak. The crowd goes wild with applause and nooooo’s as Rex smiles out at them and does what the showman does.
He conquers the fucking stage.
By the end of the third song, I’m growling into the backup mic, covered in sweat, and peeling off my shirt—much to the ladies’ pleasure who scream my name in return.
I watch on as surfers make it to the front of the wave from all the way in the back, a wheelchair popping up at one point to ride along with the other bouncing bodies and arrive safely at the security that holds the barricade back.
But I don’t see what I’m hoping shows up in the crowd.
Even when I stride to the other side in hopes of catching sight of long black hair and eyes that haunted my dreams last night.
“So, brother, let’s hear it then.” Rex juts his chin at the axe at my hips and I take the cue.
The masses roar in response, clapping and yelling shit I can’t understand thanks to the IEMs, but that doesn’t stop the pride I feel from broadening my chest and widening my grin.
Leaning into the guitar with downcast eyes, I let my fingers fly over the strings, my pinkie curling around the whammy bar to manipulate the pitch as I work the frets. I take the riff into the sharper beat, quickening the notes with each pass, my lip pinched between my teeth as tingles race down my spine and I’m lifting to my toes to keep the momentum.
Is Cedar here to watch?
Until I slam the rhythm in time with Mac’s bass drum and we’re shooting off into the next song in the smoothest transition we’ve had yet.
I’ve seen her collection of our tees. She’s gotta be here.
The vibe of the set goes on just like that, jovial and hard, but much shorter than a traditional As Above show, which is what happens when fifteen other bands need the same stage we’re on for their sets. So we wrap it up, avoid the hoard begging for an encore, and hand over our equipment to the road crew for safekeeping until we need it again in another four days to close this shit out.
Without the in-ear-monitors, the roar of the venue deafens me, even backstage, as me and my bandmates sweat out the post-show adrenaline.
“Holy shit,” Leo greets us in the fully air-conditioned artist-only tent with a giant grin and slapping bro hugs. “That was amazing.”
“Damn straight it was.” Mac nods his agreement, but his eyes are not on Leo. Instead, he scans the few unfamiliar bodies around us like he’s looking for someone else.
“You’re already trending.” Leo produces a tablet from the waistband of his pressed slacks and flashes the screen with several windows open.
All of the popular social media sites display on the device, several sets of websites, some local news and one site for the festival itself.
And every damn one of them boasts pics and headlines from our set.
“That sounds like means to celebrate.” I glance around at my crew with a smirk and before I can ask, a drink is placed in my hand and we’re lifting our glasses in a toast.
“As Above!”
Shots are thrown back, cups are sipped and I’m heading straight for the dedicated bar near the back for the next round.
The cool air prickles my skin as I sidle up to the bartender—a hot curvy blonde with ink and pierced nips peeking through her barely-there top—and order another round through hooded eyes.
“What name you wanna put it under, darlin’?” A faint Southern accent has me biting my lip as the blonde taps away at her tablet with long black nails and tallies up each drink she pours.
“Fin’ll do, darlin’.” She flutters her eyelashes at me when I pull out my wallet, a grin on her full lips that has me running my tongue over mine.
I just need to get laid.
