Being on stage is my favorite high. There’s absolutely nothing better than playing in front of a crowd. The bigger the better. The more pumped they are, the more adrenaline gushes through my veins.

After three months of touring in North America, as the opening band for the uber-famous, indie rock band, Intermission, tonight, we’re at The Underground in Charlotte, North Carolina. With roughly 750 people packing the place, it’s one of the largest crowds we’ve played thus far. Not that we take any of the credit for that. But this is our final show with Intermission, and Charlotte is our hometown, so I’d like to think we had a positive effect on ticket sales.

Connection with the audience is an essential part of the experience for me. I want every single person in the crowd to walk away with at least three thoughts about my band, Drowned World:

Damn! They fucking killed it.

What a phenomenal show.

Those guys are authentic and nice.

Yeah, I know musicians shouldn’t give a fuck about being liked. But I do. Not because I need it for validation—I’m good in the self-confidence department, and I’d play my music no matter what anyone thinks of it. My goal is to give our fans the ultimate experience. I want them to walk away thinking we were one of the best bands they’ve ever seen live. I want them to know they can talk to us after the show or hit us up on social media, and we’re gonna interact and connect. We’re not gonna be dicks. We honestly appreciate every fucking person.

The people who listen to our music and come to see our shows allow me to live my dream and pay my bills. Well, most of my bills. I still have to work another job. Hopefully that won’t be for much longer.

Speaking of the people who come to our shows, there’s a sexy brunette in the second row whom I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off all night. It wasn’t even her perfect rack that lured me in. Though her boobs look pretty fucking phenomenal propped up and on display in a plunging V-neck, black dress. Sure, I noticed her cleavage, but honestly, it was her eyes that hooked me.

I’m used to people staring. Women wanting. But usually those women want to fuck me. Not saying this girl doesn’t, but her gaze doesn’t seem sexual. It’s intense and imploring—like she’s trying to figure me out through my lyrics.

Maybe I’m romanticizing the connection. From her spot in the crowd, I’ve been able to see her the entire time, but it wasn’t until the lights lit up the crowd for a good three seconds, illuminating the entire floor, that I caught the intensity in her gaze.

I’m probably making too much of it. Romanticizing is one of my favorite pastimes. It’s where I do my best songwriting.

She’s standing next to EmVee, a tattoo artist I’ve known for years, and looks eerily familiar. Yet, I swear I don’t know her. Not like I expect to know everyone EmVee knows, but we run in the same circle and tend to know the same people.

When I launch into our final song, Open Your Heart, which got picked up by the major alternative-rock station on satellite radio a few months ago, and set us up on our first major North American tour, I make sure to catch my mystery girl’s eyes. Maybe I’m singing for her.

No.

I know exactly who I’m singing for: Miss Honey, the nickname I gave the girl I wrote the song about. The girl I took to the hospital after I found her unconscious in her smashed SUV on the side of the road about six months ago. The girl I spent a total of thirty minutes of my life with who became the inspiration for the song that made our band blow up.

Fozzie and Tim, my band brothers, keep the beat of the song running. Before I launch into the last chorus, I stop to say, “We are Drowned World! Thank you for rocking with us tonight! Intermission is next!”

As expected, the crowd goes crazy when I mention the headliner. Taking that extra surge of energy, I jump back into the song for our big finish. I’m feeling the high when the crowd sings the last chorus with me. The enthusiasm fuels my entire body; adrenaline pushes me to do something I’ve only ever done one other time—and that was with Fozzie’s permission. I cross the small stage and leap onto his bass drum, strumming the fuck out of my guitar as I rock out to the final notes. Just before the last chord, I jump off the drum—sending the crowd into a deafening chorus of cheers.

It’s straight legend stuff. Go big or go home, right? We want people to remember the show. You never know when it’ll all be gone. The radio airplay. The packed venues. The screaming crowds. We’re not arrogant, by any means, but we know we’ve got this moment to impress, and we’re not throwing away our shot.

“Thank you so much, Charlotte! We’ll be in the back after the show. Come say hi and ya know, maybe buy some merch.”

I glance at the brunette in the second row one last time before following Fozzie and Tim offstage. She’s still staring. And I’m still enthralled.

We head to the greenroom where we usually stay until Intermission finishes their set. Tonight will be a little different. We’ll head back out in a few minutes and start signing early, while the crew sets up for the headliner. We want to make sure we get to everyone who wants to interact with us, especially for the hometown crowd. My mom, aunt, and cousin are out there, waiting to hug me.

After exchanging a few high-fives, fist bumps, and “Well done, boys!” with our crew, I accept the water bottle our tour manager hands me, pull out my phone, and start scrolling through social media. It’s my usual routine right after we get off stage. The guys and our stage crew go back out and take down the equipment while I down a few bottles of water and relax for a minute. At the beginning of this most recent tour with Intermission, Fozzie suggested I take the time to chill out because he saw how much performing takes out of me—mentally and physically.

Honestly, it’s one of the kindest things anyone’s ever done for me. Don’t get me wrong, I love performing. There’s no bigger rush than being on stage and sharing our songs with the crowd live—the way they were meant to be heard. My body soaks up all the energy: the rush from the smiles, the heads bobbing, the hands in the air. But all of that is exhausting for me.

People assume I’m extroverted and outgoing because that’s what I show them onstage and on social media. I love it, but it’s a side of me that I’ve learned to play up, not the entire person I am.

Having a few minutes to myself, after the set, gives me what I need to calm down and recharge. I use the time to interact with people who might have tagged us on social media. Building relationships online has been a huge part of getting noticed and constructing our fan base. It’s part of the grassroots marketing we’ve done since we started, building an audience with engagement. I try to like everything we’re tagged in—if it’s relevant. It’s the easiest way to let our fans know that we see them and we appreciate them. Not everyone can get to a show, and online support can generate a huge buzz and get our music heard by more people.

Tonight, my motivation to get on social media is spurred by something else—or someone else. I can’t get the beautiful brunette from the crowd out of my mind, and it’s fucking with my head because even after three months of women in various cities throwing themselves at me night after night, the only person who stimulated my interest as much as this girl, in the last few years, was Miss Honey.

This is where being a hopeless romantic is a pain in my ass, because I’m not even obsessing over a real person. I’m obsessing over the person I created in my head. It makes for great songwriting material, but it’s shit for my love life.

The tragic mind of a creative.

I don’t fuck around with groupies. I mean, I have, but I got that out of my system early in my music career when I was just a horny teenager sowing my oats. Back when I got excited by the mere thought that girls wanted to fuck me. It’s not my thing to have meaningless sex with a blur of faces. I need to feel a connection. Don’t get me wrong, I can get off, but there’s nothing better than looking into a woman’s eyes when I’m fucking her and knowing there’s a strong mental bond behind that.

Instead of stopping to read through all of the messages of people who’ve tagged me or the band, I immediately search for EmVee, wondering if she posted any pics or videos from the show, with the hope that she tagged the hottie.

“Boom!” I say out loud as I click on the most recent photo EmVee posted of herself, flanked by two other girls. The caption reads:

Sisters? These girls are sisters? I never would have guessed they were related at all. EmVee’s covered in tats, with long, silver hair and a face painted with dramatic makeup. She probably has a YouTube channel where she gives makeup tips to goth girls. The girl on her left side is the stereotypical Southern belle. Big blond hair, wide, blue eyes, tanned, glowing skin on a Barbie body. I bet she knows how to use the correct forks and makes all the Chad’s dicks jump.

The brunette almost seems plain standing next to the other two. That’s not a slam. She’s gorgeous, but in a completely different way. Her face looks natural, as if she’s not wearing much makeup—if any—just the rosy cheeks of someone flushed from dancing. With loose, sable waves cascading over one shoulder and a bright smile, she’s sultry as fuck in the most unassuming way. It triggers the librarian fantasy I’ve always had. Sexy, nerdy girls are my kink.

As I study the photo, I realize now that the neckline of her dress is actually quite modest. Her boobs seem to be spilling out because that’s what happens to voluptuous girls who wear V-necks.

I wouldn’t say I have a type, but I am partial to women who have some meat on their bones. There’s nothing sexier than curves in all the right places. A round ass, big bouncing tits, and padding over her hips so I have something to grab onto when she’s riding my…

“Jesus,” I hiss. I’m getting a fucking hard-on just thinking about her. I tip my water back and down what’s left in one long pull.

“What’cha doing, Austin?” Tim asks from the doorway.

“Sexting your mom,” I respond without missing a beat.

“She wishes,” he says with a laugh. “You know she wants to grab your pretty hair and—”

“Oh my god! Stop!” I yell. I know I started it, but damn, Tim’s always taking shit to the next level—the creepy level. I take a moment to scan the area, and notice our drummer isn’t back yet. “Where’s Fozzie?”

“Probably checking his bass drum for cracks.”

My stomach sinks. “Fuck. I should have asked first.”

Tim shrugs. “I don’t think he cares, to be honest. He’s still out front talking to people. I’m heading out, too.”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Want to finish responding to a few messages.”

“Tell mom I said hi!” he teases before ghosting.

Fucker.

But at least my boner’s gone.

I do want to get back on the floor and start talking to people who are sure to be lined up at the merch table, buying T-shirts and CDs while waiting for us to come out. I won’t let the exhaustion and my natural state of introversion take over until later. One of my favorite parts of playing live is afterwards when we get to meet fans who came to see us—and the new people we convert who were here just to see the headliner. I’ll never get bored with signing stuff and taking photos with fans. That powerful connection will make people talk about us.

But EmVee was kind enough to tag the picture with @commonliz directly over the brunette’s rack, so I want to check the profile quickly. I need to know more about her.

Why does that social media handle sound familiar?

A quick thumb click takes me to her page—a page I vaguely recognize.

No fucking way.

There’s no fucking way Miss Honey and the girl in EmVee’s photo are the same person.

Yet here I am, looking at the exact Instagram account that popped up when I’d entered “Liz Commons surgeon” into an internet search, to find out more about her the night I dropped her off at the hospital.

The girl in the profile photo, with mousy-brown hair and thick, black-framed glasses, looks nothing like the smokin’ hot goddess from in the second row. Except those cheekbones—and the gorgeous peachy-pink tone I’d imagined her skin would have if it hadn’t been purplish-blue last time I saw her.

The revelation is flipping my world upside down.

Maybe I shouldn’t have brushed Miss Honey off so quickly. The girl I connected with tonight sure doesn’t seem as boring as I’d imagined her to be when I checked out her profile six months ago.