Tulsa

Roadies scramble around the dark stage, breaking down the last band’s drum kit and swapping out everything from microphones to racks of guitars, which are rolled out from dark corners. A large screen descends at the back of the stage, and I spin my sticks nervously between my fingers.

Everything we’ve ever wanted is within our grasp. Every dream we’ve ever had is about to come true.

Don’t fuck this up.

“You won’t,” Jet says, sensing my anxiety. I look beside me. Jet is to my left, and Rivers is on my right; the three of us strong together; my brothers, my best friends, my biggest supporters. “This is nothing but a good time.”

Rivers says, “Nothing but a good time.”

I repeat, “Nothing but a good time.”

We separate, each of us going to our place on the stage. The roadie testing my kit stands. “Sounds good, but try it yourself.”

He did an awesome job during sound check, but I sit on the stool and have a go anyway, mainly so I can get comfortable. I have a feeling that’s not going to happen until we’re leaving the stage. I can hear the audience, though I can’t see them. I kick in the bass and do a quick testing beat that has me hitting everything from my snare drum to my cymbals.

Resting my sticks across the tops of my legs, my eyes adjust to the shadows. Rivers bends toward the amp, strumming a few chords on the bass guitar while Jet taps his pedal, runs his fingers along the fretboard, and leans toward the microphone. Dave hangs back with his hands in place, ready to rock his guitar.

“Standby,” a roadie shouts from somewhere off to the side. “Lights in one.”

Jet turns around. “We’ve got this, guys.”

“Just doin’ what we love,” Rivers adds.

Jet takes a few steps closer and says, “Count us in. The lights come on when you hit one.”

“Got it.”

The countdown begins off to my left side. I pick up my sticks and take a deep breath. Lowering my hands, I do a low drumroll on the cymbal. The stadium goes quiet, and I snap my arms up and hit my sticks above my head. “Four. Three. Two. One.”

The spotlight hits me, but I block it out, letting the music take over. Ten seconds in and my bandmates are at the forefront, showcasing their talent as they start to play.

And then the lights drift over the audience, the beams flashing, synced to our song. Holy fuck!

I never miss a beat. Never miss a cue. I don’t miss a second of what this is—the best fucking moment of my life.

This beats the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had.

This is church, the audience our disciples. As we preach, they pray.

I hit with power; the sounds swimming in my head as if they’re a part of me.

Time flies too quickly. The set is almost over, and I try to absorb this feeling, this high I’m riding, to keep me satisfied until next time.

My brothers stepped back to connect with me at different points during the show, and now, Jet rips the riffs on his black guitar with perfection. Rivers tears up the bass. We’ve never sounded better.

Slamming the last beats of the final song, I stand to make a show of it. Jet, Dave, and Rivers unplug and head for the steps. I run toward the audience and throw my sticks as far as I can before passing the guys and heading offstage.

Johnny, Tommy, and Dex are there waiting. Johnny says, “Great fucking show.” He shakes our hands and then walks away.

Tommy says, “Welcome to the big time.”

Dex is smiling like his cub has made him proud. He has a big fucking ego. I like him. He says, “I knew you could do it. Next time, don’t throw your sticks. The lawsuits aren’t worth the gimmick.”

I laugh. “Advice taken.” When they walk off, I turn to my bandmates, who are huddled together. “What a fucking high.”

Jet adds, “We did it. We’ve made it.”

“I can’t believe I just played in front that audience,” Dave says.

Rivers chuckles and tightens his arms around us. “They knew the songs. They fucking knew our songs.”

We don’t need words. What we experienced out there was surreal. I don’t think I’ll ever forget this night. Fucking amazing.

Jet pops me in the arm. “You rocked that kit, man.”

“Thanks.” We need to move out of the way of the roadies, so I step to the side, needing a minute more to soak in this moment before it’s gone. My gaze wanders in the direction of The Resistance’s dressing rooms. Bodyguards surround the guys as they head that way, exposing some of the illusion of what fame means. Those guys can’t go anywhere, not even backstage, without the possibility of a threat being present.

But I’m distracted by blue eyes, a short skirt, great tits, long, blond hair, and a kickass singing voice—the perfect woman.

When she catches me ogling her, I don’t look away. That’s not my style. I own everything about the interaction, wanting her to know exactly what I think about her.

The impact comes from out of nowhere, sending me stumbling to the right. Rivers is laughing, but not as hard as Jet. “Fuck you, Jet.” Him bumping into me didn’t hurt, but I still rub my arm for dramatics.

“Don’t let your dick fuck up this opportunity. We get one shot at this. If we fail, we’re stuck fighting our way back to the top, and I really like where we are.”

“What if I’m in love?”

“It’s called lust,” Rivers says. “She’s hot, but listen to your brothers.”

Waving a hand in front of my face, Jet says, “It’s like he doesn’t even hear us.”

Rivers starts for the dressing room. “Leave him be, Jet. You’re never going to be able to talk sense into him when his dick does all his thinking.”

Jet follows Rivers. “Here I thought he wanted this as much as we did. And it’s not love you’re in, Tuls.”

“Fine. I’m in fucking lust, but you gotta admit she’s gorgeous.”

She and her band push through a door and disappear to the other side. I don’t even know her name, so I’m tempted to follow. But when I see my brothers glance back to see if I’m still with them, I stay. This isn’t just about me anymore.

It never really was. Though I got away with a lot of shit, acting as if I was the center of the fucking universe, I’m not. It’s The Crow Brothers band. I need to remember that and get my act together.

In the dressing room, we guzzle water and open a few celebratory beers. We finish the first and pop the tops on another round when a low hum of fans screaming in the distance is heard and then silenced with the close of a door. Stepping out, we see The Resistance heading for the stage.

Johnny’s head is down, the noise that drew us out here seeming to be lost on him. Dex weaves the drumsticks between his fingers with a deftness that only comes with years of practice. Kaz and Derrick talk casually behind the others as if they’re not about to play music for a crowd of twenty-thousand screaming fans.

How are they so calm and collected, like this is just another day?

Guess it is for them.

It does make me wonder how we’ll change as the band gains more fame. Rivers elbows me. “One day, I hope that’s us. One day, maybe we’ll be the headliner.”

I nod but look to Jet. I think we’ve always looked at Jet for how we’re supposed to react and be. His guidance has been integral in my life. He’s not just my brother. He’s the dad who wanted us when our real father never did.

Jet says, “No maybes. We will. But for now, let’s enjoy what we experienced out there.”

Rivers nods. “They knew our lyrics. They’re listening. That means they’re buying our music. They were here to see us. That’s fucking incredible.”

I’ve never seen him look so electrified, so pumped after a show. I feel the same. “This blows my mind.”

We trek back to the side of the stage, beers in hand. Dex settles on the stool surrounded by his massive drum kit. A circular section of the stage that supports him and the kit raises, and the lights beam down when he kicks into his solo.

It’s a cool as fuck intro, one every drummer dreams of having. The rest of the band joins in flawlessly; the stage is bright like the sun, and the light show begins. They’re well rehearsed, never missing a beat in performance or sound or song. The crowd devours everything they serve as if it’s their last meal.

This is what makes them legends at such a young age. Dex and Johnny are barely in their thirties. Kaz and Derrick are still in their late twenties. But these guys perform as if they’ve done these songs for forty years.

I envy how comfortable they are on stage, how they read every cue silently, and own every fan in this arena.

“I want that.” My brothers turn back to look at me, so I glance back and forth between them and repeat myself.

A slow smile slides into place on Jet’s face. It’s as if he’s seeing me in a new light—not as his pesky little brother but as his equal. He nods and turns back to watch the band. Yeah. I want that.

Rivers doesn’t say anything either but gives that familiar nod we all do—understanding and pride mixed with appreciation. Our hands meet in the middle—two slow slides, three fist bumps, and a quick chest hit, and we bring it in. I’m patted on the back before he turns back and leans against Jet to tell him something while pointing at Derrick on stage.

Tommy comes up behind me. “They don’t even think about it. They just get on that stage, sharing what comes naturally. Giving everything they have, they bleed for the audience.” He turns to me. “That’s what makes them stars versus just another band on the music scene.”

Although I don’t have the word for it, I can see what he means. Everyone in this stadium can; everyone in this building can feel it in every song The Resistance plays. I’m about to say something, but he adds, “You guys have the same spark, the same magic. You just have to believe it. Fame is part talent and part arrogance to believe you deserve it.”

“Are we talking fifty-fifty?”

“No. More seventy-thirty.” He chuckles while rubbing his chin. “The seventy is talent, just in case you were wondering.” He leaves my side and takes a few steps up the stairs.

I finish my beer and toss the can into the recycling bin a few feet away. Laird and Shane show up, minus the hot little lead singer. Shane high-fives me and says, “Great show.”

“You too.”

“Faris Wheel is clever, by the way. I meant to say something last night.”

“We went with the obvious. Hey, we didn’t get much time to talk before, but I heard Dex put you on drums only a few months back. You hit better than most drummers I know who’ve played for years.”

“Thanks, man. I play drums and guitar. I learned drums first when I was a kid, but my lazy ass only gravitated to guitar because it was easier to drag around.”

“How’d you end up on the skins again?”

“We lost our drummer to a stable job at a tech firm.”

“Oh man, that sucks for him. Missing out on all this. He must be feeling crazy regret.”

“Yeah, I suspect. I moved back to the kit to fill in, but Dex suggested I give it a go in the studio on the album. I’ve stayed ever since.”

“Do you prefer the drums or the guitar?”

“If I’m being honest, Dex was right. And now that we have roadies, it’s not a bad gig to have.”

Shane laughs, his hand hitting Laird in the chest. “This dude is outrageous. Love it.”

Laird chuckles. “We’re going out later if you want to come.”

After seeing their singer, I’m curious about her. “The singer dating anyone?”

Laird snaps, “Don’t even fucking think about it, much less look at her.”

“I take that as a yes,” I mutter under my breath.

Shane shakes his head. “She’s my cousin, dude, but she’s his twin sister.”

“Twins?” Oh, shit. “Really?”

Laird checks the irritation that flickers across his face. “Look. We had a good time. Let’s not blow it. She’s my sister. I don’t want to think about her hooking up with anyone, but I definitely don’t want to see it.”

I just came off stage with the biggest high of my life. No point getting sidetracked, especially if she’s off-limits. “First round on me tonight.”