There’s no better high than the rush of being onstage. The lights, the music, the audience—they all combine in what’s an almost heady mix. People always say things like This will never get old, and even though I hesitate to believe absolutes in general, this is one time I’m willing to make an exception.
Only a few shows into the tour, and what I find to be a close second is my routine of heading out to the merchandise tables and meeting fans. I’ve always mingled after my shows, but back when I was playing bars it mostly involved warding off unwanted advances and drunken leers. Being on a tour of this magnitude, I’m scoring face time with people who actually enjoy my music. Recognition that’s both surreal and humbling.
“Great show tonight, Lex.” Bedo glances up from his phone from where he waits outside the dressing rooms.
“Thanks, Bedo.” I grin, although he’s already back to his phone. I quickly make my escape.
“Hold up, little lady. Where you running off to?” he shouts before I can turn the corner.
I hate it when he calls me little, and it takes every effort to keep my polite smile in place when I turn around to answer. “Merch. Meeting fans.”
“Good. That’s good. Maybe come back this way afterward? Come watch the guys perform from backstage?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”
Disappointment shadows his face and I turn away to hustle out to the main concourse of the arena. Bedo invites me to watch the guys perform every show, and I’ve yet to take him up on it. I probably should, but something always happens. I get stuck talking with fans. My mom calls. I decide to catch a shower in the bus with complete and utter solitude while the roadies are still at work. Okay, so I don’t try that hard, but I don’t feel an urge to see the band live. Hell, I’ve already seen their set in warm ups, and I have no desire to hang out with Bedo and a bunch of slutty groupies. I’ll pass.
I nod at the security working the barrier that separates the main lobby from backstage. One of the guys offers me a smile as I pass. “Coming back?”
I flash the badge looped around my neck; I know the drill. “Yeah, I’ll be back through in an hour.”
He nods, satisfied he’s done his job, and resumes the position of arms crossed over his chest and gaze focused forward.
Shoulders back, lips parted, and head high, my hips swing with each thud of my boots against the concrete floor. I feel the stares, the whispers, the attention I command, and that’s part of the game—of the act. Appear important, famous, and desired until I become all of those things. Until I’m a name and face that everyone notices on any street corner, not only post-show. For now, I’ll take the speculation. The fans who caught the opening act recognize me and point, and that helps skyrocket the attention until I find my way behind the merchandise tables.
“Hey, Lexi, great show tonight. You killed it.” Jax offers a fist and I acknowledge his comment with a bump.
“Thanks.” I’m not sure that Jax actually sees any of the performances, but he hears them out here and always offers me praise that feels unrehearsed or generic.
His lips kick up with his lopsided smile and he nods to his left. “You’ve got a superfan tonight. Been waiting since the doors opened, and only left to catch you play.”
“Oh?” This is exciting news. I don’t have any fans who come to see only me and that’s fine. I’m happy to earn them from 3UG. I glance over his shoulder, scanning the growing crowd lined up to purchase a souvenir from today’s show. “How superfan we talking? Drag me to the basement and make a doll with my hair, or just totally wants to make me his wife? Should I be worried?”
His boom of laughter fills the spaces between the chattering of fifty plus people gathered in this section of the arena. “Nah, she seems harmless. Just look for red hair and inexperience.”
“I didn’t know that was a physical trait,” I tease and walk past him to the end of the table where my EP and single T-shirt are the only swag offered to any fans I may have gained. It’s nothing compared to the five plus offerings 3UG has in addition to hats, sweatshirts, posters, and records, but it’s a shirt with my fucking face on it. That’s pretty damn cool.
I spot the young woman immediately. She’s about twenty yards away, back against the wall and avoiding the crowd. Jax was correct in his description. Auburn locks pinned back into a twist, wide eyes and alabaster skin. Simple clothes add to her innocence, and it doesn’t help she flinches every time someone shouts. I try to catch her gaze, to wave her over, but before I can the table is surrounded by fans.
My lack of height makes it impossible to see through the crowd I’ve drawn. I meet with every fan, taking time to smile and chat and take selfies; to make an impression, but also because I like to use my gift of music to spread joy. To leave people happier than when I first met them. It only takes a few minutes to make someone feel special, important, and it doesn’t cost a damn thing. I’d like to say I do this for purely unselfish reasons, but it fills me with as much excitement and satisfaction. The positive energy spreads through my entire being and soon my smile isn’t one bit practiced or forced.
Each show brings more and more recognition, the way Jax predicted it would, and this is the first time I’ve had people stay to talk with me long after the opening chords of Trent’s show starting solo fill the air. It’s pretty cool, and by the time the last group heads inside, hurrying to catch the concert, I realize I never saw the red-headed girl who was waiting on me. I skim the almost non-existent crowd that remains, everyone now inside the arena or rushing through the doors, late to the party.
With a good-bye to Jax and then the arena staff who ask for selfies and autographs, I finally make my way around the merchandise table and back toward the security tunnel. The concourse is fairly empty now that the show is in full swing, but I catch the sheen of auburn hair just beyond one of the concession stands, chin down and focused on her cell. She’s obviously been waiting but losing courage, and by the looks of her I’d say she’s more than nervous. I’ve had fans, but I’ve never had one quite like this, and I’m eager to speak to her.
Her hair is the only thing that makes her stand out. Everything else about her, from her subtle make up to her worn jeans and plain white shirt, is an attempt to hide the beauty she could easily exploit. When I’m a few feet away she lifts her chin and her eyes go wide. Their light brown hue holds so much fear I’m afraid she may run.
“Hi, I’m Lexi.” I wave and my words snap her out of whatever unease she’s battling—social anxiety, fangirl, or something entirely different.
“I know. I mean, hello. I’m so . . . I just . . .”
My guess is fangirling. I give a little laugh in an attempt to help her relax. “It’s okay. I saw you here and my merch manager said you were waiting to see me. I didn’t want to miss you.”
“That’s really thoughtful. Thank you. I-I did come to meet you.”
“What’s your name?”
“Opal.”
“Opal? That’s really unique. I like it. So, Opal, do you like my music.”
“I love it. I mean, I’ve followed your career. I watch all your live shows when they hit YouTube. Wait? Is that okay? Or is that like stealing?”
I laugh, and this time it’s not forced. “No. That’s awesome. I’m glad you could make it to a real show. Do you live close?”
“Just outside of Denison. Texas.”
“Wow, that’s a little drive, isn’t it?”
“’Bout three hours, yeah.”
“Cool. Did you like today’s set?”
“Loved it. Stop the Hurt is probably my most favorite of all your songs anyway, so to hear you play it stripped down like that? Amazing.”
“You play?”
“Guitar, no. I wish. There’s no way my granddaddy would allow a guitar in the house.”
Her words catch me off guard because I guess I’m surprised. I’d say she’s my age or maybe a few years younger. I’ve never met an adult who couldn’t play guitar in fear of her grandparents.
“It’s just that I live with him. He’s a good man. Old fashioned. And well, what with my momma . . . Sorry, I’m rambling. I’m nervous. I’m sure you don’t want to hear my life’s story. It’s so great to finally meet you.”
“It’s really great to meet you too, Opal. Do you want to come backstage? I could get you a pass and you can watch—”
“Oh, no.” She glances down and rummages in the worn brown leather bag she has strapped across her chest to produce her car keys, or at least I assume there’s a key beneath her bundle of keychains. “I actually need to get going. I’m not here to see Three Ugly Guys. I came here for you.”
“That’s really cool. I’m glad you made the trip.” I almost feel bad. She came here just to see me but my set is only thirty minutes. I wish I could give her something else. I don’t know what, but I’m overcome with this feeling of responsibility. It’s strange and unfamiliar. Without too much thought I crouch down and pull out one of my cards—the ones Amie made up for me to hand out to industry professionals only—from inside my left boot. She practically threatened my life making me promise to carry them at all times so I found a way to wedge three inside each shoe. I know she’ll be pissed at me for giving one to Opal, but something spurs me to do it anyway. “If you ever find yourself near one of my shows again, shoot me an email. I’ll hook you up with good tickets.”
She nods, takes the card, and ducks her chin with eyes cast down. “Thank you, Lexi. That’s . . . That’s really generous of you. Well, I should be going . . .”
“Nice to meet you, Opal. And hey, give guitar a try sometime. If it’s something you want to do, don’t let anyone stop you.”
She glances up, those wide brown eyes full of so much emotion and lips parted as if she wants to share more than her mumbled good-bye before she rushes toward the exit.
I shake my head on my walk back to security. I need to hustle if I want to get a shower in before the roadies trickle back to the bus. I don’t know exactly how much longer the guys will play, but I’ve let too much time pass me by with my odd superfan. God, I hope she doesn’t share my contact info all over the internet. I hope my instinct to give it to her was right.
Hot water. Solitude. Did I mention hot water? I love my post-show showers. It’s the only time I have to myself on the road, and while I wouldn’t trade this tour for anything, it makes these minutes even more precious and appreciated. My hair only takes a quick minute to wash but I savor the extra time to shave my legs and armpits before shutting off the glorious stream. I towel off and reach for my pile of clothes. My fitted tank, a big, soft gray sweater, pink lace panties, and—shit. I must have dropped my black joggers in my rush. I finger comb my locks and towel it off once more before gathering up my toiletries.
It’s quiet still, so I’m sure no one is back yet. Not that I’m embarrassed about my body, but the last thing I need is some roadie getting an eyeful of ass. They’re a rowdy, raunchy crew and I’ve caught more than one perving my way. I search the carpet and spot my pants, just outside my sleeping cubie. I skip over but stop short.
“Well, well, well, what do we have here? Skimpin’ ’round in your undies during the show? Boy, am I glad I cut out early.”
“Sorry, I thought I was alone,” I say, eyeing my pants on the floor but not willing to move any closer to this roadie. He’s one I’ve caught blatantly checking me out before. Eric—I think that’s his name—leers at my legs before meeting my gaze.
“No need’a apologize. Unless ya wanna come a li’l closer. I’d make ya feel real good.”
God, I hate that he said that. That he even implies I’d want to get with him when he’s been nothing short of disrespectful. Not to mention, he’s a good twenty years my senior.
“I’m good, thanks.” I finally ignore the fact he’s not planning to move, and walk over to my pants to pick them up.
Eric plasters his body to my spine before I can straighten. “Come on, baby. Don’t be such a goddamn tease.” He wraps one arm around my waist, dangerously low and close to my crotch, while the other squeezes my neck. Fear bubbles in my belly and I fight the urge to puke. Memories rain down over my skin and it’s paralyzing. He’s not choking me, but his stance overpowers my small frame and I’m certain he could if he wanted. My gaze darts to the door of the bus, begging, pleading in silence for someone to come through it. One of the drivers, a roadie, Jax, anyone . . . fuck!
“Relax, baby. Ima make ya feel good. I promise.” He grinds his erection into my back as his fingers inch lower to the hem of my panties. I try to scream out but he squeezes hard around my neck, silencing my cries. Tears burn the backs of my eyelids but I refuse to shed one tear, to give this bastard anymore power over me. I’m not a little girl anymore.
“Now, don’t be a bitch,” he growls into my ear.
That’s when I know I have to fight back.
Loosening my body, I go completely limp to catch him off guard and that’s all I need. One second of confusion. I shove an elbow back into his side and then come up with a fist over my head to meet his face. He shouts out and his hold wavers. I twist and slam into him enough that he stumbles backward. I scream and race toward the door.
“No, you don’t. Little cunt.” He catches me by the waist again and we tumble to the floor. Fuck. The fall knocks the breath out of me and I struggle for air, but this time I don’t stop thrashing, kicking, and screaming. He cusses and tries to hold me still, to get a good grip, but I won’t give up. Pain shoots down my shoulder when he gets an awkward hold on my arm and pulls, but I still don’t stop screaming.
Finally, the door opens and one of our drivers, Ace, races up the steps. “Get off her!” he roars before tackling Eric off my back and to the ground. Ace glances up, assesses my state of undress, and punches Eric square in the face. Holy crap! Ace knocks him out.
“He hurt you?” Ace’s chest heaves with adrenaline and his eyes go back to my bare legs.
“No, not like that. Not yet,” I manage through my gasps. I stumble around them both to grab my pants and pull them on. Eric’s head rolls to the side, and if it weren’t for his low moans I’d think Ace killed him. “Thank you.” My hands go to my throat and it’s only then I realize I’m trembling. I don’t like feeling weak, and usually I don’t, but right now it takes everything I am to not collapse in a flood of tears. The rush of emotion that comes over me, it takes me back to another time and place, threatening my final ounce of control.
“You’re welcome, Miss Marx. I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay, Ace. You got here just in time.”
“This should never have happened. Can you step outside the bus? Wave Darren over?”
“Sure.” My heart pounds as I realize I’ll have to recount this entire experience. Will they believe my side of the story? Will I be able to sleep tonight in my bunk? Will I feel safe? Am I safe?
“Miss Marx. Now, please? He’s waking up and I don’t want to hit him again if I don’t have to.”
“Sorry.” I realize I haven’t moved a muscle since pulling on my pants. I shake my head and walk past both men, beyond the spot where Eric grabbed me, where he held my throat. “Sorry,” I say again.
“You don’t need to apologize for anything, okay?” Ace meets my wide eyes, “We’ve got this. We’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you now.”
“Okay,” I whisper aloud, not quite sure I believe him or agree.