27
Alina
The Social House in Whitehorse is the smallest venue on the tour.
Thank fuck for that.
After all the rehearsing, pep talks, and convincing myself I could do this, I messed up our first show, and I broke the big vow I made to myself last night.
I cannot do this.
“I’m sorry, guys. I can’t explain what happened,” I shout, over the sounds of Sicken Union finishing up their set on the other side of the door. I rub the inside of my Cygnus tattoo while pacing back and forth in the small holding room behind the bar, which has been designated as a greenroom for tonight’s selected bands. With the venue being so small, Sicken Union chose only three bands to perform with them tonight. It was a huge compliment to be asked, and to botch this performance isn’t an easy pill to swallow.
“It’s not a big deal, Ali. I doubt anyone even noticed. Besides, it’s the smallest venue and the crowd was oblivious, I’d bet on it,” Paisley says, coming to stand in front of me, her green eyes meeting mine as she rests her arms on my shoulders to stop me from moving.
“It’s true, Al. I barely caught it,” Roxie pipes in, and I couldn’t love these girls more than I do right now, always so supportive, no matter if we all know I fucked up. That’s why I think I need to back out and go home. I don’t want to ruin any opportunities this tour could potentially give the band. I can’t stomach being a reason they’d miss a chance.
“I think you should replace me,” I say, defeated, pulling down the sleeve of my blue-and-red flannel shirt.
“Not a fucking chance.” Siobhán rises suddenly from where she’s sitting on the small, faded blue chair, her long blonde hair whipping about with the motion. “Not happening, babe. You recovered so quickly, I didn’t notice either. You nailed it tonight, in my opinion.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Besides we’re in this together. The four of us make us Happenstance, no one else. So get that shit outta your head, Al.”
“This was the smallest crowd…thank goodness,” I sigh, relieved for that fact, while praying that no one captured my flub and plans to make a social media mockery out of me. “I won’t be able to handle it if I mess up like that again in front of thousands of people.” I shiver at the thought.
Tonight, I fucked up our set list. We were to play three songs. Three songs! And I mixed up the second and third, coming in with my introductory solo on “Fallen Star” when Paisley started singing the haunting intro to “Lover’s Lament”. Although, like the girls pointed out, I was able to recover pretty quickly, it still happened, and it could happen again—or something even worse. All I could think of afterwards was: What the hell will they write about me now? What will tomorrow’s comments be and what will the reviewers have to say?
“I feel like I let you all dow—” I start.
“No way. Don’t even say it, let alone think it,” Paisley interrupts, just as the door flies open and Sicken Union themselves come strolling in with a wave of shouts and cheers following behind them, looking sweaty yet sexy as hell, having finished their set. My body stiffens, bracing for the backlash I’m sure is to come.
“Hey, hey, ladies! Wicked set as usual,” Rain says, grinning ear to ear, taking us all in. I smile, noticing how his black leather biker-style jacket makes him look like the band’s bad boy, when I’m pretty sure he’s the furthest thing from it. Following close behind him is Zack, wearing his signature uniform of faded jeans and old-school concert shirt; tonight, he’s got on a really cool Hendrix T. Fife comes in next, a friendly smile in place like always, followed by the enigmatic Slater. My body perks up instantly when I catch how hot he looks in his black Beastie Boys shirt, the thin material stretched tight across his muscular chest and drawing attention to his sculpted biceps—and the orchestra of tattoos my eyes immediately begin to trace.
I feel my heart rate pick up, and my palms begin to sweat, anxiety over having disappointed this group of guys who took a chance on me taking its toll. Nervously, I shift a few steps to one side, not wanting to be centre stage when the topic of discussion turns my way. Rubbing my inner wrist again, the anticipation is killing me. I just want to get it over with and get the hell out of here. I want to go home, to Lucky. Back to cutting hair, and taking it day by day, where I don’t have to risk wrecking what our band’s been working on so hard for so long.
You’ll never be enough…
Maybe I should bring it up. Get it out, over, and done. Surely, everyone will need to make sure that it won’t happen again, and I get that. Their expectations are that we’ll all play to the best of our abilities. Our band was chosen for a reason, but tonight at our first performance, I gave them a reason to not only regret their decision, but also potentially to cut us out of the contract. My stomach drops at the thought.
“Hey, Shadow,” Slater says, his husky voice beside my ear sending shivers up and down my spine.
“Hey.” I turn to look at him, waiting for him to chastise me. And when he does, I’ll beg him for another chance for the other girls, and I’ll willingly leave, just as long as Sicken Union doesn’t hold it against my friends. “You were enchanting out there tonight.”
“Um…you saw?”
“I couldn’t keep my eyes off you out there…anywhere, it seems, really.”
A “What?” escapes, causing Slater to chuckle. I can’t believe my ears. I must be dreaming. I’m having a dreammare. There’s no way my night is going from shit to this right here. I must have misheard him.
“You belong onstage, Ali,” he says, stressing my nickname.
Feeling a rush of the familiar warmth I’ve come to associate with my body’s reaction to being near this man, I blurt, “I like watching you, too,” before I can stop myself and I want to die.
“That’s good, friend. Real good. It’s a start, anyway,” he says, low, for only my ears, the heat of his breath on my neck once again doing crazy things to me.
Locked in a silent staring contest, neither of us moves, both of our chests rising and falling in synchronicity, our bubble once again surrounding us as everyone else fades away and Slater Jenkins becomes my sole focus. The thought of wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling his mouth down to cover my own crosses my mind. As if on cue, Slater inches in closer, a smug look on his face, and I wonder if he can read my thoughts. A devastating smile pulls at his lips, and I suddenly know I’m in way over my head. Within seconds of being in his proximity, all of my negative thoughts fall to the wayside.
“Awesome set tonight, ladies. Who wrote the lyrics to ‘Fallen Star’?” Fife asks, bringing us back to the here and now. “That shit gave me goosebumps.” I move to put some much needed space between Slater and me before I do something completely out of character, like climb him. Passing out bottles of Lead Dog—a local high-test craft beer we’ve discovered—to everyone, Fife continues. “That song is pretty epic. I wish I could write those kinds of lines, I’m feeling a bit inadequate after that,” he chuckles with his admission, and I feel a huge sense of pride in knowing that my song elicited that kind of reaction from Fife Jenkins, Sicken’s main lyricist.
“It really does have a great vibe. The crowd was totally into you guys,” Scott adds, and I think I might squeal, but I try really hard not to look like a total newb.
“Ali wrote it,” Roxie says, pride evident in her tone. In my peripheral vision, I notice Slater’s face snap back to mine. “Actually, she writes most of our songs, but that one has gotten huge hits on YouTube.”
“No shit?” Zack says, walking over to stand beside Roxie, giving me a high-five along the way. “The girl can write. And, you guys keep playing like that? Fuck me, you guys will end up the stars of our tour, not us,” he jokes, wrapping his arm around Rox and bringing her in closer. I make a mental note to turn the Spanish Inquisition back on her later.
Feeling a sense of relief washing through me, I realize tonight’s mix up wasn’t as big of a deal as I made myself believe. I was so ready to just toss in the towel and bail. If none of the guys mentioned it—and my bandmates also never said anything until I brought it up—then the girls must be right: I need to work on giving myself more leeway. Taking a sip of the strong, dark brown beer from my bottle, I’m awed to be standing in a room filled with these talented musicians, listening to them joke and talk smack to one another, while also surrounded by the best friends I could ask for.
“It wasn’t as obvious as you think, Shadow,” Slater says quietly, gripping my wrist. And rather than pull away in shame, I let him. “Give yourself a break. It happens to the best of us, and more often than you think.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Anytime, friend.” He runs his thumb lightly along my inner wrist over Cygnus before walking away.
Looking around the small space, taking in my bandmates, and the others I smile, realizing that walking away from this right here would have been a huge mistake. I want this too much.
With that thought, I make a new vow; no more will I allow myself to think that tossing in the towel is best for all involved. Shiv’s right, the four of us are Happenstance, and I belong here. And I was wrong to suggest otherwise tonight.