Now, here I am, and the engineers at the sound and light boards don’t look too happy to see me. Still, they let me in. I quickly take some pictures of the entire stage. Some zoomed in and others from far away. I get some of the guys on their instruments, others of the silhouettes of the crowd’s heads and arms.
Then I bolt from the sound booth before one of the guys decides to kick me out. I pause at the booth, watching the band. For once, smashed in the crowd, it’s like I’m really at a concert. It’s not a business out here. It’s not a production. It’s music blaring with the crowd swaying and screaming. It’s a different type of energy. And though I know they’re a talented rock band, out here in the mass, Luminescent Juliet seems more real to me. They seem like actual stars. A tattooed shirtless singer belts out lyrics, moving across the stage. A dark guitar player intricately fingers out a riff. A lean drummer moves gracefully around the drum set. And a gorgeous bass player plucks at his strings and bounces while his curls tumble over his forehead.
Sam stands facing the crowd, bouncing to the rhythm as usual. Dressed in gray cargo pants, black boots, and a black tank, he’s looking sexy. His smooth arm muscles bunch as he plucks at his orange bass. During the past three weeks, his curls have grown longer. They bounce with him, falling over his forehead at each beat from the drums.
He’s rock star perfection. Slightly elusive, bigger than life, and totally hot.
Damn. I have to stop thinking about him as so attractive.
But it’s good to see him having fun after last night. He’d moped through the day, appearing depressed and spending most of it dozing in his bunk, except when he’d come to the back of the bus to tell me his mother had picked up Seth in Detroit. But onstage, he’s energy and grins, his gorgeous body always in motion to the music.
With a shake of my head, I turn to go, but as the band starts the next song, “Trace,” I’m frozen by the sudden, obvious change in Sam. Once energetic and bouncy, he’s suddenly wooden and robotic. Without thinking, I start moving through the crush of people toward the stage. When a girl elbows me, I hold up my pass. Keeping my pass in the air, I move far enough forward that I can see the bleakness on Sam’s face.
His lips are thin and angry-looking. Lines groove his cheeks. And his jaw is clenched tight. He sings the chorus, and the words come from his mouth as if he’s forcing them out. Something is very wrong. I’ve never seen Sam onstage like this. He’s always happy energy, as if there’s nothing better in the world than playing for a crowd. At the moment, he’s dark anger.
As if the song flipped his switch.
I try to recall the lyrics as Romeo plays the guitar solo. Something about traces of a girl being left. A song about the heartbreak of love? Why has it got Sam all tense? Does it remind him of someone breaking his heart? Surely not me. Though he may have been attracted to me, we were never close enough for the kind of heartbreak to show up in a song.
They sing the chorus again: “Gone, gone, gone / nothing left but traces of you. / Gone, gone, gone / But still holding on to these traces of you.” Again, Sam spits out the words.
The song ends, and then—after Justin yells out “Thank you!” and “I hope you like this one!”—they start “Inked My Heart,” their biggest hit, which always gets the crowd going. Sam instantly looks more relaxed. Since the song is slower, he doesn’t bounce, but he’s back near the edge of the stage and flirting again.
Totally confused, I make my way back to the booth. And just in time too. Mike stays and helps me with the fans wanting T-shirts during the lull. Once Griff gets onstage, business dies down immediately. Mike takes off but says he’ll be back in about an hour to help me pack up. I text back and forth with Jill. This being Friday night, she’s out with the girls, so she keeps sending me pictures of drinks and shots. In between reading her incoherent texts, I try to look up the lyrics for “Trace.” Unfortunately, Luminescent Juliet isn’t popular enough for their lyrics to be listed on any websites. Yet.
So I pop in one earbud and listen to the song while waiting on customers. I’ve figured out half the lyrics and typed them into my phone when Mike shows up to help me pack the stuff in bins. Once we get everything on a flat cart, Mike waves at me and rolls the cart away.
Brookfield is playing now and the green room is party central. More band members are hanging out than usual because there’s no hotel to go to, just the buses. I snag a beer and head over to the area where Luminescent is hanging out.
I instantly realize Sam isn’t in the room, which is strange. He always parties after a concert. I inch closer to Justin. When he’s done nodding and smiling at whatever the girl next to him is saying, I loudly ask, “Where’s Sam?”
Justin shrugs. “He took off. Maybe the bus?”
Recalling the weird way Sam acted onstage, I step back and take a sip of my beer. Is Sam depressed about his brother? Or did he leave with someone? When it comes to Sam and groupies, speculation leaves me slightly jealous. An emotion that makes little sense, and that I should not be feeling.
One of the scantily clad women absently pushes me aside in her quest to get near Justin. I move back and let her at him. Though he smiles, I catch a look of irritation crossing his face.
I down the rest of my beer, trying to push the images of Sam and a groupie out of my mind. I shouldn’t be thinking of him. I have a boyfriend. Sam is a rock star. My jealousy does not fit into any part of that equation.
By the time I’m on my second beer—on tour sometimes I feel like I’m on a liquid diet—the concert is over and the room is overflowing. I’m a content but bored spectator, leaning against the wall, until I notice Rick coming my way.
Constantly on the lookout for a piece of ass, some of the other band members in Griff and one from Brookfield have shown an interest in me. Since they hit on anything female younger than fifty, the attention isn’t much of an ego booster—but everyone has left me alone when I showed disinterest and explained I have a boyfriend. Everyone except Rick. He’s about ten feet and four people away, eyeing me.
I cannot deal with Rick tonight.
Screw giving Sam time to screw his groupie on the bus. I shove off the wall, then push my way through the mass and out the door, leaving Rick and his sultry looks in the dust. After tossing my almost-full beer into the trash, I go down a long hall and pass several roadies on my way outside and into the muggy Virginia night.
The hum of the buses’ air conditioners fills the silence in the parking lot. Because the buses are gated off and security guards make rounds around the buses, they’re usually open. I’m hoping that’s the case with ours. Luckily for me, it is. I stand on the cement, holding the door open and debating how to make my presence known before going in. I do not want to walk in on something that will have me wanting to bleach my eyeballs, or cry my heart out. Stepping up, I decide on a door slam—bang—and then shout, “Hello?”
Hearing nothing but the hum of the air conditioner, I yell out another “Hello?”
Nothing again. I go up the stairs and enter the main cabin. It’s super dark. “Sam?” I say as my hand brushes the wall, searching for the light switches. I hit the first one my fingers find. The light over the kitchen sink pops on, leaving the rest of the cabin shadowy, and I make out a motionless, shadowy figure on the couch.