Wild Open (10 page)

“Shut up until I get into the booth,” the FOH yelled, clattering down the steps onto the field.

O’Connor covered the microphone with one hand. “Rushani?”

“Andrew is very sorry,” Rushani said. “He’s going to do his job now.”

“Andrew is standing right here,” Andrew snarled.

Leah shot an inquisitive glance at O’Connor. He shrugged and shook his head: later.

“I’m, uh, I’m looking forward to running through some of these songs,” Leah said, hoping to derail the drama train.

“What a good little worker bee you are,” Andrew said, poisonously sweet, and Leah flinched back. She had thought they’d developed a rapport over breakfast, but obviously not. Okay.

“Shut up, Andrew,” James said, sounding weary.

“Okay, James,” the FOH guy said from the mixing booth, “give me a run on your kit.”

Checking everyone’s setup didn’t take long. The roadies clearly knew what they were doing, and once Rinna fixed the problem with O’Connor’s monitor, the remaining tests went smoothly. Leah’s ear monitor didn’t fit quite right, but it was too late to do anything about it for that night’s show. Rinna said she would see about a repair or replacement before the next show. Leah spent a while zoning out and staring at O’Connor’s shoulders, until he caught her looking and winked. She blushed and looked away.

Andrew stood slumped in front of his microphone, staring at the stage between his feet. When the FOH cued him to play something, he strummed a single, desultory note and then refused to play another, even after the FOH asked him several times. Only when Rushani took a menacing step in Andrew’s direction did he comply and play a few chords.

Fuck. This just kept getting better and better.

“Okay, why don’t you run through a full song,” the FOH said.

Everyone looked at Andrew, who didn’t look up or react in any way.

James cleared his throat. “Let’s start at the top of the setlist,” he said, raising his voice so they could all hear him. He didn’t have a mic. “First song.”

Leah glanced down at the laminated page taped to the stage at her feet. “A Blow to the Head” was the first song on the list. O’Connor counted them off—one, two, three—and James set the beat on his toms, and they were off.

Andrew finally came to life, took his mic in one hand, and sang like he meant it. He had a good voice, low and heartfelt, and Leah could see why the fans loved him. He sang with a sort of intensity that couldn’t be faked—like every word mattered to him.

But Leah couldn’t afford to spend too much time thinking about Andrew’s appeal. She needed to focus on playing. She still didn’t know the songs as well as she would have liked, and she flubbed a few notes here and there. She was able to cover it up, and she didn’t think anyone would notice during the show, but she didn’t like making mistakes. She would have to speak with Rushani about getting some more practice time.

The song drew to a close. O’Connor played a final chord. Leah let out a long breath. That had gone pretty well.

Then Andrew took off his guitar and dropped it on the stage. It bounced once and slid backwards toward Leah. The strings scraped along the surface of the stage, releasing a discordant squeal that echoed through the stadium.

“Hey, what the fuck,” Rinna yelled.

“I’m going back to the hotel,” Andrew said.

He didn’t storm off the stage. He slouched, hands in his pockets. Nobody moved to stop him. They were all frozen, stunned by the sudden violence of his action.

The guitar came to a stop at Leah’s feet. Without thinking, she reached down and picked it up.

Rinna came loping over. “Is it damaged? Fucking Andrew, it’s not like these things grow on trees—”

“I think it’s fine,” Leah said, handing it over.

Andrew’s feet touched the plastic flooring that covered the field’s turf. As if that were the cue she had been waiting for, Rushani snapped out of her stupor and followed after him. James got up too, threw his drumsticks to the stage in disgust, and went after them both.

“Guys,” the FOH said from his booth. “Guys?”

O’Connor snorted and turned to face Leah, who was standing slightly behind him and to his right. “They won’t be back.”

“Well,” Leah said. She thought of the notes she had missed, magnified to an entire album’s worth of songs. She stood there near middle of the stage, her guitar strapped to her body, and looked up at the blank Jumbotron screens and the glass-walled tower of suites, the washed-out sky overhead. In a few hours hours, the entire stadium would be filled with screaming fans, all of them watching the stage, watching
her
, expecting something out of the ordinary. Something worth remembering. There was no way the fans wouldn’t notice if she consistently made errors throughout the concert. “So what do we do?”

“Keep practicing,” O’Connor said. “We’ll go through the whole setlist, if we have time before Timory’s soundcheck.”

“Right,” Leah said. “I still haven’t met her. Timory.”

O’Connor nodded. “She’s cool. We’ll have dinner with her and her band, probably. If Andrew gets over himself by then.”

“What happened?” Leah asked. She didn’t want to know, but she also didn’t want to step on any land mines.

“Stupid bullshit,” O’Connor said, and rubbed his face. “We had a phone interview with a local radio station. Andrew melted down on-air. He’ll pull it together for the show tonight.”

“Okay,” Leah said.

“Probably,” O’Connor said.

“Guys?” the FOH asked. “What’s going on?”

O’Connor leaned forward and spoke into his mic. “We’ll finish the setlist, Dave.” He nodded at Leah. “Ready? ‘Mise-en-Scene.’”

Leah returned his nod. She placed her fingers on the strings, and she played the first chord.

* * *

The sun sank toward the horizon. Leah stood backstage and watched the audience trickle slowly into their seats. Security guards directed traffic and cast quelling glances at rowdy teenagers. The floor in front of the stage filled up quickly, and Leah had to admire the dedication of fans who would stand there for hours until the Saving Graces performed.

“What do you think?”

Leah turned and smiled at Rushani, who had come up behind her. “A little overwhelming.”

“Yeah. You should have seen the guys during their first arena tour. Constant freaking out. Don’t let them fool you with the way they act all nonchalant about it now.” She pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen. “Right. Food’s here, if you’d like to eat.”

“I guess I should,” Leah said, although she was too nervous to be hungry.

She followed Rushani into the subterranean concrete maze of corridors that lay beneath the stadium. The “dressing room” was actually a suite of connected rooms that opened off a sitting area comfortably appointed with leather couches and armchairs. Catering had set up long tables against one wall and laid out an impressive spread of sandwich fixings, salad, chips and dip, fresh fruit, granola bars—enough food to feed an army for a week. Most of the roadies were there, stuffing their faces, along with James, and a few people she didn’t recognize.

One of them, a tiny red-haired woman, approached with a smile and an outstretched hand. “You must be Leah,” she said. “I’m Timory.”

Right: the opening act. Leah shook hands with her. “It’s great to meet you. I’m looking forward to watching your set.”

Timory laughed. It didn’t sound very genuine. “You’re so sweet. Rushani, she’s just the sweetest thing!”

Leah decided she didn’t like Timory very much.
Sweet
?

She made herself a plate of food and sat down beside James, who looked up from his food only long enough to grunt a greeting at her. Fine with her; she didn’t feel like talking, either. She ate mechanically, tasting nothing. It was 7:30. Timory’s set started at 8:00, and the Saving Graces would be on stage at 9:00. Not long now.

O’Connor came into the room just as she was finished eating and getting ready to leave. He came over to her, smiling, holding a bag of chips in one hand and a beer in the other. He was still wearing his tank top and those stupid shorts. Leah felt better about her own outfit—her usual uniform of a T-shirt and slouchy jeans. If O’Connor was going on stage wearing
that
, she had nothing to worry about.

He still looked way too fucking good for her peace of mind.

“You ready?” he asked her in a low voice.

She nodded, swallowed. “I think so.”

“Don’t forget that I heard you playing today,” he said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He handed her the beer. “Here. I opened this, but I haven’t drunk any yet.”

The bottle was sweating copiously. Leah wrapped her fingers around it. “Maybe I shouldn’t, uh—”

“One beer isn’t going to mess you up,” he said. “You need to relax.”

Okay. That was probably true. “I’m thinking about going to watch Timory’s set. Just, you know. To distract myself.”

“Awesome,” he said. “I’ll go with you.”

Did her heart skip a beat? Was that a tiny butterfly beating its wings in her stomach?

It was probably just indigestion.

She didn’t have a crush on O’Connor or anything. She wasn’t nurturing any secret fantasies of standing backstage with him and resting her head against his rippling deltoids. Ridiculous.

They made it backstage just as Timory’s set began. She was, Leah had to admit, a great musician. Leah wasn’t quite sure how to categorize Timory’s music—sort of a combination of disco, 1980s girl groups, and Beethoven—but it was catchy as hell, and everyone in the audience was dancing. Two songs in, Leah realized that she was unconsciously swaying with the beat.

O’Connor grinned at her and said something. Leah shrugged at him and gestured at her ear—it was too loud for her to hear what he’d said—and he leaned in and repeated himself, so close that his lips brushed against the outer shell of her ear. “See why we brought her on tour?”

Leah shivered. Too close, O’Connor. No touching. But she just smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up.

Much sooner than Leah would have liked, James and Andrew showed up backstage, and then Rushani came with her clipboard and said, “Ten minutes.”

Leah’s heart started pounding in her chest.

She was definitely going to throw up.

Timory finished playing her last song, to a round of thunderous applause. She said something along the lines of “thank you and goodnight,” and walked off the stage, waving and blowing kisses.

“Five minutes,” Rushani said.

Everyone backstage congratulated Timory with hugs and high-fives, and that was nice, that they weren’t all totally blasé even halfway through the tour. Timory’s band brought their instruments offstage, and the Saving Graces’ roadies went out to set everything up for the next set.

“Monitors in,” Rushani said. “Remember your cues. Have fun, everyone.”

And then it was time.

Leah’s hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t imagine how she was going to play a single note. She was the last one on stage, following behind James, and she strapped on her guitar and tried not to look at the sea of faces in the audience, all of them staring at her and waiting to see what she would do.

“What’s up, San Francisco!” Andrew shouted into his mic.

The fans roared.

“It’s awesome to see you all tonight,” Andrew said. “We’re going to play an awesome fucking show for you.” More cheering. “And I hope you’ll give a warm welcome—as you probably know, Kerrigan has left us, so we’ve got someone filling in on bass for the rest of the tour. Her name’s Leah, and she’s an awesome chick and a kick-ass musician. So I hope you’ll all give her a warm welcome.”

The fans cheered and clapped. A spotlight swung around to center on Leah. She blinked against the glare, and then tentatively raised one hand and waved. The cheering intensified.

Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might explode.

The spotlight cut off. All of the lights on stage cut off, except for a line of glowing blue bulbs at the front of the stage. A hush fell over the stadium. The audience gradually quieted. When it was perfectly silent, James hit a cymbal, just once.

The lights cut on.

Andrew played the first note of the first song.

And just like that, Leah’s nervousness evaporated. What had she been so worried about, anyway? She could
feel
the audience’s enthusiasm rolling over her in waves. There was nothing she would rather do than stand on that stage and play her guitar for the rest of her life.

They played.

It was like setting a fire in the desert, late at night, when you were camping out of your van and got scared of the dark: the first spark, and then the untamed, roaring light. The first chords set a shiver down Leah’s spine, and O’Connor looked over at her and grinned with that fierce joy that came from making music with your whole self, guts and blood and messy bits all shaking together and creating something larger than any one body or set of bones. Leah’s fingers hit every note, unerringly, and the bass reverberated through her, setting a new pace for her heartbeat.