To wonder lands of ice and snow In the desert heat where nothing grows
To say Alex's mood was exceptionally sour would have been a gross understatement. She wanted to storm out of the venue and never see Jake Kiszka or his stupid band again—exhibit for him just how much of a brat she could really be.
However, she was too stubborn to grant Jake the privilege of knowing he'd punctured her pride. So, instead, she saddled up next to the bar and started praying to the gods of pale ale to help her stay sane through the night.
And, to be fair, Danny, Sam, and Josh weren't the problem. They'd been nothing but lovely.
Too bad their guitarist was a pretentious, judgmental, hot, prima donna.
Wait.
Hot? When had Alex allowed that particular adjective to slip from her subconscious? Granted, the entire band was collectively attractive, but that just came along with being musicians. There would always be something alluring about individuals who could create such passion with nothing more than their imagination and some instruments. At least, that's the justification she allowed herself to be convinced by.
Alex didn't have long to think on it, though, as the lights in the surrounding room began to dim and the crowd cheered in anticipation.
The air buzzed with expectation as the audience rustled with excitement. An overwhelming sense of the monumental awaiting arrival blanketed the establishment and its patrons. The red lights shadowing the stage stood ominous yet inviting, with flickers of camera flashes briefly irradiating the darkened space.
The moment sat suspended in time.
And then the boys walked on stage, their rhinestone outfits twinkling with the catch of light, and the crowd reached a deafening pitch. Danny sat himself behind the drum kit, Sam and Jake shouldered their respective bass and guitar, while Josh saddled up to the microphone and screeched into it.
More roaring cheers and thunderous clapping followed.
Josh chattered to the crowd while the others warmed up their instruments. With the backlight illuminating him, his mop of curly brown hair sat like a halo atop his head.
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"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," the frontman cheekily announced to the crowd. His twin immediately jumping in with a riff, his fingers working furiously over the cords. The others quickly joined him as they jammed in preparation for the opening. Josh wailing along in time.
Alex forced herself to note the finer details of the performance, instead of allowing herself to become lost in the fervor. Like how Jake and Josh's outfits seemed to compliment one another's more so than the other band members. She wondered if it were intentional or an unintended side effect of twin synchronicity. Or how Jake was the only one who opted for shoes while everyone else went barefoot—their soles had to be absolutely filthy by the end of a show. Most importantly, however, was the way in which they communicated without speaking a word. The foursome seemed to exist on a plane of symbiosis where confirmation required nothing more than a look, before all were on board with whatever nameless suggestions.
