Connected: Part 4 of the On The Edge Series

Chapter 37

Billy came out blazing. My eyes clung to him as my head filled with the magic that three individuals shared with a stadium full of enthused fans. I had been to concerts before, but this felt different. Somehow, Billy connected thousands of people. He felt them, digested their reaction as though it was the nourishment he had needed, and in turn gifted them with what they wanted. Still, despite the energy the crowd was feeding him, it was Billy's stage, and I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. He twisted and writhed as though he were wrestling with Goliath. His presence was a magnet for my eyes, drawing me closer to him. I frequently wished I was on the other side of the stage as he often conferred with Tim during transitions about where he was headed, but I missed the interactions with his back to me.

After a few songs, Billy lulled, hastily setting his guitar down. He consulted with Timmy and then Brandon before pacing off stage to us. Billy stripped off his coat and tossed it onto an empty amp case before grabbing a towel and wiping his face and neck. He then tossed that over his shoulder before picking up a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket.

"Hey, I forgot to mention," he began as he popped the cork off and let the bubbles flow down the neck of the bottle and over his hand. "The studio has a thing at a bar down the street after this. You know, New Year's Eve and all that. I should've warned you. We can skip it if it's too much." There was a frantic warble to his voice as he tried to stifle the octave he used on stage for an actual conversation.

"What? Billy, you're in the middle of a concert. It's fine." My head shook from side to side at the ridiculousness of it all.

"It's fine." He was breathless from a long swig of the champagne but smiled as he handed the bottle to me and walked backward back to the stage. "Any requests?" He asked as he pointed a figure around the group.

Always prepared with a response, Viv chirped, "Keepin' Quiet!"

Billy's face filled with a warm smile as his hand clutched his chest. "That's my kid." He added before he paced back to the stage and slid behind the piano.

With little more than an intro, all three seamlessly burst into the song. Billy's eyes flickered to the group standing offstage as he played; each glance led to a pleased smile on his face.

"You know, I'm a lucky man. I realized that again just this afternoon." Billy leaned back a bit as the crowd erupted at his words. The shadows of the stage obscured his features. "I've got four women in my life. My mom is with me. I'm a very proud mama's boy that is lucky to have her here tonight. I always say, if you can, have your mother around. I've got the mother of my children," the crowd roared at the mention of Sarah. "Yeah, she deserves that." He bowed his head and smiled a bit to himself, so his dimples pricked shallow shadows on his cheeks. "I've got a daughter, and I hope I show her what she means to me." The crowd again roared.

Billy pulled himself up from the piano and plucked up his acoustic guitar before taking a step back to strum and tuned it a bit. He looked up at Timmy, prompting him to kick out a heartbeat on his kit. Without hesitation, he then swung his acoustic guitar off and set it down before picking up his old Strat. The crowd erupted at the appearance of the old plastic guitar.

"So, I got this fourth girl, and," he flickered his eyes to me, "I've been trying to figure out what to do with her for twenty years. But having these four women healthy, happy, and together makes it look like a great year ahead." Billy brushed his hair from his face as he moved closer to the microphone. "So, this is a very old song. New to all of you, but old for me. My girl recently was teaching me about love, as women often do. And my son was teaching me about life, as children often do. So, it got me thinking of this song. So would you all mind if I tried it out for you?"

The crowd roared as Billy swung around to steady himself before falling straight into an overwhelming riff; all he could do was hang on for life. There was no twisting or fighting; for that moment, for that riff, it locked him in with the instrument. He hung on for a second pass and then stepped up to the mic and what fell out was a love song by Billy Collins. It was loud and erratic and as brutal as the emotion. But it was an unmistakable love song, and he stared straight into my eyes with every word that passed his lip. Instinctively, my hand when straight to my forehead, trying to prevent the dizziness that Billy was pressing on me, which caused a chuckle to bubble up and mar the words he was singing. Billy closed his eyes for a moment, but the effort was in vain; he couldn't stop the smile on his face. He backed away from the microphone to focus on his guitar, but as he did, he gave a nod to me, causing panic to soar through me. Billy couldn't expect me to step out from the safety of the side stage.

"Sorry, Lil," Jackson murmured as he left my side. Suddenly Billy tuning his acoustic guitar without the intention of playing it came into focus. Jackson plucked up the guitar and slung it on.

"Jackson Collins, everybody," Billy introduced as the crowd erupted again at the appearance of Jackson. "She can't be mad at all three of us, right, boys?" As he spoke, he swung the song around to the beginning, a snip of a love song from his first album before Jackson got his bearings and took over the reins of While You're Away as Billy fell back. As hypnotic as Billy Collins was on stage, my eyes clung to Jackson. In front of thousands of people, he played one of his father's songs.

"Merry Christmas, Lil," Billy was suddenly before me, his hazel eyes wide open to me.

"That's your kid out there," was all I could manage.

"It's something, right? I wouldn't have been able to do that at his age. They don't even miss me." As he spoke, he continued to play rhythm guitar like it was as natural as breathing.

"You wrote me a song," I said as my focus finally fell on Billy before me.

"I've written many songs about you," Billy's head jerked as Jackson easily transitioned through a few other Billy Collins hits. "I thought you should hear one I wrote for you."

"What I heard of it was great, but I expect a private performance later, preferably on the piano," I nodded.

"Yes, ma'am." Then one thick finger hit my chin, lifting my face as his lips met mine. His sweat poured over my face as his guitar dug into my stomach. It was wet, awkward, uncomfortable, and absolutely perfect. As fast as he was there, he was gone, and the blistering riff of Compelled to Yell was ripping through the arena.