Comeback Route (New Hope #3)

Prologue

Breathe (In the Air) – Pink Floyd

Grace

I grab the microphone from its stand, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Do you guys have time for one more?"

The sea of people churns, screams of approval rising from its depths. Our audience spans Copacabana Beach, farther than the eye can see. It's so loud, I'm surprised the overcast sky doesn't crumble. Their cries echo across the sand, vibrating the finite hairs of my inner ear. It's the kind of noise you feel in your heart—just like music. The crowd is a piece of myself, as much as I am a part of them. I can't help but grin, my cheeks growing sore with the effort.

This is it.

After nearly a decade, I've reached the pinnacle of my career. At twenty-seven years old, I can officially say I've made my mark in the world of rock 'n roll. Disgrace will go down in history with one of the largest recorded audiences. 

Two million people.

And they're here to listen—to watch, to experience—us.

I glance behind me, catching eyes with my bandmates.

Devon, my childhood friend and the best female drummer on earth, twirls her drumsticks in hand, a wild smirk bewitching her face. Devon's Uncle Arnold and his husband, Orwell, tap the sides of their guitars, anxiously waiting for me to continue the show. I may be the lead singer, but I'd be nothing without these three.

After dropping out of Juilliard—much to my parents' worry—I lived in a garage with Devon for six months. Every night, we were either practicing or performing covers in Los Angeles dive bars. We were discovered by a major record label, given a contract the following week, and have become one of the most successful punk rock bands in music history.

As an ode to our roots, we dedicate our encore to a cover song. I've always loved reinterpreting my fellow musician's work—be it Taylor Swift, Kanye, or Jim Morrison. Tonight, we decided to throw it back with some Pink Floyd. We're speeding up the beat in the intro and bridge, but slowing for the vinal verse, which will allow me wiggle room to play with the vocals.

While I prefer a classic baby grand, this song requires a majestic aesthetic, so I take a seat at the electric piano. The coattails of my fireproof military trench—fashionable, yet necessary for safety, seeing as our performance involves pyrotechnics—flap in the breeze coming off the water. The crowd erupts once more, their energy palpable. My heart beats an erratic rhythm, and goosebumps erupt on my forearms despite the warm November afternoon. I feed off of the high, like a vampire tapping a vein.

Breathe, breathe in the air

Don't be afraid to care

Leave but don't leave me

Look around, choose your own ground

The song still echoes in my chest as we are ushered backstage. There's a sense of urgency as Devon, Arnie, Orwell, and myself are loaded into the helicopter. With two million rabid fans surrounding us, we've been instructed to follow strict protocol in regards to our safety. Our main goal right now is to get the hell off the beach before any riots break out.

I slip my headset on, talking freely with the band as the chopper rises into the air. "That was fucking epic. Our best show yet."

"My foot nearly slipped from the pedal during the bridge," Devon pants, wiping at the sweat on her brow. Her brunette hair sticks to her temples, beginning to spiral. "You hit all four octaves!"