Toxic Dolls

Chapter 1

So this is my rewrite! Yay! Plus I'm also renaming the band/story so I apologize for inconsistencies.

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I walk down the sidewalk to the venue, a cold breeze blowing against my cheek. Instinctively, I pull my hoodie tighter to my body in an attempt to keep my remaining warmth. Reaching the two-story building, I realize I'm early. Quite early. I sigh and shiver a bit as I wait, checking my phone every few minutes.

I wish Ally was here with me, I think.

The clock strikes eight and a burly black man in a leather jacket, steps out the door.

"Here for the show?" He asks, eying me warily.

I nod and hand him my ticket. He then smiles, pulls out a pen, and writes an X on my outstretched hand. I nod at him as I enter the building.

It's a dim place, little light touching the dark walls and wooden floor. The stage glows in the somber setting, illuminated brightly by beam lights. Flicker slightly as they are adjusted from a hidden alcove.

A sign hangs above the worn flooring, announcing the name of the band playing. It sways slightly as the heat is turned on, the mechanical hum giving away the ghosted movements. "Toxic Dolls," it reads. Just seeing their name sends chills up my spine.

It was luck that I was here at all. Since their first album went platinum, ticket sales boomed, creating mass hysteria. The members could have cared less for their fame, still booking small venues. I was on of the few holders of these tickets, along with a backstage meet-and-greet pass.

People begin filing in, filling the building with eager girls and shaggy haired boys. I stay to the back until the boys come on stage, only making my way forward when the lead begins to sing, pushing my way through the crowd. Andy's voice wavers out like a whispered prayer.

"There's something I need to tell you,"

A few more lines are sung before the beat picks up into the well-known, raspy screams and guitar riffs. Everyone cheers in unison, all in adoration of one man's voice. Andy leaps in the air, his hair flying, the lights above glinting off the milk chocolate strands. Sweat gleams on his cheek.

Toxic Dolls was originally a small group from England, slowly rising to musical God-dome in less than a year. There was no one who hadn't heard their name and everyone loves them, no matter what their music taste is.

Andy Cross, the lead, has this hypnotic and mysterious quality to his voice. There's a reverberation in it, as if there's some great sadness he is hiding deep in the depths of his soul. He is always seen in long sleeved shirts and jackets, never shirtless. Not even the crazed paparazzi could get a picture of him bare armed. Whenever they would even get close, his twin brother, Marx Off, would interfere, causing panic among the rabid photographers. After a few "mishaps" they stopped trying. Even though they are the youngest members of the group at only 18, they lead it well.

Andy and Marx are almost complete opposites. Andy is as sweet as Marks sadistic, as caring as Marx is uninterested, and as talkative as Marx is quiet. Though, together, they are unstoppable and with the addition of the other two members, they are ripping the world apart.

The other two members, Jordy Halt and Dæmon Deamon, make up the rest of Toxic Dolls. Jordy, a wild nineteen year old, plays bass guitar for the band. Generally, he's kept out of most of the tabloids but on occasion he is splashed on the front page for having performed some infamous prank. Dæmon, is the more violent member of the group, his personality and dreadlocks make him a constant target for the press.

I come back from my reverie as I'm pressed against the stage by screaming fans, my fingers curling against the lip. At that moment, I realize they are playing my favorite song. I close my eyes, silently singing along while swaying in time to the music.

As they reach the chorus, they slow down. I open my eyes as Andy makes an announcement.

"Hello everyone! As you all know, we reached platinum last week," the crowd roars, cutting him off. He just stands there, smiling, face flushed. The people soon calm down and he continues, voice raspy from strain. "Of course, it's all due to you, our fans. To honor that, we -I- would like to invite one of you to come on stage and finish the song with me."

Everyone cheers and I just stare at my shoes, backing up slowly. No matter how much I love the song, I can't bring myself to lift my arm. I begin to back up, fear rising in my throat, when suddenly, everyone goes quiet. I look up to see a hand outstretched towards me, leading to a black clad arm, attached to a crouching figure. Andy smiles at me, blue eyes twinkling. I start to shake my head no, backing up a step when an orange haired girl beside me, takes my hand and deposits it into his, whispering "once in a lifetime".

I wince as he pulls me on stage, heart thundering in my chest. I feel lightheaded. I feel a hot hand pressing against the small of my back, encouraging me forward. Someone off stage hands me a mic and the song starts up again. After a few beats, I begin, concentrating entirely on Andy's voice. Instantly harmonizing, everyone cheers.

Andy turns toward me, our eyes locking. I smile, joy-a forgotten feeling- fills my body with each note. I notice Andy's eyes leaving mine, their gaze straying to my lips. The song ends and he lifts my hand high into the air before helping me off stage.

One last look is shared before he turns, the next song starting.

My heart pounds as I begin to feel faint. Taking a few breaths I look back up, hoping to see Andy returning my stare. He is looking the opposite direction and an unexpected ache fills my chest. My eyes scan the other members, surprise overtaking me when I realize Marx is staring intently at me. He winks.

I turn away, blushing.

This is going to be one hell of a meet and greet, my conscience tells me.