One Night Only

Chapter Three

The sound pierces through me, more shrill than my phone alarm has ever sounded before.

"Someone shut that off," I mumble, covering my ears with my hands. My eyelids feel stuck shut, as though someone has glued them to my eyeballs. And why is my head throbbing like this?

"She's conscious," someone says. I can't tell who it is, or who they're talking to.

Of course I'm conscious. I was asleep and now I'm awake, or I'm getting there. I suck in a breath and fight against the fog clouding my brain, willing myself into alertness.

The clanging continues in spite of my grumbled protests. I thrash one of my arms to the side, fumbling to find my phone to hit snooze. My hand meets leather upholstery. Feeling this unexpected texture instead of a soft duvet sends a jolt through me. I'm not in my bed. Is that even my alarm?

As painful as my headache is, I listen more carefully to the commotion around me. The alarm sounds more like a fire horn in a building than something emitted by a phone or a clock. It reminds me of fire drills from the days I used to attend a regular school. The noise drones on, as does an incessant wail of sirens that must be coming from the street right outside of where I am.

Wherever that is.

It's an almost Herculean effort to force one of my eyes open. A fluorescent light shines above me, directly into my eyeball. I wince, then try to focus. I'm on a sofa in the green room of The Domino. Why am I here? I should be on stage.

I open my other eye and glance to the side, but I don't turn my head. Mom, Elton, Brynn, and a few uniformed police officers are huddled together in a corner. Light glares off the police badge affixed to the shirt of one officer when he turns to leave the room. Reality snaps back into place, slamming into me like a freight train.

The explosion. The blood. The bodies. Oh my God.

"Where's Sawyer?" I bolt upright on the sofa. Stabbing pain shoots through my temples and I pitch to the side. I grab hold of the sofa's arm and catch myself before toppling over.

Mom is at my side in an instant. "Easy, Deni," she cautions, steadying me.

I ignore her warning and scan the room for any sign of my best friend. He isn't here. "Sawyer!" I croak. My throat and mouth have gone dry. It's all I get out before I'm doubled over in a coughing fit.

Elton appears in front of us with a bottle of water. He removes the cap and hands the bottle to me. "Sawyer is fine," he says. "He ducked out after his set to get tacos down the street with his band and Carter. He wasn't here."

He's trying to stay calm, but there are underlying notes of anguish and panic in his voice. I swallow a few sips of water and attempt to take everything in. Alarms and sirens wail from all directions, and crackles and pops of static come from police radios out in the hall.

"What about everyone else who was in there?" I ask. "I saw people on the floor."

Elton exchanges a look with my mom. He doesn't answer me.

"I need to know," I plead.

"Some of them are injured," Mom finally replies. "Some of them have been taken to hospital, and others are still here with paramedics."

"Everyone's alive, though, right?" I phrase it as a question, but it's really a desperate prayer.

Mom and Elton are both silent. Neither one of them will meet my eyes. I push myself up from the sofa. Blood rushes to my head and I feel dizzy, but I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and make it to the door.