2.0 The Chronicles of Us - Shame & Blame

Chapter twenty

•★ Tex ★•

I sneak a peek from behind the curtain. Holy hell! The show is completely sold out. I don't know if that whole mystery-headliner thing was such a good idea. These people might be expecting the next Bieber or something like that. What if they boo us off the stage?

Fuck 'em.

I turn back to Axel and Joey, who are finishing their beers. Since Roy made it his mission to keep me sober on his watch, I'm currently holding a glass of lame lemonade. A man of my caliber shouldn't be sipping lime-flavored drinks. Apparently, my scowl is not as threatening as it once was. Yesterday, out of fucking nowhere, an old lady told me what a nice boy I am for throwing my sandwich wrapper in the garbage instead of on the street. And worse ... I actually smiled and said, "Thank you, ma'am. Have a nice day."

Pure fucking madness.

Roy ushers us to the stage. "It's time to go up."

Right, showtime. The owner made some real effort renovating this old sweatshop. The Music Factory is a smart name. Sick stage lights hang from the original steel beams that are still bolted on the high ceilings and intense black hexagon-shaped panels cover the bricks walls to improve the sound quality. This is gonna be one helluva show.

With my guitar hanging from my neck, I walk up to the microphone. "Good evening, San Francisco! How y'all doing?"

I hate this part of the show. It's still so fucking weird to connect with a bunch a people I've never met. I think I've got that imposter syndrome. Like any second now they'll figure out I'm a scam or something. Although, tonight's not too bad. Ever since I've been going to therapy, the contradictio in terminis seems less prominent.

The crowd cheers. It's a different crowd. Not our usual collection of head-banging misfits. They are excited though, spilling their beers while trying to get closer to the stage. Yeah, they're ready to get musically fucked up.

My fingers freestyle a melodic lick to get the crowd going and, possibly, to show off a little. "Shout out to our manager Roy for arranging us to be here tonight." I pause for a few seconds to let them chant Roy's name. With a nod of my head to Axel and Joey, I let them know we're ready. "Let's go!"

Joey starts us off with a fast as fuck and no nonsense double bass pattern. We play one of our earliest songs. It's a guarantee for beeping ears, pounding heads and sweaty mosh pits. Shortly put, exactly what the audience is waiting for.

Beer flies.

Crowd-surfers dodge security.

Guys shove each other while girls try to flee to the back.

It's a beautiful mayhem. The first half of our set list goes like this, but our flow changes mid-show. As a tryout, we play some songs from second album, which isn't released yet. They seem to like these less angry tunes as well.

I observe the crowd and mentally kick myself in the head when I notice what I'm looking for—or who. I scan the room from left to right, all the way to the far corner by the bar. My heart stops dead in its tracks.

No.

Fucking.

Way.

I choke on my words when my eyes catch sight of a sloppy bun of auburn hair. Her back is facing me and she's too far away to be sure. My gaze drops down her figure, hoping to find a nicely filled pair of jeans. Disappointment punches me in the gut. My girl—I mean, my ex-girl surely loves pancakes but her ass doesn't look like one. The girl at the bar turns enough so her face shows. Nope. Definitely not Ellie. It was nothing but a trick of desperation.