“Of course, Mr. Boyd,” the other one says and hands us three guest passes. I peer down, and to my surprise, find my name on it.
Without so much as a blink, the security guy opens the door. I peer at Josh, who just shrugs and ushers me inside.
“We’re backstage,” Mandy whispers. “I can’t believe it.”
Me neither.
And why are our names on the passes?
“Mandy,” I whisper. “How did they know our names?”
She shrugs. “You won tickets, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but as you probably noticed, they’re still in my handbag.” I point to Josh. “What did you tell him?”
“Let’s talk later, okay? Enjoy this.”
“Fine.” In spite of my repulsion for anything Mile High stands for, a tiny bit of excitement runs through me. From where we’re standing, we can see the entire stage. Roadies are rushing past us, setting up various pieces of music equipment, while a band is tuning up, completely oblivious to the commotion around them. To the far end, people are flooding in and the first squeals of excitement carry over.
“The soundcheck’s almost over. They’re opening for Mile High,” Mandy says, pointing to the guys on the stage.
Even though this is strangely exhilarating, I feel like an impostor. “I don’t think we should be here.”
“Relax,” Josh says. “We’re guests. Of course we’re supposed to be here. You guys want anything to drink?” He points at a table with various refreshments.
I shake my head as a sign that I don’t want anything. “How are we guests? We only won tickets.”
Josh helps himself to a chilled can of soda and hands one to Mandy. “I know someone who knows someone,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Told you.” Mandy shoots me a warning look. “And we’re not going to be ungrateful brats, are we, Ava?”
“Of course not,” I mumble.
The place begins to fill with people. Spotlights begin to go off, bathing the entire place in a dim glow. The first lights of cameras and smartphones flash all around us.
“Come on. I think they’re getting started,” Josh says.
We follow him down the stairs to a lower level, where several security guys are standing guard, all sporting the same intimidating expression. We take our place in front of the barriers just in time before the opening act starts the show.
The crowd goes wild as the lights go on. It’s all so bright I think I need sunglasses.
“TAYLOR! TAYLOR! TAYLOR!”
“Taylor, I’ll give you a BJ.”
“Take me, Taylor. Take me.”
“K. TAYLOR! I LOVE YOU!”
I’ve never heard so much shrieking in my life.
I’ve never seen so many cameras flashing.
And then Mile High hits the stage, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Even Mandy’s shrieking in my ears.
Damn. I wish I had thought of packing some earplugs before I go deaf.
I stare at the four guys in snug blue jeans and black T-shirts. Their faces are painted white; black traces their eyes; their features are hidden behind beautiful carnival masks that build a dramatic contrast to the simulated fire burning in huge baskets scattered across the stage. I have to admit that they look like living art, which I’m sure is the image they’ve been going for.
The guitarist strums the guitar in what I recognize as a slow, modern rock version of Mozart’s Magic Flute, while the vocalist stands rooted to the spot, head lowered over the mic, his dark hair swaying in a simulated breeze.
He’s hot.
Mandy got that part right.
He’s really hot. Even though the moving shadows cast by the fires make it hard to see much of him, I can tell by his muscular body.
With the mask, he’s like a fantasy.
No wonder women all over the world are going bat-shit crazy over him.
They probably think he lives up to their fantasies even without the mask.
“I wonder what would happen if he took it off, you know, the mask, the makeup, “ I say, amused, unable to keep back a snort. “He’s probably some old dude with a good body and nothing else going for him.”
A guy’s walking past, handing out drinks to the VIP guests, AKA us.
“He isn’t that old,” Josh shouts and passes me a Pepsi can.
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“I just know.”
“They always play some part of the Magic Flute at the beginning of each gig,” Mandy shouts. “It’s their anthem or something.”
I don’t want to point out that Mozart wrote it because, while I’m not a fan of classical music, the guitarist really rocks it.
A few moments later, the music fades in the background, and the vocalist looks up, and the shrieking starts again.