“Oh God, I'm so nervous,” Hayden says, stretching her arms above her head and not looking at all like she's ever been nervous about anything. She says this before every show, no matter the size of the crowd. I think she believes it makes her seem more down to earth. It doesn't. “We are so fucking going to rock this,” she continues, talking just to hear herself speak. The rest of the band sticks to their vices and I'm pretty sure I see Kash and Dax buying acid from a trashy looking dude in a skirt.
I tug my ripped T-shirt down in the front and don't bother to fix it again when it rides up. I've worked hard to have a stomach worth showing off and I didn't get a tattoo below my belly button to keep it hidden. I trace my fingers over the angel wings and mouth the words that rest between them. Real Ugly. That's life. Fucking hideous and hateful and bloody. I wish I could see it otherwise.
“Don't let it get to you,” America says from behind me. I jump a bit and almost knock over Terre Haute's front man, Rook Geary. He glares at me, but doesn't say a thing, sliding around me and disappearing into the darkness outside. The roadies rush the stage like fucking Oompa Loompas, dancing around and dragging equipment away, so they can set up for us. I almost feel sorry for them, but then I remember that half of them are here so they can fuck and buy drugs on a daily basis. Fuck them.
“Let what get to me?” I ask, but I already know what she's talking about. That damn video. That damn ass motherfucking video. I cannot even imagine who recorded it or how or why they've waited all this time to scare me with it. The events that took place on that screen happened when I was sixteen years old, and I just cannot figure out the time lapse. Unless, of course it was Hayden. Coulda been Hayden.
I watch her giggling and flirting with Dax, and I still find that pretty hard to believe. She might be a crafty bitch, but she's a crafty bitch without a brain. Still equally as threatening as whoever sent the video, but incapable of subterfuge.
“If you ever need to talk … ”
“Yeah,” I say as I take out another cigarette and find myself left with an empty pack. Fuck. I toss the box in the can and light up. “You're probably the last person I'd come to.”
“Good,” she says without even a hint of a smile. “Because I was going to tell you not to come to me. Talk to Blair.”
“Hah. Thanks, America. Perfect fucking advice.” I take a long, hot drag and let my head hang back, blonde hair teasing the bare skin of my shoulders. I can't imagine spilling my guts to anyone, let alone America. Even the thought of pouring my heart out makes me shiver.
I lift my head up and watch as our equipment is dragged out and positioned just so. Dax's drums in the back. Blair's keyboard on the right, just behind Wren's guitar. Kash's bass goes on the left side of the stage next to my Wolfgang. And Hayden, of course, goes right in the fucking center.
I close my eyes for a moment and tune out everything – the crowd, Hayden, America. When I play, I dive so deep into myself that I come out the other side a different person. So introverted that I'm extroverted, you know what I mean? No. No, of course you don't. Nobody does, and that's always, always, always been my problem. I take a little note from Turner's book and throw some arrogance and swagger into my step before I move out, stepping over duct tape and cords, past the set list that's been stuck to the ground near my feet.
There's a crowd out there somewhere, a big ass fucking one, and in the back of my mind, I know that they're cheering for us, for me maybe, calling out the names of songs, pulsing and throbbing like a heartbeat. I sense them, but I don't see them; I don't hear them. My fingers slide under the guitar strap and lift it over my head. Settling that comforting weight over my shoulders makes me feel like I'm right where I was always meant to be. My hand slides up the neck and my fingers kiss the strings.
This fucking guitar costs more than any car I've ever owned, and I think I'm in love with it. Hell, I have more feelings for my Wolfgang than I've ever had for a living person. Call me cold if you want, but my guitar's never let me down. People have. You do the math on that one.
This baby lets me take my low E string from an E note to a D and back in a flash without having to retune. It can cry like a baby and scream like a devil; it's got angel wings and horns both, and it'll kiss you at the same time it fucks you. Not many dudes can top that, right?
I close my eyes again as Hayden's voice switches gears in an instant – from wannabe rock star to freaking rock goddess. I don't know how she pulls it off, but when she's onstage, I forget to hate her so much. She's got lungs for days and a set of pipes that remind me of an old-timey organ mixed with the screech of eighties hair metal. I don't ask how that's even possible, but I do my best to enjoy it.