Stepping onto the stage with a crowd of screaming people staring back at me always feels like I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, watching my life flash right before my eyes.
It starts slowly—a deep breath before the plunge, a total absence of sound before it all comes crashing back, an empty cavity inside my chest that fills with the erratic beating of my heart.
Under those lights, after those initial feelings of pure terror, I feel alive.
There's a moment before the final chorus where the music stops and silence canvases the entire arena. I look at my bandmates as the lights begin to dim, and the five of us collectively take a breath before our final march to the ends of the earth. In unison, we count—
And then we fall together.
After my voice fades out, all of my senses dim into nothing. It isn't until we're backstage that I feel human again.
Seira jumps onto the counter and swipes a towel against her forehead. "Nothing like the final note of a triple header, huh?"
I drop down onto the sofa between Jun and Rami while Lauren takes the armchair on the right of us.
"I could drop dead right now and be perfectly content."
Jun nudges my side with his elbow and points at the water bottle on the table. I lean over Rami to grab it, handing it off to Jun and watching him guzzle it at record speed.
Lauren gathers her braids into a bun and lets them fall over the back of the chair as she slumps down into the cushions. "The entire show, all I could think about was how I know this spot on my chin is gonna turn into a fat pimple by tomorrow morning."
She points at a small red bump on her chin. If she hadn't pointed it out, I wouldn't have noticed.
"I'm sure they'd all love to know that," Jun remarks. "Thank you so much for coming out to see us, but Lauren here is worried about a pimple. See you in the next city!"
Lauren grabs a striped throw pillow and takes aim and Jun narrowly dodges it as it flies through the air, whizzing a hair's width above his head.
He looks at the pillow, then back at her. "You're picking that up, you know."
"Like hell I am."
Rami, who's been dozing off with his face covered by a towel, peeks out from underneath it. The charms on his friendship bracelet catch in the light.
"Are you down for a party?" he asks, letting his head roll over to the side.
The obvious answer is no. Most of the time, as soon as the show ends, I'm ready to shut off from the rest of the world. Performing takes a toll on me physically and is emotionally exhausting. I usually don't have any juice left in me to be social.
But Seira, our resident party girl, looks like she's got a few hours left on her, and when she's up for more, she'll drag everyone else down with her.
I swipe at the sweat beading up along the back of my neck. "Sure, why not."
Before our drummer can let everyone else know about our plans for after we leave the venue, our manager Marty barges into the room with his nose buried in his phone.
"Great job, everyone."
"Thank you, Marty. Your enthusiasm is inspiring."
He gives me a flat look. "You're not the only one who worked this weekend."
Jun, who's sitting closest to Marty, reaches up to jab him on the shoulder. "Uncle, I think you're overdue for a trip back home for a week or two. You look like you've aged three years in the past month."
"Every day I manage you guys, I regret leaving Hawaii for this shit."
Seira hops off the counter and skips over to Marty, leaning to peek at his phone which he pulls out of view at the last second. "Can't this wait until tomorrow morning?"
"You mean when you're all hungover?"
I place a hand against my heart. "You know us so well."
He gives us all a once-over before releasing a sigh and placing his phone back in his pocket. Marty is a man of preposterous proportions and towers over every person he meets—not to mention the tribal tattoos that cover his entire arm—but he's one of the most caring people I've ever met. Family is number one in his mind, always, and ever since he started managing us, he's taken on a father figure role in our lives while we're away from home.
"Fine, but I want us to set up a meeting before four o'clock. We have a lot of stuff to go over."
Seira waves her hand in the air. "We'll be there. Stevie will drag us out by our hair if we're not up in time."
"My specialty."
Marty waves us off and wishes us goodnight before disappearing back out the door. I rush after him and catch him in the hall in front of my dressing room.
"Wait, Marty!" I call and he stops. "I was gonna ask you if you've heard from her lately."
Marty might not be an uncle by blood, but he's the closest thing to family I've had in a while. As my father's best friend, he stuck around after my dad passed away, and he does everything he can to help mend the bridge between my mother and me, but there's only so much he or I can do. The somber expression on his face says everything I need to know.
"I can't wait forever for her."
"I know. You shouldn't have to."
Holding back tears from forming, I look up at the lights and will them to disappear. "You'd think eventually she'd support her only child trying to achieve her goals."
Marty's eyes soften. "Whatever happens, it doesn't change that she loves you. And your father did, too. More than anything else."
"His love as a faint memory and hers disguised behind missed calls and accusations of abandonment," I scoff. "Wonder how well that'll go over for me in therapy."
"Stev—"
I open the door. "Thanks, Marty. I'll talk to you tomorrow."
...
Parties in Los Angeles are all the same fallacies with different price tags. None of them reveal anyone's true colors. All they provide is a chance for the wealthy and privileged to pretend like they care an ounce about each other.
I'm aware we now fit into this mold, but I convince myself we're the exception after a couple of shots. More often than not, Jun is the one that provides us with said shots.
"Cheers," he says and taps his glass in the center before knocking it back.
Everyone except Rami who doesn't drink follows suit. Most of us grimace because alcohol doesn't taste as good as most people would have me believe, but Jun is already searching for another by the time I place my shot glass down on the table.
One thing I can always count on is seeing at least one familiar face at any given party. Most of them blur together, but one stands out amongst the crowd.
Maver Vincent is a dime a dozen that manages to make himself look a little shinier than the rest of the loose change around Hollywood.
Lauren perks up at my side when she notices him.
He slings an arm around her shoulder. Her hand falls from my fingers and rests on his hips as he presses a gentle kiss against her temple.
"How was the show?" he asks.
I let a drunk couple of girls pass. "Better now that it's over."
He chuckles. "You've only been in the game for a few years and you're already jaded."
"And to think I was only half-joking." The air turns stifling as another group of people piles through the front door. If I don't find some fresh air within a couple of minutes, I'll throw up. "Surprised you have time for us with your five movies coming out this year."
"Don't sound so jealous, Stevie. It's not a good look for you."
Lauren slaps his chest playfully. As much as I can't decipher Maver Vincent from paint drying most days, he isn't the worst person to be around and we enjoy exchanging jabs.
"She could out act you any day of the week," Lauren jokes. "She pretends she likes any of us all the time."
Maver looks back and forth between us. "Stevie? Pretending she likes people? In what world."
Jun slips past and presses a new shot in my hand which I drink right away. My desire to stay around here has worn thin, as proven by Maver's comments, and I toss them a happy partying while Lauren begs me not to leave.
There aren't many places at a party to get away from everyone that doesn't involve locking myself in a bathroom or stranger's bedroom. Since I'm not one for overstaying my welcome, I make a quick survey of my options as I open all of the doors for the empty rooms.
To my luck, a golden opportunity presents itself on the fifth try. I ease the window open and angle myself to climb up and out.
While the sounds below rise like flames out of hell, I enjoy the faint breeze kissing against my skin. For a moment, I feel like I'm alone in the world for the first time in a long time. Moments of solitude rarely present themselves these days unless I force them to exist.
Of course, it's all too good to be true because this serene moment is demolished by an intruder. If he's seeking the same refuge as me, I can't blame him.
Brendon Ellis: Formula One's boy wonder and our next-door neighbor for one year going on two. My first memories of him are when he told us he prefers Bash (short for his middle name Sebastian) and when his friend accidentally hit my car with his motorcycle.
That's the extent of my knowledge. He's still bitter I've never watched a single race; I find it offensive he's salty about that when he probably can't name a single of our songs. All things considered, we're cordial neighbors who tend to stay out of each other's way.
Before I can tell him to leave, he climbs his way out onto the roof. I recognize his Tom Ford cologne, courtesy of his brand ambassadorship.
"Long time no see," he says once he's settled.
I give him a side eye. "Is it off-season already?"
"Just a break," he answers. It explains why he doesn't reek of alcohol like the rest of the people at this party (myself included). "Bet I can guess how long it took you to run away."
I let out a humorless laugh. "Anyone within a five-mile radius could guess that."
"How was the show?"
"Maybe one of these days I'll give you free tickets so you can come to see us. It's high time you learned at least one of our songs."
Brendon's laugh comes out easily like we're friends. "I'm flattered but I can afford my own ticket."
"Assuming I don't put you on our special list of people to keep out."
Brendon presses a hand to his chest in faux outrage. "You hurt my feelings, Stevie."
"Oh no, how will you ever live?"
"Don't worry, I've heard worse." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen illuminates a scattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose. After a few seconds, he puts it away with a frustrated sigh.
"Trouble in the paddock?" I ask.
"For someone who claims to not know a thing about Formula One, you know more terminology than I expected you to."
"It's one word. And you drive a car. That's about as much as I know."
The corners of his lips turn up. "That is a thing I do."
A flash of silver on the inside of his jacket catches my eye. He notices my observation and reaches inside to grab it, sliding the flask in my direction. I twist off the cap and take a sniff. Tequila. At least he has taste.
"How's the season going?" I hand back the flask after taking a sip.
I'm not sure why I ask. Without knowing the first thing about Formula One, whatever answer he's about to give me will fly straight over my head. But it seems like the polite thing to do.
Brendon sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Last race was shit but I'm still fourth in the standings so it could be worse."
I blink twice. "Four out of what?"
"There are twenty drivers," he laughs before taking a swig from his flask. "Four is pretty good."
"Is it like that racing thing where you guys just drive around in circles?" I lean back against my elbows, stretching my legs out in front of me.
Brendon sends me an amused glance, the kind you give a kid who doesn't know the first thing about what they're saying. "No, it's not like NASCAR, but that's harder than it looks."
"What is it like then?"
"My little sister says it's like Mario Kart but without all the extra shit."
I tilt my head to the side and my curls drift with the wind. "How old is your sister?"
"Twelve."
"Can't believe you let her say 'shit'."
"Do you ever stop to listen to something other than the sound of your own voice?"
I roll my eyes. "Of course I do. I'm in a band."
Brendon drops completely on the roof and rests his forearms against his forehead, shielding his face from view. Maybe it's the alcohol or the cologne drifting its way over to me, but I feel a little sympathetic, even if I'm not sure what to say since he clearly doesn't feel like opening up to me.
Slowly, I lower myself into a flat position and look up at the night sky. The only stars visible in Los Angeles are the ones found on red carpets, but I still find myself looking up as if my wishes will manifest them back into existence.
"Whatever it was," I tell him quietly, "dust it off and move on. New day, new race."
He groans underneath his arms. "I keep telling myself that. But it's easier said than done."
"Or you can be like me and everyone else in this town and just fake it 'til you make it." I shrug.
Brendon looks at me from the corner of his eyes. "That's very helpful, thank you."
"Hey." I jab his arm with one finger. "I've got nothing going on up here. This is as good as talking to me is going to get." I rap my knuckles lightly against the side of my head.
"Enough going on for you and your friends to get nominated for two Grammys last year."
"For someone who claims to know nothing about music, you know what we've been nominated for. And it was only for Best New Artist and Best Group Performance. I'm not sure why the first one is even a thing."
"I never said I know nothing about music," he corrects. "Just nothing about your band. But look at us being ungrateful about fourth place and two Grammy nominations. If only they could hear us now."
"We can't all live up to their picture-perfect expectations of us," I reply.
His phone goes off again. Pulling it out once more, his eyes scan the myriad of texts on his screen, eventually laying it down flat against his stomach.
"Nice to see my fellow party reject again," he says before pulling himself up. He leans down and hangs out his hand, to which I shake my head and he pulls back. "There's a race coming up at home if you're interested. Three weeks."
"I thought Australia is normally the first race of the season?"
Before Brendon climbs back through the window, he sends me his signature smile, one that graces more fan accounts than the amount dedicated to me, and even more news articles than I care to admit have come across my computer screen.
"Careful, someone might think we're friends."
"Try not to slip from fourth, Bash."