Roman halted near the stairs. Bruce trotted around Frank, rattling off instructions while the technician hooked up his monitor. Gaze on the floor, Dante sucked his lollipop as if his life depended on it. He seemed on edge and overly fidgety. A deep frown pinched his face.
Billy gave him an encouraging pat on the back. A piss-poor attempt to break the ice. Dante responded with a crooked grin and started pacing. His guitars were lined up on a rack, his tech ready. He always brought the entire arsenal, but the Stratocaster had been his instrument of choice for a few years now. They made a nice duo.
Brooklyn kept me company as I moved aside and joined the anxious knot of VIP guests. On stage, the massive screen behind the drum kit showcased the album cover artwork—the flickering image of the burning butterfly. It went in and out along with the beat of the set intro tune. There was something extremely symbolic about it. I’d never dared to ask Frank about the real meaning behind the blazing wings, but I sensed the fragility of it all.
I sensed the transience.
I sensed his fear of burning out.
The crackling of the walkie-talkies interrupted my thoughts. Bruce ascended the stairs and disappeared into the thick fog clouding the left wing of the stage, where I saw bodies moving against the orange glow.
I felt the low rumble beneath my feet as the audience roared and clapped. Waves of excitement rolled one after another until the lights dimmed, prompting the fans to concentrate on what was coming. The air was heavy and thick. Anticipation filled every corner and crevice of the arena.
Minutes passed. The band repeated the group hug ritual from last night. Everyone took their spots. Guests and crew members held their breaths, as did all twenty thousand people opposite the stage.
Tonight would almost feel normal if not for the blue uniforms of the paramedics lingering in the background, waiting and ready.
Carter went first. He marched over to the drum kit and climbed the riser. Johnny followed him with his bass. The arena lit up. A wall of shaking hands quivered behind the shimmering veil of colored smoke.
Heat filled my chest.
I watched Frank as he listened to the roar of the crowd with his eyes shut. He was soaking in their voices. Taking them all in until it was enough. Then his hand jerked, fingers tapping against his thigh. I could tell his mind was slipping into another dimension where only music existed. Jaw tight, he readjusted his in-ear monitor.
Dante took off with his guitar strap wrapped around his neck. The spotlight followed him as he stalked across the stage with his typical swagger, ripping through a couple of simple chords and tossing smiles at the front row. The black body of his Stratocaster sparkled under a bright stream of orange.
Johnny walked over to the edge and raised his hand in the air to get the crowd going. The level of noise was no longer bearable, even where I was standing. I had to cover my ears for a brief second. I felt the tremble again and a shiver of excitement zapped down my spine.
Then the intro tune began to subside. Stage left lights flickered and dipped. Stage right followed suit.
Frank drew a deep breath and headed straight for the microphone. His silhouette moved purposefully against the phone-studded net encircling the inside of the dark arena. Fog swirled around his boots while he drank in the endless stretch of what promised to be the real mayhem.
The heat in my chest spread to my stomach. Frank neared the edge of the stage, dragging the microphone stand with him. His gaze danced across the floor as the security line tightened beneath where he stood. The frame of his carved-to-perfection body lingered against the infinite sea of hands that were thrust in the air.
I reminded myself to breathe. This was a stunning view. A view of power. I’d seen this exact image last night, but with Frank, every day was the beginning of a new adventure. Be it a midnight ride in a Ferrari or a rock show at the Forum. Palms pressed together, I watched him talking to the audience. Dante pitched in a few words. There were no excuses or mentions of yesterday’s set. The speech was a short thank you and the fans loved it. They ate up everything Frank said. They clapped. They professed their love and bathed in the love he professed to them. The energy was off the charts. It felt as if the entire city was gathered here tonight. Not just physically but spiritually. Those who still had reception and could handle the rage of the crowd without going nuts livestreamed.
Borders and social status were erased. Music united people. Music brought peace.
And Frank’s job was to make sure every single person would take a handful of beautiful memories home with them.
The band kicked off the set with the Hollow Heart Dream material. The first two songs were fast and anthemic, festival-worthy crowd-pleasers. I knew the lyrics by heart. My lips moved along with Frank’s. His energy level skyrocketed with each second. Face and shoulders lax, he rocked on his heels to the beat. After the four song mark, he gave the microphone to Dante and went for a quick check-up backstage, where a bottle of water and a towel were handed to him. The crew was on standby and people moved in.
Frank’s physician had insisted on monitoring his vitals during the set to avoid complications after the show, so as soon as Frank chugged the water, he whipped out an oxygen mask and then measured his blood pressure.
I stayed in my spot and watched, my heart thundering. Frank looked sweaty and ruffled, exactly what a rock singer
