Over the speakers, Patrick announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome the legends and one of my all-time favorite bands … Steel Total Destruction!”
It’s taking forever, but how do you tell people writing checks and snapping selfies with rock stars, who are also writing checks, to speed it up?
You don’t.
I send Patrick a text.
8:45 p.m. - First, you’re amazing. Possibly my hero. Second, could you play your guitar or something??? XOXO Me
Patrick plays guitar and, straight up, it’s sexy. It’s more than sexy. It’s foreplay.
And when STD—still a gross name—finally takes the stage, Memphis Black takes the mic from him. “Thanks for keeping it warm, Tricks.”
“Anytime,” he says then takes the stairs down to the audience.
“His parents might disagree, but this band helped raise that one, and we did a hell of a job, wouldn’t you say?” Memphis Black says into the microphone.
Everyone applauds, and Patrick just shakes his head as he walks back to join us.
“He’s a little sneaky at times, though. Like that time I thought I lost this very guitar, and he’d shoved it under the seat in the tour bus. I was going to make his old man cancel the show, because this guitar, whether played or not, goes everywhere with me. It’s a reminder of where I was when his dad took a chance on three idiot kids, and me, and gave us a start.”
The crowd erupts in laughter.
“When he pulled it out, he looked at me and said …” He nods to the band, and all together, they say, “Tricked ya.”
Patrick is standing beside me now, shaking his head.
“Or the time when Finn was lying to us about having quit smoking, and Tricks was throwing them all out the bus window. When Finn caught him, he almost pissed his pants, but he smiled and said …”
The band and some of the audience say, “Tricked ya.”
The drummer stands up. “Then the time I woke up on the bus with one eyebrow missing and he hid behind Billy and said …”
Everyone laughs as they say, “Tricked ya.”
Memphis laughs. “Nah, man, but he made a hundred bucks for covering my ass.”
“You better sleep with one eye open, Black,” the drummer sneers.
Memphis replies, “Get over it. It grew back.”
The drummer looks at the other guitarist. “He being serious?”
The guitarist lifts a shoulder.
The whole crowd erupts in laughter and applause.
“Tonight, we’re going to start out playing a song that hasn’t been released yet. It goes live tomorrow, and we hope it tops the charts. All profit from this song will be donated to charities those three kids and Tricks chose.”
“This is unbelievable.” I look up at him. “This is …” I stop. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Savvy, this was all you. I didn’t do anything but make a few calls.” He leans down and whispers in my ear, “And I did that when we weren’t talking. Can you imagine what I would have done after.”
I smile and shake my head.
“The songwriter asked to be left unnamed, and we collaboratively agreed, but …” He holds the mic out, and the band and a few people say, “Tricked ya.”
“Sorry, man, but as your Four Fathers, we want you to know how amazing a human you are and how fucking epic this tune is.”
“Way to keep it PG, Memphis,” someone calls out from the audience.
“This song, for all those who don’t know it yet but someday will, ‘You are Not Alone,’ was written by Patrick Steel.”
“I’m gonna kill him,” he sneers.
I listen intently to the hauntingly beautiful lyrics to a song I’ve no doubt was written about me while looking into his eyes the entire time.
When the end nears, he gives my hip a gentle squeeze and starts toward the stage.
“You better marry that boy someday,” Chloe whispers.
“I don’t believe in marriage,” I whisper back.
“Yeah, well, you didn’t believe in shaving your cha-cha until you went over there that morning either.” She smirks.
I elbow her. “Shut up.”
* * *
Together, all of those who signed up to be part of this fundraiser when it began, serve the dinners while our classmates take the stage.
Nineteen entries, no break, my feet are killing me by the time Patrick comes out on stage.
“We have a surprise last-minute entrant, and although it’s way past the deadline, an extra hundred bucks is an extra hundred bucks. Please welcome Tris to the stage.”
I look up and see his cousin, the youngest girl, walk out on stage, and he whispers in her ear. Then he nods and looks off stage, lifts his chin, and a kid comes out with an electric guitar.
When Patrick begins the intro, I don’t recognize the song, but then again, I don’t know a lot of pop.
When Tris sings her first note, the hair on my arms stands up. Her voice, her raspy but whimsical sound, is crazy different.
“I wanna start this out by saying, I wanna start this out and say, I gotta get it off my chest. Got no anger, got no malice. Just a little bit of regret.”
Watching her sing to the crowd, it’s obvious she has a stage presence, leaps and bounds above the rest that have been on stage tonight. Looking at Patrick’s expression, I can guess he had no idea.
When she sings, “I’m just glad I made it out without breakin’ down. And then I ran so fuckin’ far,” he cringes at her using the F-word. But she looks back at him and shrugs, and he nods.
She stomps across the stage to the kid who is playing electric guitar and plays air guitar along with him. Then she stomps across the stage at the chorus to Patrick.
The way he looks at her, encouraging her, I see deep concern, too. It’s all beautiful and heartbreaking.
When she stands center stage and sings, the “heys,” there is so much emotion in her voice, in her posture, in her face, that I swear I tear up. I’m not a hugger, but I want to hug
