Halo (Fallen Angel, #1)(17)
I stood alone in the darkness of the wings, awaiting my cue, and seconds later, Slade kicked off the opening notes of “Dark Light.”
Boom. Boom boom.
Boom. Boom boom. ROCK.
Boom. Boom boom.
Boom. Boom boom. ROCK.
The thundering beat shook the arena floor, vibrating through my body and shooting adrenaline into my veins as ten thousand TBD fans began to roar.
I hadn’t even hit the stage yet, but already I could feel the intense energy radiating off the crowd, and it was something completely unexpected and like nothing I’d ever experienced before. If I hadn’t been confident in rehearsals, then I could’ve easily panicked, but I had this. Even though it wasn’t my original music, I came alive on stage. I always did when I performed, and I would rock the shit out of our set.
All at once, the pounding of the drums ceased—my cue—and even though the arena remained blacked out as I walked out of the wings and hit my mark center stage, the piercing screams filled my ears.
Let’s do this.
With my head down, I took a deep breath and grabbed the microphone, and then I began to sing.
This song—a huge hit for TBD—began with vocals alone. Me, the microphone, and the dark, and as my voice echoed around the arena, all I could see were lights from cameras and flashes in the dark, as the crowd vibrated with anticipation. The energy was palpable, as the words left my lips, and when I hit the final note before the band joined in, I swore the thundering in my ears couldn’t get any louder—then the lights flashed up.
The drums kicked out the previous rhythm, this time harder and faster, and then Viper and Killian joined in, along with Jagger on the keyboards, and the crowd lost their minds.
Unable to hide my grin at the overwhelming reaction, I ripped the mic off the stand and strode across the stage, my eyes taking in the filled-to-capacity arena. It was huge and terrifying and fucking amazing, and I couldn’t believe I was here, playing to this crowd of people, all of whom were screaming and jumping up and down to the beat Slade was pounding out.
It was hard to pinpoint when it happened exactly, but as we launched into the second song, and then the third, I sensed a change in the air. It was slow at first, my eyes catching on a few frowns here and there, people whispering to their friends. I’d been to arena shows before as a fan, and I’d never felt as though the people on stage could actually see me, but let me tell you—I could fucking see. I could see everything, and the disappointment welling in the crowd had me almost dropping to my knees.
My heart rate kicked up a notch, this time from the anxiety overriding the initial adrenaline, and as I made my way back center stage, I caught Viper’s eyes. He looked as baffled as I was at the change in reaction, but he mouthed, “Keep going,” so that was what I did. I kept singing, doing my best to win over the crowd, even though in their eyes I seemed to be failing miserably. But how? Why?
It was at the end of the third song when I got my answer. The shouts of “We want Trent!” and “Where’s Trent?” and “Who the hell are you?” slammed into me, and they didn’t let up. I saw people leave. I heard the boos—fucking boos. I’d had my share of rejection in my twenty-three years, but ten thousand people aiming all that hate your way? I wouldn’t wish that on an enemy.
But the guys kept playing, and I kept singing, even though I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I’d known taking over lead vocals for the band wouldn’t be easy, but I’d never, and I mean never, imagined such a volatile reaction.
Ninety minutes passed like it’d been ninety days, and as I practically crawled off the stage, beaten down and exhausted, I wondered how everything had gone to shit so fast.
Twelve
Viper
WHAT THE FUCK was that?
A goddamn nightmare, that was what. One where you drifted off to sleep and dreamt you were on stage, only to hear thousands of people booing your name. And who could we thank for this little nightmare turned reality shitshow? You got it—Trent fucking Knox.
As Slade somehow managed to get us through to the end of the set, and the lights finally—thank fuck—went down, I tore the strap of my Telecaster over my head and marched off stage, my anger roiling through me like a freight train.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Tonight had been a damn disaster, and not because of anything any of us had done. No, it was a disaster because our original lead singer had bailed and left us up shit fucking creek without a paddle.
Christ, it was infuriating. Not only had Trent’s abandonment caused us months of monotonous auditions, but now that we had found someone to replace his punk ass, we were getting booed off the motherfucking stage.
Are you kidding me? We’d never been booed out of anywhere, not even when we started.
Fuck. Trent. Knox.
“Viper!” Killian called out behind me, but I wasn’t slowing down for anyone. I stormed off the stage, not giving two shits if anyone was following, and made my way back toward the dressing room.
The shouts and jeering calls of disappointed fans still echoed in my head—or who the hell knows, maybe the ones who’d hung around until the end were taking delight in twisting the knife in a little harder, staying behind to make sure we heard just how much they thought we sucked. Either way, as I shoved open the door to the dressing room and it crashed into the wall, I made a beeline for the bottles of liquor and uncapped the top of one, determined to drown them out by getting shit-faced drunk.