Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(90)

“Yes, yes, yes.” Reagan sings again. We stumble out of the car, sprinting down the block to the Coliseum. A few other stragglers are racing us to the front doors, singing “Million Dollar Man”.

“Javier,” I huff as I run in my new Louboutin heels in a way that may cost my neck at least two vertebras. “Reg…wait! Have to text…Aiden.”

“We’ll text him inside, Isa,” Javier says. “C’mon, let’s just find our spots.”

“This is what makes us girls!” Reagan keeps screaming.

Barking mad! We finally make it through the doors, terrifying the bouncer with Reagan’s Lana impression, and spill into the Coliseum arena. The moment I see it, my knees almost buckle. Strobe lights and reflectors spin across the endless dark stadium, fracturing over the hordes of bodies. Shoulder to shoulder, back to belly, chanting “Lana! Lana!”

“We’re in the front, first level,” Javier yells behind us. We bump, shove and elbow our way until we reach our spots.

I throw my camera over my neck, sling my purse across my body and pull out my phone to text Aiden. I thumb it three times because the sea of bodies is already rising into a slow wave of motion.

Don’t burn anything down.

We’re at a Lana Del Rey concert.

Coliseum. 1st level. 4th row. Center.

Safe. Miss u. C u soon.

I read it twice. I cannot imagine the terror it will give Aiden just to hear where we are. His worst nightmare coming true—me in a huge crowd where he can’t get to me if something happened. I only hope Benson can calm him down. I press Send, watching the message bubble float on the screen. Delivered, the iPhone informs me. Almost instantly, three dots appear on the screen. Then they disappear and appear again—four more times. Finally, Aiden manages a response.

I’m sending Benson to be with you.

He’ll be there in 15 minutes.

No arguments if you value my sanity.

Oh, bloody hell! Poor Benson. I text back.

Don’t bother Benson.

Besides it’s sold out.

I’ll be OK. Security everywhere.

The three dots blink on the screen once. Twice. Then they’re gone.

I wait. And wait. The only frozen body in ten thousand who suddenly break into a scream. I look up startled, and see her!

Lana looks smaller in person—in simple jeans with a retro Hollywood charm. She waves modestly and glides to the center. The Coliseum goes pitch black. An eerie silence falls over the crowd, static with anticipation. Then her sultry voice rises in the air, crooning “This Is What Makes Us Girls”. Thousands of phone screens, glowsticks and lighters ignite around me.

The very floor is reverberating with movement. Then, abruptly, the vibrations become a stampede as Lana starts “Million Dollar Man”. Reagan screams, along with all ten thousand others—except maybe Javier who, as always in public, tries to keep a low profile. The words are so vivid, so reminiscent of my own million-dollar man that suddenly, I want to dance my feet off. I clutch Reagan’s and Javier’s hands and we start swaying together, their brilliant smiles gleaming from the flashes. For a brief moment, I wish I could snap a picture of us like this—carefree, laughing, young. Chanting as Lana finishes the song and starts trilling “Summertime Sadness”.

The stadium erupts. No more swaying, only dancing. A violent, unleashed rhythm too fast for the song, as though it keeps time with feelings, not music. Sparklers flare and blaze around us—their gold and silver flames held up by thousands of hands. We break apart, and I start spinning and shimmying, clutching Mum’s dress, feeling like she is dancing with us too. Reagan whirls next to me. We jump and hop—faster, faster—stomping on the floor in a strange, euphoric freedom. Smoke swirls around us, glistening from the flashes. It’s getting hot. Hotter. Burning. A piercing scream. Then another. Suddenly, I’m shoved headfirst into the throng. Something is ripped over my head. A battery of rapid, hard slaps explodes on my legs and thighs. I writhe and jerk away but two strong arms swoop under me and I’m lifted in the smoky air.

“Miss Snow! Elisa!” A voice yells in my ear. I know that voice. It’s Benson. He’s here and holding me tightly to his chest. “You’re okay, you’re fine!” he yells again as he starts darting in the crowd, shoving and pushing bodies out of our path.

“Benson, what happened?” I shout, as flashes of light break over his face. “Where’s Reagan? Javier?” I wriggle in his arms, searching for red and black curls in the darkness. Benson’s hold tightens and in seconds, we plunge through the front doors into cold, fresh air. Before I can blink, the doors open again and Reagan sprints through them.

“Isa!” she cries, her hair flying in the wind.

“Reagan!” I reach with both my hands toward her, almost falling over Benson’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Where’s Javier? What happened?”

Benson stops at the corner of the main gate, leaning me against the Coliseum’s concrete wall and throwing his jacket over my shoulders. Somehow he has my camera in hand. Reagan reaches us in seconds, gasping. I hug her tightly, patting her face and arms to make sure she has all ten fingers and all ten toes.

“Isa! Holy f*ck, are you okay?” she screams, doing the same with me.

“I’m fine! Never mind me, what—” But then I see it. I see it in her eyes first, then in Benson’s, who is towering over us. I follow their horror-struck gaze to my bare legs covered in pink welts. Where Mum’s dress used to be. It’s now in tatters, barely covering the tops of my thighs, the strips of silk blackened and curled by fire. They disintegrate before my eyes, blowing in the wind.