This One Moment (Pushing Limits, #1)(5)

We needed to go out with a bang.

The announcer introduced the band, and the audience cheered, filling the arena with their growing excitement. As Mason stepped onto the stage, I turned off my cellphone and shoved it back in my pocket.

Kirk and Aaron were the next ones out, and both were met with the same level of enthusiasm that greeted Mason. Jared turned back to me, and we fist-bumped.

“Let’s go f*ck this place.” I grinned at him, the storm of emotions twisting inside me, giving me a stomachache.

Jared’s grin met my fake one. “Here’s to f*cking the place.” He turned around and walked out to thunderous applause.

I took a deep breath, pressed my hand for a brief moment against the pocket with Hailey’s picture, and eased the air out of my lungs as the band started to play. Okay, Nolan. You can do this.

I strutted onstage, the heat of the stage lights trying to warm my cold insides as I sang the opening lyrics to our debut song. The fans went wild. Especially the girls. Arms stretched toward me, the girls screamed and sang along with the upbeat melody and words. It was a song about chasing after a passion and making it yours. It was a song about success and what it took to get there. It was a song everyone could relate to, which was why it had done well on the charts.

I worked the stage, moving my body in time to the music, smiling at the girls. Making love to each one with my eyes. That only made them scream louder.

The song ended. “Hello, L.A. Are you ready to party?” I yelled into the microphone, then held it out for the audience to answer. The concert was sold out, and even though not everyone was here yet since we were just the opening act, the arena was already three-quarters full.

Answering my question, the place went wild with cheers, whistles, and hoots. “I can’t hear you,” I said, laughing. I cupped my hand against my ear, and I swear the answering noise could’ve cracked the roof.

Mason took this as the cue for the next song and seamlessly segued into the new beat on his drums. Another round of cheers charged the air as people recognized the song, and I continued feeding off the energy bouncing around the arena.

I strutted across the stage, song after song. The passion around me—from the band, the roadies behind the show, the fans—consumed me, helped me stay in the moment, helped me push aside the world outside the arena walls.

And then came the opening strains of the song I’d been dreading. Hailey’s song. I’d written it for her before I left Northbridge, not that she knew my love for her had inspired the lyrics. “This One Moment” was our biggest hit. Everyone expected us to play it. It was the ballad that had critics comparing us to the bands I respected and admired.

The stage lights dimmed. A spotlight poured down on me, but it wasn’t enough to push away the darkness growing inside me. I placed the mic in the stand and poured every emotion inside me into the song, as I did every time I sang it. The pain in my words was clear from the emotion in my voice. Girls mouthed the words, as if they too could relate to them. I closed my eyes, blocking out their faces. Only one face filled my thoughts every time I sang the lyrics.

And she was now in a coma.

That thought just about brought me to my knees. But somehow I kept myself together as I finished the song—the final one of the set, thank God.

The last notes of the music rang out over the audience, and the crowd burst into the loudest cheering of the night. I’d be surprised if the applause for Crazy Piper could top this.

We waved our appreciation to the audience and left the stage so the crew could set up for the main act. As I climbed down the last step, the roadie handed me my guitar, already in its case.

I high-fived my bandmates, our usual post-performance tradition. “Don’t go too far,” I told them. “Remar told me some reporter from Rock News wants to interview us.”

The guys groaned. Post-concert interviews were the worst. Everyone wanted to get out of there and relax, not answer a bunch of ridiculous questions.

“Can’t Mason at least shower first?” Kirk said, smirking at the drummer. “He reeks like something from my old hockey bag.”

Mason leaned closer to the dark-haired bassist and lifted his arm so his armpit was near Kirk’s face. “And I bet it’s turning you on something fierce.”

Kirk shoved him. “Yo, dude, save it for the women.”

“No clue,” I said, answering Kirk’s question and ignoring their antics, even though normally I would’ve joined in. “Gotta do something first. Catch up with you in a few.” I started to make a beeline for a side corridor, where I wouldn’t be overheard, to book my plane ticket.

I didn’t get that far.

A girl stepped away from the wall she’d been leaning against near the stage. She wasn’t the usual variety of female who hung around concerts, hoping to see her much-beloved stars and possibly get lucky. Her straight blond hair hung to her shoulders and she had nice tits, but nothing compared to most of Mason’s girls. Even her outfit was different from what most girls who hung around backstage wore. She had on jeans and a thin cardigan, and looked like she’d be more comfortable in a library than at a rock concert. Only the media badge hanging around her neck betrayed her reason for being here.

Shit.

She held out her hand to me. “Hi. I’m Jodi Merrill with Rock News.”

I shook her hand, though I’m sure she regretted that considering I’d just played a forty-minute set under hot stage lights and I was positive I’d sweated at least two gallons of fluid. But if my sweaty hand disgusted her, she didn’t show it. “Tyler Erickson.”