Page 4 of Layla

Layla

It’s loud back stage. Loud enough that I can barely hear James and Lance arguing over the screaming of our fans. Not that I really need to hear them—it’s always the same bullshit with them.

“Enough,” Haylee, our lead singer, says, holding up her hands. “Let’s just stick to the original set list for the encore.”

James looks grumpy, but then, he usually does. He doesn’t say anything though—Haylee is just about the only person he doesn’t argue with. She continues, wiping the sweat from her face with a towel. “Go with “Safe Shelter” first and then we close with “Longtime.””

“Got it,” Dylan says, twisting the cap off his water bottle. He takes a long gulp, swallowing more than half of it. “Can I just say, the crowd is fuckingnutstonight.”

Haylee grins at him, wiping her face one more time. “It just keeps getting better and better.”

It really does—and the shock of that isn’t even close to wearing off. After years of struggling, we finally started to break out last fall when we opened up for Ransom, one of the most popular bands in the world. This tour was supposed to keep up our momentum before the next album came out, but I think it’s safe to say it’s doing more than that. The crowds are getting bigger and louder every single night. The label is actually talking about moving us into bigger venues starting in the next few weeks. It’s crazy.

And we totally deserve it, if I do say so myself. We’re kickingasson this tour.

“All right,” Haylee says, looking over her shoulder at the darkened stage. “I think we’ve made them wait long enough. Everyone ready?”

Dylan and Lance cheer and I nod, shaking out my arms. My shoulder has been feeling stiff lately, probably from sleeping on the damn tour bus every other night, and sitting behind my drum kit for hours isn’t helping. I really need to see about scheduling a massage.

Those thoughts go right out of my head when Louis appears at our side. There’s a chorus of groans from my bandmates at the sight of our manager, as per usual, but I doubt his appearance is inspiring quite the level of dread in any of them that it’s causing for me.

Sure enough, his gaze goes straight to mine and I see the same things I’ve been seeing in his eyes for weeks now. Stress. Fear. That expression makes goosebumps erupt on my skin.

I’m distracted enough that I don’t notice Haylee sidling up to me until she nudges me with her elbow. “Who’s the fresh meat?”

I’m confused for a moment until I drag my gaze away from Louis, who’s trying to say something over the increasingly loud roar of the crowd—they’re chanting our name now, eager for the encore they know is coming. For the first time I realize there’s a man standing next to our manager. And holy hell,fresh meatis right. The guy is huge, about a head taller than Louis, taller even than James. And he’sbuilt. He’s dressed in a crisp looking suit, which couldn’t be more out of place in this venue. But somehow, the put together look is doing things to me. Even better, when I finally manage to raise my eyes from the incredible body to his face, I see that he’s staring right at me.

Dark eyes meet mine—brown, I’m thinking, even though there’s too little light in the wings of the stage to tell for sure. And damn if those eyes aren’t intense. He’s staring at me like he’s trying to read every thought in my head and for the briefest moment I wonder if maybe he can.

Then Louis shifts at his side, breaking my gaze, and it suddenly hits me. This guy isn’t some miraculous gift of hot man that Louis brought to cheer me up. Our manager told me earlier today that he was interviewing for the new security position. I let my eyes scan the man one more time, no longer with lustful interest. His eyes look sharp now, instead of intense. His hair is cut neat and short. With a closer look, I’m willing to bet he’s former military. This dude definitely looks like someone in security.

Fanfuckingtastic.

“Layla,” Dylan shouts, and I tear my eyes away from the guy to see our guitarist looking at me with a quizzical expression. The others are already walking back onto the stage. “You coming?”

I shoot one more glance at Louis, ignoring the tall guy, and then follow Dylan. I’m feeling shaky as I take my seat behind the drums. I clutch my sticks a little tighter, trying to get it together.This whole thing is stupid,I tell myself. An overreaction. Isn’t that what I’ve been telling Louis and the label for weeks?

“Hey!” James calls from his place in front of me. I jump a little on my stool. The lights aren’t up on stage yet and it’s way too dark to see his expression. “You ready?”

Shit. This song starts with my drum beat and I’m just sitting here having a private little freak-out—on stage in front of thousands.

Get your shit together, Layla.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and start to pound on the kick drum.

A lot of musicians talk about how therapeutic performance can be. How easy they find it to get lost in the music, to turn off their brains when they’re playing. It’s never been like that for me. My brain seems to be every bit as stubborn as the rest of me, hanging onto whatever is stressing me out like a dog with a bone. I don’t turn to music to quiet my thoughts. I turn to my drum kit to pound out every ounce of frustration and anger in my body. There’s nothing like the aching muscles and exhausted soreness that I get from a good session behind the drums. And I definitely need it tonight.

Before Haylee can move us into a second song, I shout a suggestion. “Wanna add one more? “Firefight?””

I don’t wait for any of them to answer, moving directly into the opening beat of the song. If my bandmates are confused by my spontaneous addition, they don’t show it. They jump right into the song, the way they always do. We could play it in our sleep at this point. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I do. More than one overnight guest has told me my fingers tap rhythms in my sleep.

After “Firefight” Haylee thanks the crowd and tells them that this will be the last song. I try not to acknowledge the dread in my stomach. I really do not want this show to end tonight.

But it does end, of course. I join my bandmates down at the edge of the stage to take our group bow, the way we do every night. This is usually my favorite part of the show, the moment when we’re all together, taking it in while the crowd screams their approval. But tonight, I’m distracted, thinking about the meeting that I know Louis is going to insist on.

“You’re weird tonight,” Lance tells me as we start to head off stage. His arm is still slung over my shoulder and I duck out from under it.

“Maybe I’m just tired of you getting your sweat all over me.”