Our Song

by Runow, Lauren

  Nothing can feed my soul or fill my veins like the strum of an electric guitar or the thump of the bass drum.

  Once we’re all backstage, we pause, in a circle. No words are ever said, but it’s become a ritual we all need. Each one of us breathes deeply, readying ourselves for the next few hours where we push our bodies to our limit.

  Our shows have been reviewed using words like anarchy, pandemonium, and—my favorite—lawlessness. Our antics are a little over the top and really have an anything goes mentality. One thing is for sure though—we put on one hell of a party.

  I’d like to say no one gets hurt, but mosh pits are known for injuries. I’ve stopped the show a few times, making sure the crowd is okay and everyone is taking care of one another. You can slam into your fellow concertgoers all you want, but if they fall down, the number one rule is you have to pick them back up.

  The walls start to shake as the noise gets louder. I see the eyes of the venue staff widen, but I brush it off. This isn’t our first go-around.

  At the start of every show, we cut all the lights. We always know the second it happens due to the screams that follow.

  We wait, and nothing happens. I turn to the head of our security who isn’t there. Questions swarm my mind before people come running backstage.

  “We have to get you out of here. A riot has broken out. It’s not safe out there.”

  Arms wrap around me, trying to move me back to my dressing room, but I stand firm. “Fuck that. They’re rioting because we aren’t out there yet. Let me by.”

  “Adam”—Nick, the head of security, comes around the corner—“not today, bro. Shit’s out of control. We’re calling the police in.”

  I eye each one of my bandmates, making sure they’re on board before I step up to the man I hired to protect me against all odds. He’s as tall as I am, but he must have one hundred pounds on me. I’m lean and mean, whereas he’s just straight mean. I know he has my best interest in heart, but when it comes to my shows, no one fucks with me and my fans.

  “No police. We got this. Let us by.” I puff my chest, making sure he knows I’m the one who writes his paychecks.

  “Fuck, Adam, you go out there, and I might not be able to protect your ass.”

  “If we don’t go out there, we might not be able to protect the fans who just came for a show. If it doesn’t work, then you can call for backup. Now. Let. Me. By.”

  Nick moves to the side, and we all run out onstage. The stadium lights are on, and it’s pure chaos. People are climbing the rafters, trying to get away from the mob of people throwing punches at each other.

  The noise is deafening, and there’s no rhyme or reason to the screams coming from all around us.

  We normally close the show with our song Riot, but the irony is too much to not take full advantage. The song starts with one of the best guitar riffs that Max, our lead guitarist, has ever come up with.

  I turn to the guys. “Grab your guitars and follow me.”

  We head up to the drum stage that sits high above the floor. Noah likes to be ten feet up in the air like the badass he is. It’s pretty tight, having flames shoot off below him during his drum solo, but I’ve never been happier for its height than I am right now.

  Once we’re all in place, I nod to Max. “Start Riot off but continue to play the riff until we join in.”

  He sets the guitar low on his hip and begins to play, picking each individual chord over and over again. I keep my eye on the crowd, encouraging him to continue to play while I motion to our sound guy to turn it up some more.

  Slowly, the crowd turns their attention toward us instead of at each other. Once I feel things are getting under control, I nod to my guy, telling him to cut the lights.

  Once he does, flames shoot up around the stage as a devilish laugh radiates around the venue, and we all join in on the song, starting off one hell of a show that won’t be forgotten anytime soon.

  3

  Sarah

  “I’m sure you saw the news this morning,” Dad says when I enter his office at our church to say good morning and put my stuff down.

  “No. Did something happen?” Worry creeps up my spine.

  My dad might only be a pastor, but in this town, he might as well be the President of the United States.

  The community looks up to him for both guidance and healing. Yes, we have a mayor and a city council, but everyone knows it’s really what he thinks that guides the city. The only reason we have the other positions is because of the separation of church and state. It’s no coincidence that he meets weekly with them all.

  His jaw clenches, and I have a feeling this is about me rather than something involved with the city. His eyes roam over my outfit, which I’m sure he doesn’t approve of since it’s not a long skirt like most women wear here, and then to my shoulder, making me almost reach up to make sure my tattoo is covered.

  He’s ridiculed me for it, saying I have to get it removed but I refuse. It’s the only thing I have that’s left of the old me, and I’ll never get rid of it even if I have to spend my life covering it up.

  “That awful music you listen to had a riot break out at a concert last night. Some band called Devil’s Breed,” he spits out once his eyes reach mine again.

  My chest tightens for completely different reasons than before as my thoughts instantly go to Cailin. “Is everyone okay?”

  “No, they aren’t. A few people even had to be taken to the hospital. When will these people realize what they’re doing is wrong? Their name states it clear as day—Devil’s Breed.” He shakes his head in disgust.

  “But the band … are they okay?” I ask, placing my hand over my chest.

  “Honestly, Sarah, why would you care about them? It’s people like that who are ruining this world and almost …” He thankfully doesn’t finish that thought. Instead, he tsks when he tosses me the paper as he heads out of his office.

  The concert was Friday night in Texas. Pictures of torn speakers and broken railings with the headline “Rock Show Riot” shines across the front page.

  It was obviously taken during the show. Adam is screaming into the microphone as people swarm the foot of the stage. Lights flash all around as fire falls from the drum set perched high. His hair is sweaty, and his shirt is ripped from a woman reaching up, trying to get a piece of him, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  The passion he feels for the music is as evident as ever.

  I’ve seen so many pictures of him, but looking at this picture now, I try to find any part of Cailin I can. He’s aggressive and raw, as she’s frills and bows, yet from what Linda said, they have a close relationship.

  It’s hard to imagine.

  I scan the article. Glad to see the only injuries were minor, and the band was never in harm’s way. As I read, I learn the band actually helped to halt the riot instead of caused it, like my dad implied. They even visited the injured in the hospital before heading back on the road.

  Of course, I don’t go after my dad to try to point that out to him. He will never see the other side, so there’s no point in trying.

  I breathe a sigh of relief that Adam is okay and put my things down before taking my post at the front doors, so I can greet the people who enter my dad’s church.

  I stop to say hello to my four-year-old niece, Emma, who’s playing in the pews before people arrive. “How’s my baby girl?” I hold out my arms wide as I crouch down.

  “Auntie!” She comes running.

  She always fills my world with that special happiness I thought I’d lost.

  “Where’s your mommy?” I ask, smoothing the hair from her forehead.

  “Over there.” She points to Emily, who’s slowly approaching us due to being six months pregnant.

  I’m hoping my nephew fills the rest of the holes in my heart—at least until I can figure things out in my head.

  “You okay there, sis?” I stand up, holding Emma in my arms.

  “No, this boy is going to be the deat
h of me. How I let Chris talk me in to having another child is still beyond me. I can already tell he’s going to be crazy like the Samson boy who’s constantly jumping during the service.”

  I give her a side hug before rubbing my hand over her belly. “You’ll be fine. Only a few more mon—”

  “Don’t say it.” She points her finger at me like hearing how much longer will be the death of her. “Come on, Emma. Mama needs to sit down.”

  I try not to laugh as she takes Emma before heading toward her husband Chris. He’s the perfect son-in-law in my dad’s eyes. He’s faithful to both Emily and God, has a great job and is as clean cut as they come. His everyday wear is khakis with a polo shirt, and he doesn’t listen to anything but jazz music. He’s perfect for Emily but is someone nowhere near who I would want to spend the rest of my life with.

  I walk toward the door, ready to greet our parishioners.

  “Hello, Sarah dear. Are we going to get a solo again this morning?” Mrs. Osborn asks as she grips my hand in hers.

  “Yes, Mrs. Osborn. I plan on singing I Can Only Imagine,” I respond, smiling sweetly.

  She lets out a gleeful cheer as she turns to inform her husband, who is hard of hearing.

  I’ve been singing in this church since I was six years old. What started out as singing in the children’s choir quickly turned into solos every Sunday by the time I was sixteen years old.

  Even though being here isn’t what I truly want, seeing my father’s proud grin as I sing words of the Lord fills that emptiness inside me—at least for the hours I’m here. He says his church has grown three times the size because of my songs, but I know he’s just praising his “little girl,” as he still calls me. No matter how much not having his approval for the life I want hurts, seeing he’s proud of me here helps that tiny bit.

  To him, I’ll always be his baby. He’ll never see me as the person I want to be.

  I take my place off to the side once everyone is seated as music plays, and we wait for my dad to begin. When the door opens, I’m surprised to see Cailin and Linda enter.

  I have a lot of students who attend this church, but this is the first time I’ve seen either of them here. I stand up and quietly make my way to them, welcoming them into our church.

  Linda wears a sorry expression, apologizing for disrupting things with her eyes, and I make sure to motion that it’s okay, as they are always welcome. The music will play for a few minutes to make sure the people who are running late can enter.

  I crouch down to greet Cailin first. “Don’t you look cute in your Sunday best?” I say, pointing down at her pink dress.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. “My daddy told Linda to buy me the best dress she could find. It’s for the father-daughter dance next week.” She twirls around, showing it off.

  “Is your daddy going to be able to make it to the dance?” I look up to Linda for confirmation.

  Her face says it all as she slightly shakes her head.

  Cailin’s face falls. “No, but Linda’s husband, Wayne, is taking me. I figured since I wasn’t going with my daddy, it was okay to wear the dress today too.”

  “It sure is. I’m glad you came. Let’s find you guys a seat.” I take her by the hand and lead them to an open seat right before my father begins.

  When it’s time to start the songs, I head toward the front with a microphone in my hand and start the words to I Can Only Imagine. Our church is known for our music, and when the guitar and drums join in with a soft beat, people’s faces light up but not as much as Cailin’s.

  Her expression resembles the excitement of a little girl meeting her favorite Disney character, not one who’s listening to a gospel song.

  After church, I notice them both waiting to talk to me. “Did you enjoy yourself?” I ask as I approach.

  “You sing like an angel,” Cailin says, her tiny voice rising in joy as her face brightens.

  I grin, looking at her and then Linda before saying, “Thank you, sweetie. Is this your first time coming to this church?”

  Linda seems to blush in embarrassment. “I’m sorry; it is.”

  I touch her elbow in reassurance. I know most people feel like if you live here, you have to attend this church, but I know not everyone feels that way. I’m one who thinks people have the right to not attend if they choose so.

  “There’s no reason to be sorry. I’m glad you made it.”

  “I was telling a friend how Cailin has you as a teacher. When they told us about your singing, Cailin begged to come.”

  I lean down to be level with Cailin. “That’s very sweet. Maybe you can sing with me someday. Just like I tell you in class, there’s a time and a place. Here’s a perfect place.”

  Cailin jumps up and down in excitement, pulling on Linda’s arm. “Can I, Linda? Can I?”

  She laughs at her joy. “Of course, sweetheart. I’m sure your father would love to hear you sing one day.”

  My heart skips a beat at the thought of Adam Jacobson entering our church. My father is very old school and expects his congregation to keep up that mentality of wearing their Sunday best when you come to praise the Lord.

  Add in everything that’s happened in the past, and I can hear it now, the sound of a record screeching to a halt as Adam walks into my dad’s place of worship. His head would turn in shock and—I hate to say it—disgust of the man covered in tattoos.

  We’ll have to do this before his tour ends, so we can avoid the awkwardness.

  “I’ll tell you what. We’ll set up a time very soon for you to stay with me and practice.”

  Cailin dramatically nods her head as she bounces on the heels of her feet. “Thank you so much, Miss Russo.”

  Linda wraps her hand around Cailin. “Come on, sweetie. We have to get home. Thank you, Miss Russo.”

  “My pleasure. I’ll see you on Monday, Cailin.”

  “Bye,” her tiny voice calls out as she waves while walking away.

  * * *

  My mind has been wandering ever since I found out Adam Jacobson has a daughter.

  Every female has her eye on a certain bad boy, that one guy she wouldn’t dream of actually doing anything with but loves to admire from afar. Adam always caught my attention when I passed a magazine rack or his picture flashed across my Instagram—because, yes, I follow him and have for years.

  No matter the tattoos that run up his neck or the way his hair always looks messy yet perfect, every picture of him spikes my heart rate.

  I used to sneak rock music when I was younger, keeping it down really low in my room, listening to the hard guitar riffs with hearts in my eyes. At the time, my fourteen-year-old self wanted to defy my parents strict, clean living lifestyle and run off with the first bad boy I met.

  I might be a kindergarten teacher, but inside is someone dying to be heard, to make a difference, the way Adam has through music. Knowing that he has secrets that might change his bad-boy image intrigues me even more.

  I pull up my playlist on my phone and click through until I get to Devil’s Breed. Scrolling through the songs, I search for one that might stand out, giving me clues to who Adam really is.

  I decide on their first album and run through the songs—not listening to every one entirely, but trying to get more of a feeling to his words.

  Their first album is raw and gritty with a lot of pent-up anger. As the albums switch, I can feel a healing that he was achieving through his art. The anger is gone, and questioning now stands in its place.

  This was the album that got me through my hard times. My parents think I turned solely to the Bible and God to help heal me, but really, it was just as much music as it was my faith. Music might have been the cause of my pain, but it was still my doctor, my therapy, and my lifeline.

  The cover of the next album pops up on my screen, and I pause, taking in the pink heart that graces the cover. It’s a collage of music notes, guitars, and even flames all around. But it’s unmistakable that the core of the design is a pink heart.<
br />
  It was released five years ago—the year Cailin was born.

  Each song has a different tone. There are songs of forgiveness, inner peace, and even love.

  He wasn’t keeping her a secret from his world; she was there, in plain sight, just no one thought to pay attention.

  I’m paying attention now, Adam, and I like what I’m hearing.

  4

  Adam

  As much as concerts are my entire world, the after-parties are the entire demise of the high I had merely an hour before.

  My manager knows not to plan one after every show, but some are a required part of the gig. Radio stations want to give away tickets, and fans pay big money to party with us.

  It’s at these events that I feel like I can’t be myself. Here, I’m the rock star, putting on a show for everyone, trying to act like the rest of my band.

  Onstage is the real me—music being the only thing that makes me feel absolutely alive. Back here, partying, is not and never really has been me.

  The best parties are the ones where the fans talk about our songs and how they’ve helped them through certain parts of their lives. I’ve been there, turning to music for healing, and hearing that I’ve helped them affirms my purpose in life while making these parties tolerable.

  I lean against the doorframe as I glance around the room, noticing most of the radio personnel and record label suits have left. Remaining are more of the groupie fans who are dying to party like rock stars—whatever that means. These parties aren’t much different than ones I attended ten years ago—before I had a pot to piss in.

  Noah is making out with some chick on the couch, and the two women sitting next to them keep trying not to notice. I feel like I should warn them that, any minute, she’ll either be sucking his dick or they’ll be fucking, but I decide against it, hoping when they figure it out, their faces will at least provide some entertainment tonight.