I give up on my coffee and drain the rest of my water. “You’re lucky your uncle’s giving you the time off. I’m covering another concert on the Fourth of July, but at least it’s a good one.” I tick off the bands playing at Indie Day: The Ruins, Shaken Heart, and Quatrain.
Beryl’s smile encourages me. “Make it count. Do enough of the right thing enough of the time and it will change your course. I promise.”
I grab the check before it hits the table and Beryl nods a silent thank-you, but it looks like something else is bothering her.
Finally, she spits it out.
“When I found out that you left with Tyler last night, I was pissed. I was afraid you’d take advantage of him for another story.”
“He offered!” I sound defensive. Of all the things I expected her to confront me about during our lunch, I didn’t imagine Tyler would be one of them. “He showed me their practice space for another story.”
“Last night? That’s pretty late to be giving an interview.” Beryl’s brow furrows.
“I wasn’t sure if it was really about a story, or a booty call, or what.” Beryl gives me a sharp look. “But don’t worry. It wasn’t. A booty call, I mean. He obviously had no intention of that.”
“Then what did he want?”
I duck my head again, my face flaring from last night’s embarrassment. “He wanted to protect you guys. He thought if he gave me a story, I’d stay away from writing bad stuff about you and Gavin. But you’ve got to believe me. I’d lay down in the street before I’d hurt you again.”
“I believe you, Stella. But don’t mess with Tyler, OK?”
I think of the way I felt when I was near him and an involuntary tremor passes through my body. He does something to me on the most primal level that I can’t ignore.
“I know you’ll be careful about your next article. But I’m more worried about Tyler. He doesn’t have the”—she searches for a word—“experience you do. He started getting cute around the time Tattoo Thief got wickedly popular, so he’s not great with girls. Don’t lead him on.”
I shake my head. “I’m sure it’s not like that. He’s already made that clear.”
Beryl sits back in her chair. “Oh. Well, Gavin told me he’s been hurt before. If you jerk him around it’ll get difficult for all of us.”
“Don’t worry, Beryl. I don’t intend to go anywhere near him.”
EIGHT
I debate whether I can smuggle a flask into the Indie Day concert and ultimately decide it would look bad if security found it on me. I’m afraid they’d strip my media pass.
I settle for downing several pre-function shots in Neil’s apartment before I head to the venue, a massive stage set up in Brooklyn Bridge Park. The night is alive with shouts from partiers and I hear the crackle of small fireworks as I walk in fairly sensible shoes to the venue.
See? I’m learning.
My media pass doesn’t grant me full backstage access, but I’m led to a trailer where several other reporters stand around swilling top-shelf booze. Wow. They’re treating us well. Usually the best I can hope for is that a bartender will slip me free drinks.
I order a vodka tonic and then another, daring the server to card me. Even though I’ll be twenty-three this year, being short means people often underestimate my age.
The PR lady for the main act, The Ruins, is making the rounds, handing out signed swag and CDs with the band’s latest music and photos. They’re up after two openers, Quatrain and Shaken Heart, both bands I recognize from my time on the second-string music circuit, and I’m encouraged because I’ve reviewed both of those bands well.
Maybe I’m doing something right.
PR Lady tells us The Ruins’ band members will trickle in later to answer questions while the opening acts perform, but I want to write about the music more than the personalities, so once the opener starts I leave the trailer and walk through several security gates to the main stage area.
Other than a lone photographer, I’m the only member of the press here so far.
The crowd gathers behind a wavy orange plastic fence held up by metal stakes. There’s a five- or six-foot gap between the fence and the stage for media and security, giving us up-close access.
I groove with the first opening band, Shaken Heart, noting how they’ve become tighter and more polished since I wrote about them several months ago. The lead singer looks amazing in her new pink hair and sparkling mini-dress, and sweat glistens on her skin as she sings about heartbreak and hope.
I feel my off-the-shoulder black shirt sticking to me on this humid night and sweat trickles down the back of my leg beneath my skirt. The sun is fading and I’m desperate for a breeze off the water to cool me down.
When the next band, Quatrain, takes the stage, the pitch of the audience’s roar rises higher. Everyone’s in an amped-up party mode this Fourth of July, no doubt anticipating the headliner band and fireworks after dark.
More photographers and reporters filter in around me. I use my phone to capture a few Instagram photos and a Vine video, sending them to The Indie Voice’s social feeds. Being a reporter is never just about writing for print—there’s also social media, the news blog, the website, and a dozen special advertising sections to fill.
Even though my full article isn’t due until tomorrow, tonight I still have to feed the beast.
I stuff my phone back in my purse and jot down impressions in my tall, skinny notebook while Quatrain’s members gyrate on stage.
They’re selling sex—sweaty, hard-edged and uncensored—and it’s impossible not to connect with their intensity.
I get bumped from behind by the crowd, which presses harder on the flimsy plastic barrier. The stakes holding it up bow forward, shrinking my safe passage between the crowd and the stage.
I press my body close to the stage and let the burly security guards push back the crowd, but the guards are like a few dozen sandbags against a tidal wave of people.
The sunset is deep purple shot with fiery red when members of The Ruins explode onto the stage, and in the crowd it’s pandemonium. A sea of faces illuminated by stage lights are panting, screaming, and practically foaming at the mouth in their enthusiasm.
I turn from the crowd to observe the five rockers who favor pyrotechnics and staggering stage setups when they play the largest arenas. Their sound is different tonight. It’s richer, and it takes me a moment to figure out why.
There’s an extra member. My eyes zoom to the tall, lanky bass guitarist who grins widely through a duel of instruments with another guitarist.
Tyler.
I stumble back a few steps from the stage, trying to get a better view of him on my tiptoes. Immediately, I regret it as crowd members jostle me, screaming and reaching as far as they can past the barrier toward the band.
I pull away from them and tap another journalist, a heavy older guy I recognize from a few of the larger gigs I’ve covered.
“What’s with Tyler?” I yell in his ear to be heard over the crowd and The Ruins. “The bassist from Tattoo Thief?”
The man turns to the stage to spot Tyler in the back, on the opposite side from where we are. “Guest appearance,” he shouts. “He’s sharp. Really adds to the sound.”
I’m open-mouthed with surprise as Tyler plays through the first half of the set. I should be reporting on the way The Ruins is playing tonight, with big departures from their recordings that make the songs feel fresh, but all I can do is stare at him.
The way he swivels his hips when he’s playing a long chord. The way his dark brown hair falls across his forehead when he’s looking down and concentrating. The way he closes his eyes as the lead singer croons a ballad, just feeling the music.