“Hey, Hugo,” I said, as we filed out.
“Hey, sweets,” he said in his deep baritone.
This was only our second night at the Pony Club but Hugo seemed extra considerate of me, going out of his way to make sure I felt safe.
Jimmy slung an arm over my bare shoulders. “Sounds like a rowdy crowd tonight, Hugo.”
I smiled up at the bodyguard. “Hugo’ll take care of me. He’s my hero.”
The big bodyguard nodded, like a soldier given an order, and led us to the stage. We took winding back hallways with pipes running along the ceiling. Our footsteps clapped and echoed on the cement.
Jimmy turned to me. “You ready?”
“Born ready, Jimmy.”
“That’s my girl.”
I joined my band mates at a short flight of stairs that led to the stage. A roar went up—the crowd responding to the MC taking the mic.
“Las Vegas! Are you ready for Rapid Confession?”
Another wave of sound, like an avalanche ripping apart the walls of the venue.
The door opened, a dark rectangle blazing with stage lights. We streamed up the short flight of stairs and onto the stage. My red Fender was waiting for me on a stand. I looped the strap over my shoulder and saw Jeannie throw me a nod and a nervous smile—a peace agreement. I nodded and smiled back, agreement accepted.
Lola clashed her drumsticks over her head in a four-count lead-in to “Talk Me Down.”
I played my goddamn heart out. I wrote “Talk Me Down” for myself. It was an anthem to everything that scared me about where I was going and what I was doing to myself. Nobody knew it was mine. I sang backup to Jeannie’s melody. But when I played, my heart came out. The music carved open my chest, flayed my ribs and showed the world everything inside.
I shredded my solos. All the liquor I’d drunk on an empty stomach turned the stage lights into blurry orbs of white. The faces in the crowd melted together, becoming one roaring, churning, electric mass. I fed off of the energy, sucking in their screaming approval and spitting it back out with every chord and progression until my fingers bled, and at the end of the show, I nearly smashed my Fender onto the stage.
As the last notes of the last song vibrated in the air and then vanished, the crowd lost its collective shit. I was lit up like the Fourth of July, running along the lip of the stage, slapping hands with the front row audience. They grabbed and pulled me over the edge. I laughed and laughed, surfing on a wave of adoring hands, drunk as hell and high on being loved.
The boulder of Hugo and his team rolled into the crowd, hauled me down, and marched me out. But I didn’t want it to end. I called to the crowd around me.
“I love you all so much! Come back with me…” I pointed at random strangers. “Come with me! Let’s keep the party going…”
Hugo dragged me to the green room where the band was celebrating. Champagne spewed through the air in gold and foamy arcs. I grabbed a bottle out of someone’s hand and downed half of it in one draught. I shouted at security to let in the small crowd I’d invited.
“They’re with me!” I cried.
About two dozen pushed their way in. My band mates were all too high on the heady success of the show to care. Jimmy looked like he was going to fly straight off the ground.
Tossing the champagne aside, I grabbed a bottle at random from the long table of post-show drink and food. Jagermeister.
A bold choice, I thought with a laugh, and let out a scratchy whoop after the liquor burned its way down my throat. The room, filled with my new friends, cheered back. Strange faces I didn’t recognize, whom I’d never remember tomorrow. People who were here for the music and the free booze and entertainment and I, their matron saint of Good Times. I climbed onto a table, and they cheered and raised their bottles to me.
They love me.
The room began to spin as if I were on a carousel. It was too packed in here. No air. Security was trying to squeeze in through the wall of bodies. Glass shattered. Some in the crowd cheered, while others cursed.
Lola yelled for me to get down before I broke my ass, then was lost in the crowd. The huge, hulking shape of Hugo parting the sea like Moses. I tried to lift the emerald green bottle to my lips for one final slug because this party was exploding and I was going to hit bottom and shatter into a million pieces.
My father’s words, four years ago, resounded in my head with just as much clarity as if it were yesterday. Get out! Get out of my house!
“No,” I said, then louder, blearily, my mouth thick and clumsy around the words. “You get out. This is my house. My house.”