I turn around slowly, the fans cheer loudly as I wipe the last of the moisture from my eyes with the sleeve of my leather jacket. I place the mic in the stand and pull the sleeves of the jacket, allowing it to fall from my body. Women hoot and holler, catcalling me from their places in the front row.
“I know how much you guys love Pistol,” I say into the microphone, “so how about you guys sing it too?” I ask. I hope that hearing her lyrics sung back to her will help her heal. If she can see how much the world loves this song, she might be okay with it, okay with me.
Bristol taps her cymbals with the tips of her sticks, a twinkling sound playing through the speakers. Boston gives one long thrum against the soundboard of his bass, and I step up to the mic. The opening chords of Pistol are my favorite, it was a promise to her that I would always be waiting for her. One of the few promises I was able to keep.
The crowd sings them back to me, and I smile against the windscreen, my heart heavy and weightless at the same time. Alex isn’t here, but in his absence, we got Bristol back. What I wouldn’t give to have him here with us today, but sometimes in tragedy comes rebirth. I continue to sing the song that caused heartache and destruction in my love life but also caused an entire fanbase to fall in love all over again. I chance a look at Bristol behind me as the crowd sings the chorus of our love song, her eyes are huge and her chin wobbles as the people in the front rows sway with lighters in the air.
I start on the next verse, but a soft voice behind me beats me to it. Her voice carries through the entire theater, and the fans lose their minds at the sound of her voice not mine. They’re screaming the lyrics back to her, and I turn around fully to see tears spilling down her cheeks as she sings about a love of a lifetime. She closes her eyes for an extended amount of time, the tears that were dammed against her lashes breaking free to pool at her chin. The jumbotron on the other side of us zooms in on her gorgeous face as I turn back to the crowd. She’s still singing, her sweet voice like a salve to an open wound. I can feel like large cracks in my chest slowly start to mend like fresh cement. The cracks and crevices filling with every word she sings.
Her voice stops just in time for the chorus, and I put the mic back to my lips and belt out the chorus to the song that used to put me in a tailspin of destruction every night. The fans sing the words back to me, and I’ve never been more thankful to be living this life than I am right now.
“That was in-fucking-credible.” Andy says as we exit the stage. Her face is lit up like a Christmas tree. “Holy shit!” she bounces on the balls of her feet, excitement racing through her.
“Thanks!” Bristol says as we make our way back to the tent. I want to grab her, and hug her, and ask her what she thought of the song, but Andy is talking a mile a minute about how incredible we were and how Pistol is one of her favorite songs, and she watched us play it in Seattle.
“You do realize that Steve is going to make you guys do that every night now, right?” She says, and at the mention of Steve, my entire body alerts.
“What does Larkin have to do with any of this?” I ask, my tone calm but agitation courses through me.
“My dad will absolutely want the fans to see that every night, it was a definite crowd pleaser. I had no idea you had pipes like that. Kudos, Pistol.” She smiles sweetly. Her dad? Steve Larkin is her dad? Motherfucker.
“Steve is your dad?” Bristol asks, disgust marring her face.
“Yup, as soon as I get a tour under my belt I get to go work in the office.” She nods like it’s no big deal. “I just graduated from Berkley.”
“Snake in the grass.” Boston mumbles just loud enough for me to hear. I nod my head agreeing with him.
“We won’t be doing that every night, it was agreed before I even came on tour that Pistol was off the setlist.” Bristol spits.
“Yeah,” Andy starts, her mouth twisting in mischief, “you already broke that agreement by performing it.”
“Fuck that.” I groan. “We’re not performing it every night. That’s not happening.”
“He won’t like that,” she spits. “This performance is going to be front page news, it wouldn’t be fair to the other fans if you didn’t do it again.”
“It wouldn’t be fair to me if I had to do it every night.” Bristol spews as venom laces her tone.
“If we have to do Pistol every night of this tour, I will not finish Alex’s song. I can promise you that.” I reply angrily. Her face tightens, and her lips purse as she processes what I just said.
“Then don’t.” She shrugs. “It’s not me you’ll disappoint, it’s the fans.” She pushes out her lip in mock sadness before she flounces away, off to ruin someone else’s day no doubt.
“Fuck.” Bristol exclaims, kicking the pavement with her boot.
“We don’t have to do it, ‘Tol.” I try to calm her down. “What are they going to do? Kick us off the tour, I doubt it. They’d lose hundreds of thousands of dollars if our names aren’t on the playbill.”
“I can’t do it every night. This was a one-off.” She sighs, her head falling back to look at the sky above us.
“We won’t.” Boston says, “it was a damn good show, but like you said, it was a one-off.”
We all nod our heads in agreement as we make our way back to the tent.
***
“Hey, so,” I start, my hand finding the back of my neck as nervousness courses through me, “would you, I mean, if you don’t have anything else going on…”
“Spit it out,” she smiles from her seat on the couch in the bus.
I blow out a breath, “want to go out on a date with me?” I cringe. Why am I so flustered? It’s just dinner and drinks. I sound like a fifteen year old kid trying to get a date for spring formal.