Brooklyn kept me company as I moved aside and joined the anxious knot of VIP guests. On stage, the massive screen behind the drum kit showcased the album cover artwork—the flickering image of the burning butterfly. It went in and out along with the beat of the set intro tune. There was something extremely symbolic about it. I’d never dared to ask Frank about the real meaning behind the blazing wings, but I sensed the fragility of it all.
I sensed the transience.
I sensed his fear of burning out.
The crackling of the walkie-talkies interrupted my thoughts. Bruce ascended the stairs and disappeared into the thick fog clouding the left wing of the stage, where I saw bodies moving against the orange glow.
I felt the low rumble beneath my feet as the audience roared and clapped. Waves of excitement rolled one after another until the lights dimmed, prompting the fans to concentrate on what was coming. The air was heavy and thick. Anticipation filled every corner and crevice of the arena.
Minutes passed. The band repeated the group hug ritual from last night. Everyone took their spots. Guests and crew members held their breaths, as did all twenty thousand people opposite the stage.
Tonight would almost feel normal if not for the blue uniforms of the paramedics lingering in the background, waiting and ready.
Carter went first. He marched over to the drum kit and climbed the riser. Johnny followed him with his bass. The arena lit up. A wall of shaking hands quivered behind the shimmering veil of colored smoke.
Heat filled my chest.
I watched Frank as he listened to the roar of the crowd with his eyes shut. He was soaking in their voices. Taking them all in until it was enough. Then his hand jerked, fingers tapping against his thigh. I could tell his mind was slipping into another dimension where only music existed. Jaw tight, he readjusted his in-ear monitor.
Dante took off with his guitar strap wrapped around his neck. The spotlight followed him as he stalked across the stage with his typical swagger, ripping through a couple of simple chords and tossing smiles at the front row. The black body of his Stratocaster sparkled under a bright stream of orange.
Johnny walked over to the edge and raised his hand in the air to get the crowd going. The level of noise was no longer bearable, even where I was standing. I had to cover my ears for a brief second. I felt the tremble again and a shiver of excitement zapped down my spine.
Then the intro tune began to subside. Stage left lights flickered and dipped. Stage right followed suit.
Frank drew a deep breath and headed straight for the microphone. His silhouette moved purposefully against the phone-studded net encircling the inside of the dark arena. Fog swirled around his boots while he drank in the endless stretch of what promised to be the real mayhem.
The heat in my chest spread to my stomach. Frank neared the edge of the stage, dragging the microphone stand with him. His gaze danced across the floor as the security line tightened beneath where he stood. The frame of his carved-to-perfection body lingered against the infinite sea of hands that were thrust in the air.
I reminded myself to breathe. This was a stunning view. A view of power. I’d seen this exact image last night, but with Frank, every day was the beginning of a new adventure. Be it a midnight ride in a Ferrari or a rock show at the Forum. Palms pressed together, I watched him talking to the audience. Dante pitched in a few words. There were no excuses or mentions of yesterday’s set. The speech was a short thank you and the fans loved it. They ate up everything Frank said. They clapped. They professed their love and bathed in the love he professed to them. The energy was off the charts. It felt as if the entire city was gathered here tonight. Not just physically but spiritually. Those who still had reception and could handle the rage of the crowd without going nuts livestreamed.
Borders and social status were erased. Music united people. Music brought peace.
And Frank’s job was to make sure every single person would take a handful of beautiful memories home with them.
The band kicked off the set with the Hollow Heart Dream material. The first two songs were fast and anthemic, festival-worthy crowd-pleasers. I knew the lyrics by heart. My lips moved along with Frank’s. His energy level skyrocketed with each second. Face and shoulders lax, he rocked on his heels to the beat. After the four song mark, he gave the microphone to Dante and went for a quick check-up backstage, where a bottle of water and a towel were handed to him. The crew was on standby and people moved in.
Frank’s physician had insisted on monitoring his vitals during the set to avoid complications after the show, so as soon as Frank chugged the water, he whipped out an oxygen mask and then measured his blood pressure.
I stayed in my spot and watched, my heart thundering. Frank looked sweaty and ruffled, exactly what a rock singer should look like, but the dark spark in his eyes and the rigid movements of his body said it all. He was ready to get back into action. He was fine.
When the physician finally pulled off the cuff and gave Frank a nod, my chest released a loud sigh of relief.
As the show progressed, Frank turned up the heat. A lick of aggression colored his voice. Even during the slow tracks. He was riding the adrenaline high along with the rest of the band, the audience, the guests, and the crew.
“Are you having fun yet, L.A.?” The words shot through the arena with some slight feedback. The crowd reciprocated.
He spun around, dashed over to the stairs, and climbed them up to the platform that occupied the right wing of the stage. Dante produced a few rapacious chords and grinned at the people on the floor fighting for room to breathe. He reveled in the chaos he’d created. It was obvious that madness fed his dark, tortured soul.
Including the encore, there were seven more songs to go, and every second that passed was another second I could scratch off my imaginary clock. In my head, this set was a race against the unknown, a race against time, a race against failure. Was Frank going to make it or was the same animal that had caught up with him yesterday going to take him down tonight before all the songs were sung and all the solos played?
“I can’t hear you, L.A.!” he screamed into the microphone as he walked to the middle of the platform. Another roar. His eyes met Carter’s and they exchanged subtle smiles.
Dante ripped through another sequence of ragged chords and whirled in his spot, which caused him to lose his hat, but he didn’t care to look for it. He seemed preoccupied with his guitar and the sounds it made. Notes finally fell together and the intro riff of “Adrenaline Lane” launched the arena into a state of absolute anarchy. Dirty, sweaty, music-infused anarchy.
I had no idea what was expected of me as the lead singer’s girlfriend. Was I supposed to stand still and smile? Was I supposed to clap politely? Or was I allowed to let loose? There were no rule books on how to behave around filthy rich people when you dated one of them. My gut told me to enjoy it. And I did. I moved to the beat and I shook my head. A stupid grin spread across my face and didn’t want to come off. My cheeks hurt, but at that moment, I truly didn’t care.
Music and memories took me over entirely. My pulse pounded in my throat. My blood rushed through my veins, hot and thick. Frank’s voice was everywhere—oxygen in my lungs, sparkle on my skin, and strength in my bones. We were an invisible cloud of dust and eternal ashes traveling through the universe and existing together.
Stage fog blurred my eyes and all I could register was Frank’s silhouette on top of the platform. The pyro went off and everyone began to stomp. I felt the heat crashing into my face. My hair rose from the blast, floated down, and slowly fell back into place, its soft brush warm on my shoulders.