Launi

Sitting in the mixing booth gave me the best perspective to watch the band do its magic. I was able to capture shots of them along with the reactions of the crowd. Let me tell you, they killed it. I lean back and focus on Rye. My eyes follow the cut lines of his arms, falling to the movement of each wrist and the way his fingers cradle his sticks. Sweat has caused a gleam that shines invitingly as the lights bounce from player to player. He's focused, his jaw ticking as he pounds out the beat. It's no wonder he has this crowd in the palm of his hand. Girls have been trying to jump the front barricade the entire set, reaching for him as if he'll grant a stay of execution as they are lead from the stage to the closest exit.

Parker: How's the concert?

Me: Awesome. How was your flight?

Parker: Boring. Is he as hot in person. Send a pic.

Lifting my phone I place Rye perfectly in the center of the screen and zoom in. I record him lost in the song, his lips moving slightly with the words. She'll love it.

Send.

Parker: You lucky bitch

I set my phone down because I know what's coming next. I don't need any footage of this. Social media will be filled with clips and they will be gold, better than anything I could create. The lights go dark and the band leaves the stage. The crowd screams and demands an encore. It's as deafening as it is thrilling. I press the ear plugs deeper into my ears. A few moments pass and then the faint outline of each member can be seen as they begin to take their positions again. This tradition has always drove me crazy. Why must they always pretend they aren't going to play their most famous song? Every band does it and it's never a surprise.

The lighting director knows exactly what they are doing as they backlight Rye. He looks heaven sent, his perfect chiseled outline gleaming as he takes his position at the drums. The faint light illuminates his blond hair as his large hand brushes it from his forehead. He moves as though he's unaware of the thousands of eyes on him, with the grace of a performer skilled in their craft. It's mesmerizing. I almost forget I'm not a fan and lean closer, pulled into whatever force he has created on stage, but then the spotlight hits him and I swear our eyes meet. My heart skids to a stop, my face hot from the sudden rush of blood his attention has drawn to me.

It might be my imagination but I swear he rolls his eyes as if to tell me we sit in this jail of "Baby Girl" together. How many times have we had to hear it over the years? I couldn't begin to count. He sits down and raises the sticks above his head. Camera flashes ignite and a sea of light rolls through the stadium capturing this perfect male specimen as he wields his power, crashing the sticks onto the skins. If he hates the song, you wouldn't know. He pours himself into it, his sticks moving as extensions of his arms.

Breathe Launi. But I don't dare. I don't want to move and miss one second of his performance. The other players could fade away for all I care. Rye is the show. I've never paid attention to the drums in this song before, but tonight I feel them. It's as if the sound engineer has turned down the volume on everyone else and cranked it up for Rye. He's locked in.

When the lights go dark again I suck in a breath and my heart races in my chest. The audience loses their minds. The noise in the stadium is loud even through my ear plugs. I can't imagine what it sounds like for Free Pony backstage. In this rare moment I get why they've been doing this for all these years at the cost of everything else important in their lives. But it passes, as the lighting returns to normal and the crowd begins to wander out. These fans will go home to their families, but the band will board a bus and continue their travels away from their homes. It's a short-lived high, and the next town is waiting.

It takes a while to make it through the crowd to backstage and then out to the bus. By the time I take the three steps inside, the band has been partying for a while. I turn sideways to scoot past Eric and Jack at the front, set my equipment down on the small table, and attempt to make my way to the room at the back to stay out of their way. There are groupies on every surface and the smoke is making it hard to see where I'm going.

A firm hand on my hip pulls me down on the small couch. Rye leans in and speaks softly in my ear, "Don't go back there."

I'm wedged between him and some random girl who is not at all please with this change in the seating. I'm about to protest when my dad comes out from the back in only his underwear with the woman from earlier. Eww.

"Told you," Rye says. The heat from his mouth races along the cool skin of my neck.

A roadie that's had a little too much to drink loses his balance and almost lands on top of me but Rye pushes him away at the last second, glaring at him in the process. This whole scene is chaotic. Rye stands and grabs my hand. He pulls me from the couch and tugs me along behind him. I let him lead because I'm overstimulated and hate the way strangers keep bumping into me. I feel claustrophobic.

When we get to bunk alley on the bus, he slides open the top bunk curtain revealing a small bed. His hands are on my hips again and he spins me around to face away from him. Another girl emerges from the back room and pushes past us. Rye leans into me, his entire front against my back, pressing us against the bunks in the small space so my body doesn't get touched by the stranger. His warmth seeps into my skin.

"No boots in the bunk," he says. My brain is mush and I try to come back to earth but his scent is all around me and his hands are gripping my hips as if I'm his. I toe off my boots and the second I'm free of them he lifts me effortlessly into the bunk. I turn around to thank him, but before I can he slides the curtain closed and says, "Stay here."

I don't take orders from men. I rip the curtains open with force, ready for a fight.

He chuckles softly and leans in close, "You're not missing anything you'd want to see. Trust me."

"What if someone needs their bed?" I say furiously.

"They won't," he answers, reaching for the curtains again. "It's mine." He slides the curtains closed. Before leaving he tells me, "You have free will Launi, but if I were you, I'd hang in there for the next ten minutes until we leave for the hotel."

I want to protest, but I know he's right. Instead, I pull his hood up over my head and wait safely in his space. 

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