As Jake performed, locking eyes with person after person in the crowd, the lyrics pouring from his mouth and rippling through the amplifiers, everything felt right. His left hand danced along the frets, bending and pressing the steel strings; his right hand struck them with pick or fingers in a steady, complex rhythm. For Jake, this wasn't just performing. It was living. Music gave him a high no drug could touch.
Playing on stage made even sex seem dull in comparison. It was a difficult job, keeping lyrics in sync and riffs tight, but he was good at it. And every time a song went off without a hitch, he felt it — the rush, the euphoria. The high was stronger than weed, more potent than the cleanest coke, smoother than the finest whiskey.
When he played, all the noise in his head disappeared. Michelle, the breakup, the ache and confusion — gone. So were the worries about rent, car repairs, or whether his parents had been right about wasting his talent. There was no room in his brain for any of that. Not when he was on stage. Not when he was inside the bubble.
He was like a fighter pilot mid-mission. Like an athlete in the middle of a game. Focused. Unshakable. This was where he belonged.
By the time they hit the halfway point of the set, thirty minutes deep under the boiling stage lights, Jake was drenched in sweat. His hair clung to his face, his white button-up stuck to his back. But he wasn't winded. Not even close. A year of rocking three nights a week for an hour straight had tuned his body to performance-level sharpness. It was like taking a high-impact aerobics class — just louder and with more screaming.
The endorphins were peaking as they launched into their final track of the main set, Who Needs Love?, one of the crowd's favorites. They stretched the outro longer than usual, letting it build, savoring it, before nailing the final chords.
They let the final vibrations hum out across the stage as the crowd erupted in cheers and applause.
"Thank you," Jake called, tossing his pick into the sea of waving arms. "Thank you very much and goodnight."
The band linked arms, took a bow, and walked off to the alcove behind the curtain. The cheers didn't die down. If anything, they got louder. Stomping feet, shouts of encore — it was all part of the cycle now.
They all grabbed their water glasses and chugged, cooling down just a bit. Two minutes later, still sweating and grinning, Matt said, "Let's do it."
"Yep," Coop nodded. "Time for the fun part."
They returned to the stage. Jake gave a quick intro for their new track, It's in the Book, and they tore into it. Matt's riff kicked things off fast and sharp, getting hands clapping before Jake had even opened his mouth. Then came the closer — The Thrill of Doing Business, one of Matt's raunchier, hard-driving tunes.
Another prolonged, dramatic ending. Another group bow. This time, it was final.
Even as O'Donnell raised the house lights and stepped onstage to send the crowd home, some were still calling for more.
"The Saints, everybody!" he shouted. "Let's hear it one more time!"
The audience gave it up again, just like always.
Backstage, the band collapsed near their gear cases, guzzling more water and lighting up cigarettes. Everyone except Bill, who still hadn't taken up the habit.
They were all riding high. It had been a damn good show tonight.
"Well," Matt said after about fifteen minutes, "let's go get it done."
"Yep," Coop sighed. "This is the fun part."
They returned to the stage for teardown duty. The room had thinned out, but at least three hundred people still lingered. They danced to jukebox music, sipped drinks, smoked. As usual, the remaining crowd cheered when the band reappeared.
The guys waved back, low-key and casual, before getting to work. Disassembling the drums. Coiling cables. Hauling amps.
O'Donnell always asked the crowd not to interrupt them during cleanup, and the regulars respected that. A few fans near the front gave quiet compliments — great show, you guys rocked — but no one tried to trap them in long conversations.
Once the gear was packed into their two vans and secured, they slipped back in through the backstage entrance. Behind the bar storage area was a tiny locker room for the bands. It only had two showers, so they matched quarters to pick the order. Jake and Coop landed first and second.
Jake stripped off his soaked shirt and jeans, stepped into the shower, and kept it quick. He'd never been one for locker room lingering. A quick soap, shampoo, rinse, and done. He stepped out, toweled off, threw on fresh jeans and a ripped-up black tee, and laced up the same tennis shoes he'd worn on stage.
As he was walking out, Matt passed him on the way in — stark naked except for a towel over his shoulders.
"We're gonna get us some fuckin' cherry pussy tonight," Matt declared.
Jake didn't respond. He wasn't the intended audience anyway. Matt had a habit of talking to his own dick like it was a bandmate.
Jake just shook his head, muttered a "see ya out there" to the room, and headed into the lounge.
Outside the backstage door, a crowd was already forming. Dozens of girls — and about half as many guys — staked out that hallway after every set, hoping to get close to someone from the band.
Jake used to find it overwhelming, back when the attention was new. All those eyes. All those voices. But now, he was used to it.
As soon as he stepped out, at least twenty people called his name at once. Hands clapped his shoulders. Compliments flew at him. Most of the attention came from the girls, who weren't shy about finding excuses to brush up against him — an arm here, a chest there.
He moved through the crowd with his signature half-smile. The shy one that made fans melt. He shook a few hands, tossed out some thank-yous, a couple light-hearted comments. But his eyes were already on the bar. First priority: a stiff drink.
As he approached, the crowd parted for him automatically, clearing a path.
"Wassup, brother?" said Mohammad Hazim, longtime D Street West bartender and part-time guitarist. Jake had been mentoring him for the past few months.
"Wassup, Mo?" Jake grinned, holding out his hand for a shake.
"You coming to the party tonight?" Mo asked. He was part of the inner circle, welcome at every post-show blowout. No substances required for entry, though he usually brought some anyway.
"Bet your ass," Mo said, already mixing the drink. He dropped a full glass of ice, poured a triple shot of 151 rum, topped it with Coke, and slid it across the bar. No charge. Anyone else would've paid four bucks.
"You good on smokes?" he asked.
"For now," Jake said.
"Yell if you need anything."
"I will," Jake said, lifting the drink. "Thanks, Mo."