The surge of bodies moving toward the exit had a heartbeat—shuffling feet and shouted conversations. Alongside it all, background music playing over the speakers prompted many to join their voices in unison—some pop song from the 80s. For a moment, Lorelei wondered if it had ever been played live at Club Seven back in the venue's prime. But it was a fleeting thought as she stumbled over her own two feet, her hand pressed to Lacey's back.
They stayed close as they were carried by the throng. Perfume and sweat mingled in the air. She could taste the excitement, inching toward the promise of the doors and found it hard to breathe. The air felt solid, and her grip on Lacey tightened. There was a rhythm to the chaos, a mass exodus propelled by buzzing energy and the hope of freedom. Lacey leaned in, her voice rising above the din.
"Did you see the lights during the encore? Brilliant!"
Lorelei smiled, absorbing Lacey's enthusiasm even as she strained to keep her in sight.
"I can't believe the setlist," Lacey gushed, breathless and grinning. "Even better than last time. Worth every second of the wait!"
Lorelei nodded, her mind capturing snapshots of flushed faces, waving hands, the dizzying swirl of people and sound. Even if she'd had her own moment of euphoria during the show, she couldn't decide if the exhaustion was worth it.
The line crawled forward and Lorelei pushed back a loose strand of hair. Lacey continued, voice now more commentary than conversation, feeding off the energy of the moment. Lorelei watched the faces around her—teenagers with bright eyes and flat hair from the earlier rain, an older man clutching a t-shirt, couples tangled in each other. She found herself drawn to their stories, a part of her capturing humanity in the chaos.
They moved closer to the exit and the crowd compressed. Lorelei could almost taste the outside air, her thoughts drifting between the thrill of the night and the comfort of home. Finally, they broke free.
Night rushed to meet them. Lorelei inhaled as the coolness woke her senses. She shared a look with Lacey, both of them laughing at the relief of open space.
"What did you think?" Lacey grinned, holding her arms out wide. "Perfect night?"
Lorelei shrugged, smirking. "Not bad."
The two linked arms, watching the parking lot as they headed down the sidewalk. Cars moved in staggered lines, headlights cutting through the darkness. People stood in clusters, excitement still high. There was a comfort in the openness of the night air—the lingering excitement. Lorelei breathed deeply, letting herself unwind.
Lacey interrupted, pulling Lorelei's sleeve with renewed energy. "Hey, look over there," she pointed, eyes fixed on something beyond the moving crowds.
Lorelei followed Lacey's gaze. The bus waited like a shadow by the venue's side and she recognized the look in Lacey's eyes—a mix of determination and excitement that rarely led to calm decisions, and Lorelei was already shaking her head.
"Absolutely not."
"We have to try!" Lacey insisted, already tugging Lorelei in that direction.
Lorelei hesitated, her own fatigue warring with the pull of Lacey's enthusiasm. Her head ached just thinking about it.
"This is a bad idea," she began, but Lacey was already moving.
Lacey's footsteps were urgent, like they'd miss something monumental. She started for the back of the venue, confidence in every step. Lorelei lingered, watching the sidewalk ahead that led to her apartment with longing, then turned back to Lacey's retreating form. She sighed. There was no resisting Lacey's spark, not when it was contagious enough to ignite Lorelei's own curiosity.
So she relented, her walk carrying a mix of resignation and intrigue. She was tired, more than a little, but also curious, wondering what the night still held. So she matched Lacey's pace, the two of them heading into the dark with new determination—one type of dreamer leading another.
They ducked into the shadows and Lorelei felt like a teenager again, swept up in the reckless spontaneity that Lacey always managed to spark. The bus waited nearby where they settled behind a wall, joining a handful of other hopefuls.
"You think they'll come out without their costumes?" Lacey whispered, a grin stretching wide in the dim light.
"Even if they did, you wouldn't know it was them."
Lacey shook her head. "I told you"—she waved her palms around in the dim glow of the street light—"his hands."
Lorelei shook her own head, her hands shoving deep into her pockets. "If they even come out," she began, trailing off when Lacey's determined look silenced her doubt.
"If?" Lacey's laugh danced on the night air. "They'll show—bands always do." Her breath was visible, a puff of certainty that mingled with the cold.
Lorelei pulled out her phone, the glow harsh in her eyes against the night. The minutes crept by slowly, each one colder than the last. She pulled her jacket tight, wishing she'd thought this through. But Lacey was unfazed, watching the exit door with unwavering attention. She leaned in with the others around them, filling the silence with stories and speculation. A shiver traveled up Lorelei's spine and her mind flitted to home, warmth, the predictability of not chasing fantasies. Yet there was something about Lacey's unyielding faith that held her there, caught between logic and the whimsy of the night.
***
Ash had been right—Willow's two latest albums were on shuffle in the back rooms of the venue. The after party spilled out into the VIP lounge, where people Hollis knew well and people he didn't relaxed and drank. Some sat in booths while others leaned against the walls. They all joked and told tour stories, including the incident early on in the tour when they'd left Hollis behind in the hotel thinking he'd already been asleep in the back of the bus. They all laughed about it now.
Hollis didn't.
He sat in the corner, the muffled pulse of music in his chest, the world tilting slightly beneath him. His bandmates floated somewhere across the room, untouchable, and Hollis was already too far gone to follow. His mask was off, leaving him raw and exposed in the crowd. He sunk deeper into the chair. The room wavered in and out of focus, blurred by more than just dim light. The drink in his hand felt too heavy, sloshing dangerously as his grip loosened. People moved like shadows, blurring into the thick air, the hum of voices distant and unreal. Someone from the crew shouted something, laughter erupting like a wave through the room, but Hollis didn't catch the words anymore. He didn't want to. He knew the sound of those words, the shape of them, the way they twisted in his stomach. So he closed his eyes against the dizziness, and when he opened them again, a new figure stood before him.
"So, what's it like, having a sold out show at Ansley Street?"
Hollis was too confused to know whether or not he'd stifled his scowl. The figure's features were sharpened by disdain. He was the frontman of their opener, This Side Up, Hollis realized, though the name was a jumble in his mind. Drunk and half-hidden beneath a dirty blonde fringe, the vocalist smirked down at Hollis. His smile was a slow, cruel stretch. He slid into the empty space next to Hollis, forcing him further into the corner.
Darian—the name finally came to him.
Hollis shrugged. "Haven't thought much about it."
"Nice to see you come out of hiding for once." Darian's voice teetered between jest and jeer as he gestured towards the absence of the mask. "Honestly, I didn't recognize you for a second."
There was a challenge in the statement, sharpened by the sloppy confidence of too many drinks. Hollis's fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles turning white. He looked away, fixing his eyes on a stained spot on the carpet, and took a slow, deliberate drink. The beverage tasted metallic, sour on his tongue.
"Wouldn't want to intimidate anyone," he finally slurred, the dry edge of his tone almost drowned by a burst of noise from the other side of the room. Ash's laugh, Linden's distinctive drawl, each sound a pinpoint reminder of how far away they were.
Darian leaned in closer. "Takes a lot more than a grown man in a monarch mask to intimidate me."
The words bounced around in Hollis's mind, an unwelcome chorus of old doubts. Anger and alcohol churned, a potent mix he knew too well these days, but he held it back, refusing to give Darian the satisfaction.
"Is that so," Hollis managed, though the effort of staying calm set his teeth on edge.
"Not everyone can hide behind a gimmick," he said. "Some of us have to use our skills."
Hollis drew back. "A gimmick?"
"You all wear those things to cover up what's missing. Why else would you need a mask to keep your fans at a distance?" Darian didn't back off, and Hollis's blood began to boil. "You're a smart guy—you know if they knew the real you, they wouldn't care about you."
Hollis felt the crack, could almost hear it, the sound of himself snapping.
"If you think everyone buys your mystery, you're wrong. Everyone in this room knows you just can't take the hate that comes with your throne. That's why you hide."
Hollis set the cup down with an unsteady hand, a few drops sloshing onto the table, and turned to face Darian head-on.
"I guess you'd know all about things missing," he said, his voice carrying more weight than the insult. "Since your talent decided not to make an appearance this whole tour."
The air shifted, a sudden charge in the atmosphere around them. Darian stiffened, surprise mingling with anger, but Hollis didn't flinch. He felt the burning stare, the hatred boiling just beneath the surface.
"If it weren't for this tour, you guys would have been nothing but one-hit-wonder nobodies."
Darian said nothing, speechless as Hollis slid out from behind the table, leaving his empty cup behind. He met Darian's eyes with the fire the opposing vocalist lit all by himself.
"So you tell me," Hollis said, "what's it like, taking a backseat to real skill?"
Around them, the noise of the party blurred into a static hum. Darian stood and came face to face with Hollis. The tension stretched thin, too thin, and Hollis waited for the inevitable break.
Darian's shove sent Hollis reeling, drinks tipping off the table, his body crashing into the stained carpet. For a moment, he was weightless, his thoughts caught in the spin of adrenaline and alcohol. The cup of anger he tried to keep from overflowing shattered, and the chaos rushed in to fill him.
His world narrowed to a single point—a hot, furious pulse driving him forward. His limbs moved before his mind could catch up and he felt the sharp jolt of his fist against Darian's face, a satisfaction cut short by Darian's weight slamming into him. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, the dull thud echoing through Hollis's ribs.
Glasses toppled and shattered, chairs crashed against each other as people scattered. Hollis didn't care. The noise only fed the fire inside him, drowning out everything except the urge to fight back. He swung again, the impact sending shockwaves through his bones.
Darian twisted, trying to get the upper hand, but Hollis was quick. Fueled by months of frustration and one drink too many, he kept going. He heard shouts, angry and shocked, blurring together. He tasted the tang of blood mixed with stale air, and he knew without seeing that it was his own.
A familiar voice yelled his name, but he barely registered it. His focus was on the fight, running on instinct, on anger that demanded to be let out, on the dizzying combination of relief and shame that came from finally snapping.
People surrounded them now, not just watching but trying to break them apart. The blur of faces closed in, shouting, grabbing, pulling at Hollis. He shook them off, vision swimming, and went for Darian again.
"You're fucking frauds!" Darian's voice cut through, raw and enraged, his own bandmates straining to hold him back.
Hollis felt the words like a fresh blow. The pain twisted into more anger, more fuel for the fire. He threw another punch, but the distance between them grew as Ash finally managed to drag him away.
Ash and Linden gripped his arms, voices overlapping in a jumble of urgency.
"Hollis, stop! Enough! You're done!"
He heard them, clearer and closer, but it was too late for their words to matter. The fight had already been fought, and all that was left was the bitter aftermath.
Hollis's breathing was ragged, the room tilting dangerously as he tried to catch his balance. A line of blood dripped from his lip, the taste metallic and sharp. His vision cleared just enough to see Darian on the other side of the room, held back but still shouting, still throwing accusations like punches.
Everyone was watching. All eyes were locked on him, wide with disbelief and judgment. The silence that followed was louder than the fight itself, a heavy, oppressive thing that bore down on Hollis with the weight of a thousand unspoken words.
His heart hammered in his chest, a painful reminder of how quickly he'd lost control. He looked around, meeting the stunned gazes, the absence of his mask branding him with the truth of who he really was. Unhidden. Exposed. The realization settled in, a sickening coil of rage and regret.
He pulled himself from Linden and Ash's grasps. He barely heard Linden's voice calling him back, barely felt Ash's grip loosen just enough for him to slip away. The alcohol and adrenaline combined in a sickening rush, spurring his feet faster out of the thick air and silent judgment of the room. He shoved through the door, past a cluster of crew members who glanced up, surprised. Words and eyes followed him, questions and whispers, but Hollis didn't slow. He veered through the narrow hall, every step a struggle between anger and something deeper.
The door clacked open and the night air hit him in a rush. He bent over, gulping down the cold air in painful, shuddering breaths. The chill bit through his hoodie, cut through the sweat on his skin, but he still felt like he was burning. He started moving again, putting more distance between himself and the fight, the scene, the truth of everything that had just happened. He knew better—crazed fans would be waiting at their bus, hovering in the night like shadows, wanting to know him—see him for who he really was.
And he couldn't allow that.
He brushed against the rough brick of the building as he made his way around the opposite side, ambling down some street he didn't know. But he didn't let it stop him, he couldn't. The anger was still there, pulsing beneath his skin, but something else crept in—the truth behind Darian's words, twisting it all into a different kind of pain.