Chapter 4: Captive

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. Lorelei 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 now 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 rain, an older man clutching a band t-shirt, couples tangled in each other. She found herself drawn to their stories, a part of her programming to capture humanity in the chaos.

They moved closer to the exit and the crowd compressed. Finally, they broke free and 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. "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. But 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 Lorelei 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, then 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 and they settled behind a wall, joining a handful of other hopefuls. 

"You think they'll come out without their masks?" Lacey whispered, a grin stretching wide in the dim light.

"Even if they did, you wouldn't know it was them," Lorelei said.

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 Lorelei there, caught between logic and the whimsy of the night.

***

Great show.

Awesome as always.

Killing it, brother.

They were words said to Hollis as soon as he'd left the spotlights, the thumping bass, the chaos—as soon as he'd returned to the couch backstage.

He sat there for a long while, staring, all those words of encouragement repeating in his mind like a scratched record. But he knew better. 

He'd felt the fracture midway through "Mercy," the way his voice had faltered during "Eye of Indigo." How the crowd's roar seemed like insults stuck on repeat. He thought himself crazy for thinking it. After all, they were his fans, there to see him, to hear his songs. But, as it were, thoughts of the past still lived inside him, chasing themselves in circles, and so he stared blankly at the dimly lit space around him. Everything bled into everything else, shapes and shadows, as if the room itself could not remember what it was supposed to be. The same words echoed in his mind that never left:

Overemotional.

Fake. 

Coward.

Waste of talent.

He stared at the concrete floor under his shoes, tracing its scars and marks. He felt as thought his mind were a compass without a true north. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands in his hair—pulling—as if he might finally unravel something. His thoughts spiraled back through the night, through the last three years, through everything that should have been enough but never quite was. Dust danced in the light, back and forth, up and down, as if in a perpetual dance between where he was and where he'd thought he'd be.

He took in the walls, the low ceiling, and the suffocating lack of windows. Breathe, he told himself, but his lungs rebelled, sucking everything back in—half lies and half truths, resentments, criticisms, the fragile shell of the path he'd taken. The lyrics to his own song that he wrote long ago—it's my song, but I'm the Echo.

Footsteps grew louder outside the door, crisp clicks against the concrete. The sound sharpened Hollis, returning him to a harder reality—one where everything should have been simple and shiny but never actually was. 

It was Otto who opened the door, casting his eyes around the room before settling them on Hollis. He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. A note of tension played around the edge of his smile. 

"You killed it out there tonight," he said, his tone a careful balance of business and personal. "The crowd was eating out of your hand."

Hollis didn't answer, staring at a spot just beyond Otto's shoulder, looking for a way out that didn't exist. The dust still swirled, the shadows still closed in. Everything was too close, and his pulse refused to slow. 

"Hollis," Otto said, pulling Hollis's focus back with an expert's touch. His voice was steady, laced with something like reassurance. "Margaret would be proud."

Hollis looked at him then, a shadow passing across his face. "Maybe," he said, but it was barely more than a whisper. The room seemed to reject the word, bouncing it around the space.

Maybe.

Otto checked his watch. "I need to go handle an issue with Lillitz back in Ohio," he said, efficient as ever. His eyes softened a fraction, but enough. "I'm only a phone call away, if you need anything at all."

"Sure," Hollis said, but it hung in the air, dissonant.

Otto lingered for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but Ash slid by him with a nod and entered the room, so Otto departed with the same crisp clicks that had announced his presence. 

The door closed behind Ash with a light click, leaving him and Hollis alone. Hollis knew Ash's eyes were observing the familiar slump of Hollis's shoulders and the too-long stare at the floor. It was something Hollis had always been able to feel—the suffocating concern of his best friend, Ashland Adams.

"Hey," Ash said, as if the word might smooth all the rough edges. He hovered, watching Hollis with eyes full of concern or determination. 

Perhaps both. 

"Everyone's heading to the after-party," he said.

The tension in Hollis's shoulders knotted, pulling him back into himself. The room seemed smaller than before. Or maybe Hollis felt bigger, more cumbersome in his own skin.

He looked up, meeting Ash's eyes. The room was too bright and suffocating, closing in from every angle, but Ash still stood there, patient. He was the definition of calm, shoulder-length hair hanging loose and easy around his face. As if nothing in the world couldn't be fixed by a few encouraging words. Or maybe a few hits from his vape. 

"I was waiting for you," he said. "They're playing one of our playlists, or so someone said."

The sound of celebration inched down the hallway, creeping under the door. Hollis felt it crawl up his skin. "I don't—" he began, but the words faltered, trapped in a confusion of doubts and expectations. 

Ash stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He lowered himself onto a guitar case. "I wish you could see it the way I do," he said, as if reading Hollis's thoughts. "Everyone's talking about the show, the tour. About you."

Hollis's eyes wandered to the small scar above Ash's left brow, the one he'd gotten during the show in Austin two years earlier. He'd fallen off the stage, bled, and needed stitches, but they'd all laughed nonetheless because, as it's always been said, the show must go on.

Hollis let go of the couch—the heaviest thing he'd done all night—and let out a low hum. Ash watched as if waiting for the pieces to snap together. Or fall apart. 

"Let's just go for a bit." Ash reached out, his hand on Hollis's shoulder, a simple and complete gesture that broke something loose inside. 

Hollis shifted. His internal struggle was raw, but Ash was patient. He'd always been patient—through every midnight breakdown, through every fit of anger and every plunge into silence. Ever since the day it'd all fallen apart.

"Yeah," Hollis said, and this time he meant it. "Alright."

Ash's movements were easy and unhurried as he stood, a calm at the center of Hollis's chaos. His optimism radiated outward and dissolved everything in his path. 

"Great," he said, flashing his signature smile that could power all the amps in the world. "Let's go." He extended his hand, and Hollis grasped it, rising from the couch. But it was in the slow way Hollis got to his feet, in the deliberate way he looked back at the couch, the dust, and the shadows, that truly showed his exhaustion. The thought of joining the celebration only added to it. But Ash's presence was like gravity, a force too strong to resist.

Ash led the way, and Hollis followed with steps that became more certain as they approached the brightness. The sounds of the party greeted them like an old friend—familiar voices, loud and unrelenting, ready to hold Hollis captive or set him free.