Chapter 7: Countdown

"I'm getting there," Jake muttered, standing and brushing dust from his jeans.

Matt rolled his eyes like Jake had just confessed to collecting commemorative stamps. "Jesus. Any night now? Dude, there's no such thing as a girl worth waiting past the second date. And even that's pushing it."

Jake shrugged, unfazed.

"Well," Matt said, stepping back into the shadows, "go talk to your little virgin. I'll stay here and scope out the future groupies."

"Right," Jake replied, then stepped out of the alcove and onto the side of the stage.

Michelle spotted him instantly. Her face lit up as she nudged her way through the growing crowd, her two reluctant friends trailing behind like chaperones who'd rather be anywhere else.

"Hi, sweetie!" she said brightly. "How's everything going?"

Jake dropped down to sit on the edge of the stage and leaned in for a quick kiss. "Good. Thanks for coming."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said. "This is huge. Your first real show! I just know you're gonna crush it."

She leaned closer with a wicked little grin. "Also, it really pissed my dad off."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. When I told him where we were going, he called this place—no joke—'the Devil's seduction pit.'"

Jake laughed. "Actually, that's not a bad name. Way better than D Street West."

His eyes drifted to her companions. Mindy and Rhonda were chewing gum like they were mad at it, arms folded, eyes darting like they were expecting to get mugged any second.

"Rhonda. Mindy." He nodded politely. "Nice to see you both."

They looked at him like he'd just crawled out of a sewer.

"What are friends for?" Rhonda said dryly.

"Yeah," Mindy added. "Somebody's gotta keep Michelle from getting raped and murdered in this… place."

"Oh please," Michelle sighed. "It's just a different kind of crowd. Jake's brought me here six or seven times and nothing's ever happened."

"That's because he's one of them," Mindy snapped, then caught herself. "I mean—he knows people here. We don't. We're alone."

"Exactly," Rhonda nodded. "What if one of these guys tries something?"

Jake smiled. "Then maybe you'd have a good time."

They gasped like he'd just dropped his pants in public. Michelle giggled.

"I don't think that's funny," Mindy snapped.

"Relax," Jake said. "This place is cool. Have a drink. Loosen up."

"We're not twenty-one," Rhonda reminded him.

"They don't care here," Jake said. "Got money? You'll get a drink."

That stopped them.

"Seriously?" Mindy asked cautiously.

Jake turned to Michelle. "Am I lying?"

Michelle shook her head. "Not once have I ever been carded here."

Their expressions shifted. It was like watching a switch flip. Suddenly, the room seemed less sketchy, the crowd less dangerous.

"Well," Rhonda said. "Maybe one drink."

"Yeah," Mindy agreed. "Just to try."

Jake smirked. "That's the spirit."

"Buy us the first round, Shelly," Rhonda said. "Let's see how you do it."

"Yeah! I want a Tom Collins," Mindy squealed. "I heard those are bitchin'."

"My sister made one for me once!" Rhonda said. "Oh my Gawd, it was so good."

The two of them started chatting excitedly, rattling off drink orders, giggling about booze like it was forbidden fruit—exactly the kind of scene Michelle's parents had nightmares about.

Michelle leaned closer to Jake. "I think you finally impressed them."

Jake grinned. "I seem to have a thing for religious girls."

"They don't know the half of it," she whispered, sliding her hand into his.

"Should I show them?"

She laughed. "You're naughty."

"That's what they say."

She leaned in to say something else, but Rhonda tugged her by the arm. "C'mon. Let's get those drinks."

"I'm really thirsty," Mindy added.

Jake stood. "Your entourage awaits. Need any cash?"

Michelle shook her head. "I got it."

She leaned up and kissed him again, slower this time. Her tongue flicked out, playful. "I can't wait to see you play. You've worked so hard for this."

"I'm glad you're here," Jake said softly.

They kissed one last time, then she disappeared into the crowd.

Jake watched her go, then climbed back onstage. The moment was almost here.

By 6:55, all five members of The Saints were assembled backstage, peering out at the packed house. The air was heavy with smoke, sweat, and that crackling kind of energy that meant the night was about to tip over into something real.

Matt, Coop, and Darren all chain-smoked like it was oxygen. Bill chewed his nails down to the nub. Jake just stood there, gripping a bottle of water, his hands trembling a little.

This is real, he thought. We're actually doing this.

The crowd was loud. The lights were hot. The buzz of the amps felt like a pulse.

Jake had never felt so exposed.

What the hell am I doing here? he wondered, his nerves twisting. I can't do this.

Stage fright gnawed at him. It wasn't new—Jake had always been the quiet one. Second-born, always a little behind. His sister Pauline had been the golden child: top grades, perfect résumé, already a junior associate at one of Heritage's top law firms. She'd done it all: spelling bees, debate championships, early graduation, UCLA, Stanford Law.

Jake had never tried to compete.

He wasn't dumb. His IQ tests said otherwise. But school bored him. If it wasn't music, literature, or history, he tuned it out. His transcripts were a buffet of mediocrity: C's, D's, the occasional mercy B.

He didn't care about school spirit. Didn't care about student council or sports or standardized tests.

But when it came to music?

He cared.

And when he learned how to translate the chaos in his head into lyrics—when he learned how to sing, how to channel all the crap he didn't know how to say out loud—that was when things finally started to make sense.

By fifteen, he'd already picked a side in most political debates. By sixteen, he could explain how power worked better than his civics teacher. His views weren't loud, but they were solid—rooted in the books he read, the songs he worshipped, and the things he saw around him.

Now, as he waited backstage with his band, it all came flooding back. Every moment, every doubt, every voice that told him he wasn't enough. But he stood there anyway. Sweating. Silent. Determined.

Because somewhere along the way, he'd stopped just feeling the world was unfair—and started understanding why.

Because he'd seen it.

Because he'd lived it.

Because he'd realised—

how things were canted in favour of the rich, the strong, the cruel, how the catalyst and explanation for any act of any group could usually be found by examining who had what to gain from it.