Chapter 15: Encore

The crowd went off like a bomb.

Applause, whistles, screams, stomping—loud enough to shake the walls. It wasn't just polite clapping. This was full-throttle, drink-sloshing approval. Jake soaked it in like a man crawling through a desert stumbles into a waterfall.

They loved us, he thought, stunned. They actually fucking loved us.

A stupid grin spread across his face, the high of adrenaline mixing with the noise. That $250 payday meant nothing now. Not compared to this. The feeling of a crowd cheering for you, the rush of standing in the spotlight while strangers yell your name… it was like plugging straight into a lightning socket.

As the cheers faded, Coop gave a tight four-count with his sticks, and they launched into Who Needs Love?, one of Matt's bitter anthems about jaded romance and emotional fallout. It was a fast, grinding track with another razor-sharp lead riff that let Matt flex on guitar. Jake—who didn't fully buy into the cynicism but knew how to sell it—delivered the lyrics with raw conviction, his voice tight with frustration and edge.

Thanks to Bill's masterful pre-show balancing on the soundboard, every line hit hard, every word crystal-clear.

"Who needs love?Love will force you to commit,Will make you feel that this is it,Life goes on and there you'll sit—

Who needs love?A lie formed to make you choose,Just put your neck into the noose,Those who love will always lose."

The crowd erupted again. Louder this time. Longer. More cheers, more whistles, more calls from the pit and the bar.

And they weren't done. The Saints tore through the next two songs without pause. The crowd kept pace, feeding off the energy, giving it back in kind.

Before song five—a slower, piano-driven ballad with acoustic guitar layered in—Jake leaned toward the mic.

"You all having a good time tonight?"

The crowd's response nearly blew out the sound system.

Jake laughed. "We're having ourselves a hell of a time as well. It's an honor to be playing here at D Street West, and an honor to be opening for The Hounds."

"Fuck The Hounds!" someone roared.

"Yeah! Fuck The Hounds!" others joined in.

That got the biggest cheer of the night.

In total, they played eleven of their sixteen originals. Somewhere around song six, Jake realized his body wasn't keeping up with his ambition. He was drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to his back, legs starting to ache, heart pounding like a jackhammer. His breathing got tighter, but he kept it just below the line where it might affect his voice.

Between songs he sipped water, reset his stance, and dove back in—pushed forward by the high of applause and the growing certainty: They love us. We're not just opening. We're killing it.

The final track of the set was one of Jake's own, Living By The Law—a protest track aimed at the rise of litigious culture. It opened with a beautiful acoustic-electric duet between Jake and Matt. Jake's fingerpicking laid the groundwork while Matt's solo carved through the melody, mournful and deliberate.

The tempo crept upward, slowly, steadily—until Jake stomped on his pedal and kicked in full distortion. The song mutated mid-performance, raw and loud, Matt shredding over Jake's grinding rhythm. Then Matt broke off into a four-minute solo that had the audience in a trance.

Even Jake was swept up in it. From behind Matt, guitar still in hand, he watched people in the crowd turning to each other, saying things like "Holy shit, this guy's insane!"

They weren't wrong. Matt's solo bled emotion—frustration, chaos, defiance. Genius poured out of his fingertips.

When Jake rejoined with the main riff, the full band stormed back in, hammering out the final verses and ending in a massive flourish of keys, percussion, and guitar. A full sixty seconds of coordinated sound... and then silence.

Then cheers. Applause. Screams.

"Thank you," Jake said into the mic, breathless, glowing. "Thank you so much. You're all great!"

The five of them linked arms and bowed.

"Enjoy The Boozehounds, and have a good night," Jake added. "We'll see you again soon."

They stepped offstage and into the wings. Jake checked his watch.

7:43 PM. Two minutes early.

"That was fuckin' awesome!" Darren shouted, slapping backs like a man possessed. "They fuckin' loved us. Loved us!"

"We rocked!" Coop beamed. His curls were soaked, his face red from effort. "We really did!"

Bill looked stunned. Like he couldn't quite believe what had happened. Like he didn't trust the memory of a two-minute piano solo that had earned him a standing ovation. Jake still couldn't wrap his head around that part either.

Matt stood apart, quiet, watching the stage like he was expecting something.

Then they heard it.

Applause—still going. Not fading. Growing.

The crowd had started clapping in rhythm. A chant broke out, building fast, rising like thunder.

"More! More! More!"

"They want an encore," Coop whispered. "Can you believe that shit?"

Matt turned. "Then let's give 'em what they want."

"Hold up," Jake said, grabbing Matt's shoulder. "We didn't rehearse an encore. What the hell are we supposed to do?"

"Almost Too Easy," Matt said immediately. It was one of his older tracks, written long before Jake or Bill had joined the band. Loud, simple, dirty—classic Saints. "We've done it enough. We know it cold."

"You sure O'Donnell won't flip?" Bill asked nervously.

Matt shrugged. "Doubt it. Come on."

They went back out, blinking against the hot white of the stage lights. The crowd went berserk.

Coop counted them in, and they nailed Almost Too Easy like it was the opener. The audience roared for more.

"Business as Usual!" Matt shouted, already halfway into position. Another track that hadn't made the official setlist, but everyone knew it.

Another four-count. Another song. Another explosion of cheers.

And then they left the stage for real—sweaty, exhausted, elated.

They didn't go back, no matter how loud the crowd got. The golden rule was clear.

Leave them wanting more.

The calls and chants stretched on, only dying out once the stage lights dimmed and the house lights came back up.

Michaels and Hathaway stormed in, both red-faced and steaming like pressure cookers ready to blow.

"What the fuck do you assholes think you were doing?" Michaels barked. "Your set was supposed to be forty-five fucking minutes. It's five minutes to eight!"

Matt shrugged, completely unfazed. "Just giving the people what they want."

"Oh, you're real fuckin' funny," Hathaway snapped. "Now we're running late. Our set starts in thirty-five minutes and your shit is still on stage!"

Jake winced, ready to step in—but Matt beat him to it.

"What's the big deal?" he said. "It's not like you guys do sound checks or tune your instruments or anything."

That lit the fuse.

"You fuckin' hackers!" Michaels exploded. "We were playing this stage when you little shits were listening to Sonny and Cher on your parents' eight-track players! How dare you—"

"And you're still playing here, aren't you?" Matt interrupted, calm as ever. "Eight years later, still stuck in Heritage. And you've got the balls to call us hackers? Did you even hear that applause tonight? The encores? The crowd chanting 'Fuck The Hounds'?"

Michaels and Hathaway went silent for a beat—just long enough for the punch to land.

Then Hathaway growled, "Let's see what O'Donnell has to say about this."

Matt didn't blink. "Great idea. In fact, here he comes now."

O'Donnell stepped into view, wiping his hands with a bar towel, clearly having heard enough of the commotion.

"You boys absolutely killed it out there," he said, grinning at The Saints. "Best damn set I've ever seen from a first-time band. Jesus Christ."

He turned to Jake. "You free the next couple weekends? I want you back here. Headlining if need be."

Michaels stepped in, voice hard. "No. That ain't happening."

O'Donnell turned slowly. His smile didn't budge, but his tone chilled. "How's that?"

"I don't want this band opening for us anymore," Michaels said. "They're rude. Unprofessional. They ran over their time slot. If you want to book 'em, fine—but not when we're here."

O'Donnell looked at him like he was measuring something.

And then he said, cool as steel: "There's gonna be a lot of nights you're not here if you ever tell me how to run my establishment again."

The room went still.

"These boys play when I say they play," O'Donnell continued. "You don't like it? There's the door. Go find another venue."

Michaels looked like he might pop a blood vessel. "We're The Boozehounds! If we're not here, nobody's coming! We bring the crowd!"

"For now," O'Donnell said evenly. "But I think that's gonna change real soon."