Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
There’s no introduction, no transition. One second, the stage is empty. The next, there’s a flash of strobe lights and Midnight Destruction appears, instantly going into one of the songs I already know.
The crowd screams, the high-pitched screech in contrast to Ben’s deep guttural growl, which only seems to hype them up more.
“Welcome to your destruction . . .” Ben roars.
Except it’s not Ben. I know it is, but there’s nothing about the man onstage that’s my Ben. This man is angry, stomping around, and though I can’t see the lower half of his face because of the mask, you can get a hint of the way his mouth moves and imagine the snarl behind the fabric. His eyes are blacked out with contacts, and his face is coated with black paint, making him look like a void beneath the hood on his head. The only thing I recognize are the black button-fly jeans that send a jolt of electricity to my core when I remember trying and struggling to get them off so Ben could finally fill me the way I desperately wanted him to.
I’m in awe as the show really gets going. It’s intense, wild, raw. But I can hear Ben in the lyrics I do understand, though I don’t understand all of them. As they roll into a song I haven’t heard before, I can hear our story in the lyrics. He’s written song after song about us.
It’s poetry, but screamed out in pain—of love found and love lost, of beauty discovered and wasted, of fury and vengeance against those who operate against us.
In short, though it’s hard and harsh, it’s Ben’s love letter to me.
And I suddenly understand every word.
Chapter 29
BEN
Chaos in a bottle
Going wild beneath the lights.
Prettiest train wreck I’ve ever seen
Covered in your glittery midnight.
Coming to life
Resurrected from the ash of mediocrity.
Bury me six feet under
I’ll feed your righteous femininity.
Hope, when I have none
Love, when I’m all alone.
You make me
Unexpectedly . . . home.
Use me, take me
Become what you can be.
All I am is for you
Because you are—
Hope, when I have none
Love, when I’m all alone.
You make me
Unexpectedly . . . home.
There’s a hitch in my voice as I finish the repeat of the chorus, but this time, it’s not a crack of fear. It’s of pain. The audience has gone silent, swaying right and left before me even without my trademark orchestration. They can feel the love in the lyrics, the specialness of the song that is so different than our usual, and they’re with us all the way.
I hope Sherwood and AMM got their reassurance. Not that it matters. I meant what I said—the song stays either way.
We wrap up the impromptu set with one of our biggest “anthem” hits to send the crowd home happy, and I scream into the microphone, giving it all I have to hold out the last note as long as possible. When my air nearly runs out, I lift my arms overhead, looking up to the lights above us, and collapse forward into a bow. The lights go out.
It’s over.
We hurry offstage, and I stride straight for the greenroom to get my bag. I’m out of here. AMM has what it needs, the track list for the album is done, and the next time I’ll be needed is to show up to the closed studio for recording.
Sean and I will have to talk at some point about the contract negotiations, but it won’t be tonight. Or anytime soon. I don’t think I could sit in the same room as him right now and not spit in his face. We both need time to let this shit sink in.
Our usual exit after a concert is pretty unique. Keeping our costumes on, we get rushed out the back door of the venue, straight into three unmarked panel vans, which drive off in different directions, randomly going all over the city, making sure so nobody can follow Sean, Trent, or me. We’ve all become pros at scrubbing off body paint, towel wipe-downs, and changing clothes while cruising down the highway at seventy miles per hour in the dimly lit, open space of what amounts to a cargo hold, where we’re the cargo. We get dropped off somewhere, and then a different vehicle takes three normal-looking guys to wherever we’re staying to shower, shit, and sleep.
I’m expecting tonight to be status quo.
Except when I rush out the back door, the open door of the panel van reveals someone already sitting inside on the floor of the vehicle. Hope.
She’s here. Wearing my Midnight Destruction T-shirt, black jeans, and a hesitant smile.
There’s a bump to my back, knocking me forward. “I hate you, fucker,” Sean growls, low enough that only I hear him as he passes by me to get to his own transport van. But he pauses at the entrance to the vehicle, looking back over his shoulder.