Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 511(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
By the time he got back to the barracks, he was sweaty and sore and no closer to answers. Everyone was heading out for Friday night fun—bars, dinner, concerts.
Concerts. Tonight was Canaan’s show. Maybe...
What harm would it do to go? Sit in the back, see him one more time. Renzo had never seen him perform, and out of all the losses he was facing, all the things they’d never do, this one was preventable. It was likely to be a crowded venue, and he’d just be one more face in the crowd. Canaan wouldn’t even have to know he’d been there.
Once the idea took hold, he couldn’t shake it. Maybe this was what he needed to get that perspective back. Maybe it could be closure of a kind. So he scored a ticket online, honestly surprised there were any left, and took a shower, put on a black T-shirt and jeans, hoping to blend into the audience. Forcing himself to eat some dinner, he counted down the hours until the show time, getting to the La Jolla venue with plenty of time. The low-slung dark red building had a long line waiting for admission, and Renzo’s stomach fluttered. This was possibly the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but hell if he could turn back now.
One of the bouncers at the door checked Renzo’s ticket and ID, stamping his hand. The guy clearly worked out with big biceps and a massive chest. His head tilted, studying Renzo.
“You look familiar...”
“Just one of those faces.” Renzo gave him a tight smile. Maybe it was time to shut down the social media stuff.
“Have a good time tonight,” the guy told him, waving him in. Renzo wasn’t sure if good time was possible, but he might settle for not hurling. The idea of hurling made him think of Canaan, and he hoped Canaan wasn’t too nervous before performing. The inside of the venue was very bare bones—exposed beam ceiling, metal tables and chairs closer to the bar area, and plenty of standing room around the stage up front. The cavernous room held far more people than the outside of the building would indicate, and pictures behind the bar showed several well-known bands. A table was set up off to one side with merchandise for Kirby’s Revenge and the smaller band that was opening for them. Renzo recognized Kelly’s wife working the table, so he headed to the opposite side of the room, hoping to not be spotted.
The audience was full of UC San Diego students, young people standing around in big clumps, but there was also a sizable slightly older crowd in Kirby’s Revenge T-shirts and T-shirts for the Arts High School that Canaan and his friends had gone to. It was a reminder of how many friends Canaan had locally, how deep his ties to the area went.
He found a corner of real estate near a pillar to lean on that let him have a good view of the stage without being down front where Canaan would be more likely to spot him. The opening group had a violinist who somehow managed to make each song come across as a breakup anthem, swelling with emotions that the male lead singer echoed, and Renzo was ready for a drink. But he’d driven and had no idea what his tolerance was with months since his last drink, so he didn’t risk it. But hell if he’d come here to feel worse, to wrap himself in melancholy tunes. Or maybe that was all him, the way every song reminded him of Canaan, of the future they wouldn’t have.
Right when he was about to write the whole thing off as a terrible idea and leave, the opening set ended and the roadies came out to switch the stage over. He caught a glimpse of Canaan and his chest contracted. No, he wasn’t leaving. Forget a drink. Canaan was the drug he wanted to mainline. Just hook Renzo to an IV of his smell and taste and smile. He looked tired, little lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there last week. Guilt swamped Renzo, made it hard to breathe.
The guitarist who had replaced Damian was a looker—shaggy brown hair, tight black tank top, full arm sleeve of tats, and a bright red guitar. But Renzo could only spare the barest of notices for her or Cindy, the keyboardist, who’d transformed from the down-to-earth woman on the camping trip to alt-princess in black fishnets and a plaid sundress. All his attention was for Canaan up on the drum platform. He was wearing...
Hold up. That was one of Renzo’s T-shirts. He’d left it at Canaan’s one of his first nights there weeks ago. He’d had no clue Renzo was coming tonight. Couldn’t be a sign. Was it something he’d grabbed for luck? Was he missing Renzo? Didn’t seem like the sort of thing someone did if they were pissed.