Front Row

  Front Row

  A Novel

  Rebekah N. Bryan

  Copyright 2015 Rebekah N. Bryan

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  To the PHP and all fans of music and cute boys.

  "Welcome to the roller coaster ride."

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1: The Fandom

  Chapter 2: Cleveland

  Chapter 3: Detroit

  Chapter 4: Milwaukee

  Chapter 5: Chicago

  Chapter 6: Indianapolis

  Chapter 7: Orlando

  Chapter 8: Milwaukee Again

  Chapter 9: Chicago Again

  Chapter 10: The Secret's Out

  Chapter 11: Washington, D.C.

  Chapter 12: New York City

  Epilogue: Ten Years Later

  About the Author

  Connect with Rebekah N. Bryan

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First of all, thank you to my husband and daughters for letting me do my thing, experience life, and then escape into my book for a while. I finally did it, honey! To my girls, Katie, Theresa, Erin, thank you for being my muses and my first audience. Thank you to all the bands I love and follow. My life would be dull without your music. And to Walker, thanks for indulging me and giving me some band name ideas. To Malinda, thank you for being an honest beta reader and for reining in my characters' bitchiness. Mom, I know the content freaked you out at times, but I appreciate your feedback and editorial eye. You reminded me that self-editing is never a good idea. Thank you to my creative and gifted artistic sister-in-law Jill for the beautiful cover art. It's perfect. And again to Katie for helping me make the cover look pretty and for finding all my grammatical errors in my first draft. Finally, I could not and would not have done this without the NaNoWriMo challenge and the support and camaraderie of the Nano community. November is my favorite month of the year now.

  Chapter 1: The Fandom

  I have this rule where I'll only sit in the first three rows on a roller coaster. Front row is preferable. In the front row, you get all the thrills. All the excitement is right there in front of you. Back row is just as thrilling, just with more heads in the way, but I'd rather do without the feeling of my stomach in my throat on every drop. The middle is where people go if they don't care as much. They get in line, wait their turn, and take the next available row. It's not going to be as fun as the front or back rows, but these people probably won't know the difference.

  It's the same way for music fans and where they stand at a concert. There are three types of fans as far as I see it—hardcore, crazy, and fair-weather. The hardcore fans are up front. They're the ones who camped out. They're probably seeing more than one show on the tour. Most of their money, and much of their credit card debt, is going toward the band. They know the biggest thrill is right up front, and they live for that thrill.

  Just like on the roller coaster, the hardcore, thrill-seeker equivalent of fans could also be in the back. They know all the material, but they're just there for the music. Either that, or they've already been to a show on the tour where they were front row, so last row is fine. Last row is good for taking in the environment. And dancing. And getting wasted. You can't get wasted anywhere else or you'll piss people off. Which people do sometimes.

  The fair-weather fans—the ones who probably have only heard the singles—are somewhere in the middle. They rolled up to the venue around the time the doors opened. They may not be avid concert-goers, and the middle of the crowd is fine for them. All they really need is to hear the one song they know, and then they'll tune out, leave, or drink the rest of the time.

  The final level is the crazy fans. They're similar to hardcore fans, but once the words "restraining order" are thrown around, even in casual conversation, they've probably crossed into crazy territory. At a concert, these fans are the ones elbowing the people in the front row who camped out. They're the ones cutting in line and thinking the roller coaster is going to sleep with them. I mean the band. The band is going to sleep with them. The crazies are the ones who would be apt to break into the band's house and steal their toothbrushes or pet iguanas or something like that. Honestly, I find the crazies more tolerable than the fair-weather fans. At least they're entertaining.

  I'd like to think my friends and I fall into the "hardcore" category. Our object of obsession, or dedication as we prefer to call it, is a band called The Out of Towners. We, the fans, are their Townies.

  And now, thanks to a radio contest, I was going to get the opportunity to meet them. Ahhhhhh! I had been at my parents' house when I made the call because I had an unresearched theory that calls made from landlines get through to radio stations more often than from cell phones, so I scheduled a trip home from college to do laundry, have a meal with the family, and make my phone call. My hands trembled as my fingers hovered over the gray buttons of the ecru-colored cordless phone, waiting for the radio DJ to announce the phone number. My heart thumped in my chest. The funny thing was, I was more nervous about what I would say when I won than about not getting through. I just had this feeling that I would get through. I knew it. So when I heard a busy signal the first few times I hit Redial, I wasn't discouraged. I was so focused that I almost hung up to dial again when I heard a scratchy voice say, "Kiss FM, who is this?"

  "Uh, Rachel." My voice raised on the last syllable, almost making it sound like a question.

  "Rachel, you are caller number thirteen!"

  Lucky thirteen. "That's so awesome! Thank you!"

  The DJ paused, and static filled the silence. "Alright then. Congratulations. You're going backstage to meet The Out of Towners!" I could tell the radio DJ wanted me to get excited and squeal, but I didn't want to seem like one of the crazy fans.

  "Thank you. I can't wait," I said again, bouncing a little on the edge of my bed.

  "Stay on the line, OK?"

  ***

  Back at my college apartment, I flicked the hangers in my closet from one end to the other, the metal of the hanger screeching against the metal bar. "Too lame." Screech. "Too business-like." Screech. "Too boring." Screech.

  This was the most important outfit of my entire life. Even more important than my future wedding dress will be. This was the outfit that could maybe, possibly, someday lead to a wedding dress. In a perfect world and all. Was I delusional? Maybe a little. OK, maybe a lot. This was the outfit I was going to wear to meet my favorite band.

  I'd been waiting for this moment for years. And tomorrow, it was going to happen. I wished I had planned ahead better, but with school and work and sleep, I just didn't have time to come up with something to wear yet. As I scanned my closet and the pile of laundry—some clean, some dirty—on my floor, I realized that I really did have nothing to wear. At least, nothing worthy of that day. The day.

  I could borrow something from my roommates, but I wanted something new. This kind of occasion called for something special. I pushed another small pile of clothes and some school books off of my desk chair and sat in it backwards, with my knees on the seat and the back of the chair facing the computer. With a vague sense of optimism, I logged on to check how much money I had in my checking account. $16.81. I put my hand up to my forehead. I can work with that. In the back of my mind, I seemed to remember I needed to pay for something, and I knew I needed to go grocery shopping, but that all could happen later. Payday was only days away.

  I grabbed my purse from on top of the desk and reached in to retrieve my keys. I felt nothing metal—mostly gum wrappers and receipts and my cloth-covered wallet. I
stood up and flung clothes into new piles until I found my backpack. No keys there either. Opening the door, I walked into the kitchen, which was a stark contrast from my disorganized bedroom. As opposed to my messiness, my roommates were both very tidy. They also were both at class, so I couldn't ask them if they had seen a stray set of keys lying around. I scanned the kitchen counters and stuck my hands in the living room couch cushions but still found nothing except a nickel and a Starburst wrapper.

  Minutes of searching later, roommates Haley and Kim came in to find me crouched down, trying to see things at floor level.

  "What are you doing?" asked Haley.

  "Looking for my keys. They're not anywhere. Have you guys seen them?"

  Kim gestured to the key hook beside the door. "Yeah, I hung them up."

  I groaned and snatched my keys from the hook. Flustered and sweaty from my frantic searching, I tried to keep calm and invited the roommates to join me for a trip to Walmart to look for an outfit.

  "You still haven't decided what to wear? Your meet-n-greet is tomorrow. I'm not even meeting the guys, and I know exactly what I'm going to wear."

  For a moment, I stared at her while making up my mind as to whether I was going to argue back or not. Kim, with her short stature, chin-length blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and glasses, was a force to be reckoned with. When on her good side, she was the most fun, energetic person around. When on her bad side, the key was to either be prepared for a fight or shut up and let her be the victor. I conceded this time. "Yeah, I know. I suck. I really wish you guys could come with me, though."

  The girls passed on the shopping trip, as they had to eat lunch and get to their last class of the week. Haley and Kim were in the same program at school and thus, most of the same classes. As for myself, I had the foresight to schedule only morning classes on Fridays. It was nice having the afternoon to bum around and start the weekend early.

  I ran downstairs and into the parking lot and pulled on the door handle of the car. The door creaked open, and I sped off down the road to Walmart, which was the only shopping option in the small college town. I didn't have time to hit up the mall 20 minutes away.

  Once in the store, I wandered into the juniors' section. I knew the pickings would be slim, but I hoped it wouldn't be that slim. Since it was September, fall sweaters occupied most of the racks. I checked the sale section in hopes of finding something suitable for the still nearly 80-degree weather. Flipping through the frumpy graphic T-shirts and boring white and gray layering tank tops, I spotted a flash of shiny pink. I grabbed at the camisole, which I now saw was trimmed in black lace. I couldn't tell if it had migrated over from the intimates section, but that made it all the more appealing. It was adorable. Perfect. And a size too small. Better than too big, I reasoned, as I held it up to myself.

  I hurried to the checkout and congratulated myself on getting out of there under ten dollars even though I could've used some new makeup or new shoes to go with it. But I hoped my bright, lacy camisole would distract the guys from looking anywhere else.

  When I arrived back at the apartment, my cell beeped from my bedroom. Of course I had forgotten to throw it in my purse. I noticed a missed call from our friend Alex, who was also joining us for the concert along with our other friend Shelly.

  "Hey, Alex. Are you almost here?"

  "Yeah, we should be there in about 15 minutes. We stopped to get gas and pick up some snacks for the drive."

  "Good thinking. See you in a bit."

  Fantastic. As soon as Haley and Kim got back, we'd all pile in Haley's car and head out! Only a 7-hour trek and we'd be there. While the distance to some might seem crazy, it didn't faze any of us in the least. We would go much farther to see our Towners if we were able.

  We owed a lot to those three guys. Although Shelly and I had been friends since third grade when her family moved in next door to mine, and Haley and I had befriended each other in the sixth grade, the three of us would not have gotten to know Alex or Kim without our mutual love for The Out of Towners. Since then, which was five years ago, we had become inseparable. Even after I moved further away, even after some of us left for college and some of us took on full-time jobs, we didn't let a day go by without communicating, most likely about the Towners themselves. Through the years, we attended Towners concerts anytime they came to town, but we had yet to journey far from home. This year, that would all change. We were determined to make this the most exciting year of our fandom yet.

  I was the only one who scored a meeting with the band, but I hoped that some other luck would come our way on this tour. I felt bad enough already. Not bad enough to give up the chance to meet the guys, but bad enough to hope that my friends didn't hate me forever.

  My eyes wandered to a picture on my dresser of myself at fifteen years old, standing next to my four best friends, all of us clad in band T-shirts with our hair in two French braids secured with ribbons. I smirked to myself. Everyone knows you're not supposed to wear the shirt of the band you're going to see. It was cute when we were teenagers, but not when you're of legal age. Back then, our main concern was just being there—being in the same room as our favorite band. Screaming at the top of our lungs about how we thought one of the members was hot or something foolish like that. Now, I would shoot eye daggers at anyone who dared to scream like that in my presence.

  The picture beside the first one was from a couple years later. By then, we had figured out that the goal was to be sexy to get the attention of the guys (who knew?), but we hadn't figured out how to accomplish that yet. I rolled my eyes for the millionth time as I inspected my outfit in the photo—too short, shiny black pleather pants and a baggy cornflower blue T-shirt with a v-shaped notch at the collarbone. At least my friends knew how to dress for the hot June weather and show some leg. Now, four years later, I have it more figured out, I think.

  I grabbed my duffel bag from the top shelf in my closet, pulling a number of other items to the floor in the process. Ignoring the increasing mess, I threw a pair of jeans, underwear, shorts and a T-shirt for the drive home, a brush, flip flops, and makeup into the bag. With the few minutes I estimated I had left, I tried on my new shiny camisole. Going a size down had been the right decision with the satiny fabric taut and fitted against my figure, and the smaller size did not result in the shirt being too much shorter. As the tallest one in the group by almost half a foot, I worried about tops and jeans being long enough or making sure to wear the flattest of the footwear so as not to make myself appear more giant than I felt.

  I spun halfway around to double check my backside. This meet and greet was going to be the start of something good. I longed to be one of the girls invited backstage to hang out with the band. The super fans in the front row who the guys smiled at and talked to while on stage, in front of hundreds of other fans. It wasn't the envy of the other fans I was seeking; it was the adoration of the guys I was so obsessed—nay—dedicated to.

  There was a knock on my bedroom door, and Haley, fellow smart-fan-to-be, walked in. "You look cute," I said. Haley stood several inches shorter than me and had wavy auburn virgin hair, untouched by hair dye, that she straightened and put up halfway almost every day.

  "Thanks, so do you." Haley was the consummate friend—nothing but positive, agreeable, and friendly.

  "Eh, I look OK." I changed the subject to avoid making it seem like I was fishing for compliments. "This is going to be so awesome. Now I just have to ask Gabe to marry me."

  Haley played along. "And Randy will fall in love with me, and you can be my maid of honor."

  "I'm marrying Randy!" Kim appeared in my doorway, eyeliner pencil in hand, only one eye made up.

  "You have a boyfriend," I said.

  "So?"

  "So won't he have something to say about you wanting to marry Randy?"

  The doorbell rang, and I chasséd over to answer it. As I opened the door, I posed with a hand on my hip. "What do you think?"

  "Cute!" said Alex and Shelly in un
ison.

  Alex dropped her purse and bulging duffel bag onto the floor with a thud and tucked her dark brown, shoulder-length hair, which was highlighted with thin blond streaks, behind her ears. "Gabe's going to love it." Gabe was my favorite member of the band and the man I was convinced I was going to marry.

  "That's the idea!"

  Chapter 2: CLEVELAND

  Even though we were all dressed, with hair straightened, makeup on, and extra clothes packed, it still somehow took us another 45 minutes to get everything, including ourselves, smooshed into Haley's sedan.

  On most of our group outings, I offered to drive, but we were running late and needed to get to the venue even faster than my driving could carry us. I surrendered to Alex as she lit a cigarette, and I dropped into the passenger seat. "Can I get one of those?"

  "Hey," said Kim in an accusatory tone.

  Alex handed the box to me, and I fumbled one of the white sticks out and flicked at the tab on the lighter, but it only emitted sparks. Alex grabbed the lighter back and lit it with one smooth motion. I held the stick up to the flame.

  "You have to put your mouth on it."

  "Oh." I knew at least two of the guys in The Out of Towners were smokers. Trying to take up the habit was one of my plans to get their attention. I sucked in the tar, and before the warm smoke could fill my lungs, I formed my lips into a small O shape and blew out while making a forceful "hoo" sound.

  Alex raised one of her eyebrows at my ridiculousness. "So what are you going to say to them at your meet-n-greet?"

  "I have no idea. Um, I love you. Will you marry me?" We all laughed. I didn't want to be that fan. "I'll probably just say 'hi' and that's it. I know I'm going to be so lame."

  Kim poked her head between the two front seats. "We have to try to find their hotel. I heard some girls at the last show located their hotel and met the guys after the show. Who knows, maybe they'll even invite us up for some, ya know, fun stuff."