1. Jewel: Starstruck
The concert arena throbbed with loud, pulsing sound. Blazing spotlights crisscrossed the crowd as Jewel pushed her way to her seat.
Not that she could sit down. Her lifelong next-door neighbor James, or “Rage,” as she guessed he was known now, had sent her front-row tickets to his show. But the chairs themselves were lost to the teeming mass of fans pressing up against the barricade in front of the stage.
She was late, delayed by a series of flight mishaps, but she had made it. She wouldn’t let James down on the first stop of his tour, not when he’d bought her a plane ticket from London to Sacramento. Not to mention the driver with backstage passes sent to fetch her. She owed him that much.
Rage had the crowd in his palm, his guitar slung around his back, one arm in the air, belting lyrics that were as indecipherable as they’d always been to her when he’d practiced in his garage. He wore a slashed white wife beater and tight black vinyl pants with silver links and studded belts slung across his hips. He wasn’t the scrawny boy she remembered whatsoever. In the three years she’d been studying abroad, he’d definitely filled out. Biceps bulged as he reached around for his gleaming black Fender, and his thighs were twice the girth they’d been when she’d last noticed.
He banged out a screaming riff on the guitar, and the crowd roared around her.
She had to hand it to him, he’d arrived. While Morena Center wasn’t the grandest arena in town, it was big enough. The fact that they could sell this many tickets was a good sign that Rage in Chains was going to have a decent ride for a while. Jewel just hoped they were managed well, and that he hadn’t gone off the deep end into the rock star life.
The music started to penetrate and she closed her eyes, listening to James — Rage — bring it all down, slow the pace, lower the decibel, and sing something she could actually understand.
They say that we’re a bastard pair
We’ll do whatever the hell we dare
When Jewel looked back onstage, Rage had found her, a big smile crossing his face. He motioned her forward and even though she couldn’t get to the stage due to the barricade, the crowd let her come to the front, and he squatted down to sing to her.
They all say I’m just nineteen
And try to get up in between
We’ll take our time and spread our wings
Blow off this pathetic scene
And just be
The cymbals crashed then, and the drums took over as the song went back to its thundering crescendo. Rage jumped into the air, slamming chords on the Fender, and Jewel had to admit, she was starstruck.
For the first time, she got the obsession some girls had over musicians. It was powerful, the way they could move you, and if one singled you out and shined their light directly on you, well, there was no way anyone could resist that. Even as the older girl who had always viewed James as the pain-in-the-butt kid next door, her heart was racing and she could feel heat in all the key places.
The girls around her were dying to get the attention he’d shown Jewel. One had gotten up on the shoulders of her date and was tearing her shirt apart, tossing bits of it on the stage. Jewel glanced down at the guy, who was screaming lyrics, and she guessed he was okay with that. Maybe it was acceptable to sacrifice your woman to the rock gods. Or perhaps they were just friends attending the show together.
The band didn’t even pause as one song wound down and they counted off another. Their sound had really come together. Jewel peered at the other members. Crash was still in the band, also looking way more mature than the bean pole kid she’d last seen, as skinny as the bass guitar in his hands.
Metal looked about the same, splintering drumsticks and tossing them behind him, crazy curly hair smashed down by a sweatband. Jewel swore that was the same neon green terry band he’d been wearing for years.
Rage was swinging his guitar over
The concert arena throbbed with loud, pulsing sound. Blazing spotlights crisscrossed the crowd as Jewel pushed her way to her seat.
Not that she could sit down. Her lifelong next-door neighbor James, or “Rage,” as she guessed he was known now, had sent her front-row tickets to his show. But the chairs themselves were lost to the teeming mass of fans pressing up against the barricade in front of the stage.
She was late, delayed by a series of flight mishaps, but she had made it. She wouldn’t let James down on the first stop of his tour, not when he’d bought her a plane ticket from London to Sacramento. Not to mention the driver with backstage passes sent to fetch her. She owed him that much.
Rage had the crowd in his palm, his guitar slung around his back, one arm in the air, belting lyrics that were as indecipherable as they’d always been to her when he’d practiced in his garage. He wore a slashed white wife beater and tight black vinyl pants with silver links and studded belts slung across his hips. He wasn’t the scrawny boy she remembered whatsoever. In the three years she’d been studying abroad, he’d definitely filled out. Biceps bulged as he reached around for his gleaming black Fender, and his thighs were twice the girth they’d been when she’d last noticed.
He banged out a screaming riff on the guitar, and the crowd roared around her.
She had to hand it to him, he’d arrived. While Morena Center wasn’t the grandest arena in town, it was big enough. The fact that they could sell this many tickets was a good sign that Rage in Chains was going to have a decent ride for a while. Jewel just hoped they were managed well, and that he hadn’t gone off the deep end into the rock star life.
The music started to penetrate and she closed her eyes, listening to James — Rage — bring it all down, slow the pace, lower the decibel, and sing something she could actually understand.
They say that we’re a bastard pair
We’ll do whatever the hell we dare
When Jewel looked back onstage, Rage had found her, a big smile crossing his face. He motioned her forward and even though she couldn’t get to the stage due to the barricade, the crowd let her come to the front, and he squatted down to sing to her.
They all say I’m just nineteen
And try to get up in between
We’ll take our time and spread our wings
Blow off this pathetic scene
And just be
The cymbals crashed then, and the drums took over as the song went back to its thundering crescendo. Rage jumped into the air, slamming chords on the Fender, and Jewel had to admit, she was starstruck.
For the first time, she got the obsession some girls had over musicians. It was powerful, the way they could move you, and if one singled you out and shined their light directly on you, well, there was no way anyone could resist that. Even as the older girl who had always viewed James as the pain-in-the-butt kid next door, her heart was racing and she could feel heat in all the key places.
The girls around her were dying to get the attention he’d shown Jewel. One had gotten up on the shoulders of her date and was tearing her shirt apart, tossing bits of it on the stage. Jewel glanced down at the guy, who was screaming lyrics, and she guessed he was okay with that. Maybe it was acceptable to sacrifice your woman to the rock gods. Or perhaps they were just friends attending the show together.
The band didn’t even pause as one song wound down and they counted off another. Their sound had really come together. Jewel peered at the other members. Crash was still in the band, also looking way more mature than the bean pole kid she’d last seen, as skinny as the bass guitar in his hands.
Metal looked about the same, splintering drumsticks and tossing them behind him, crazy curly hair smashed down by a sweatband. Jewel swore that was the same neon green terry band he’d been wearing for years.
Rage was swinging his guitar over
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