Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Greg joins in on bass.
Then Seb rips into the opening chords on his guitar.
We start with a bang of pyrotechnics exploding from the stage like a wall of fire surrounding us, and the audience’s anticipation of everything that’s about to come out my mouth settles the nerves inside me.
I was born to do this. This was always going to be my destiny, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. But out there, somewhere in this crowd, I hope there’s the man I loved enough once upon a time to consider it.
I add the intentional rasp into my voice with the opening lines.
Bleeding heart
Torn apart
The crowd eats it up, and this is why I do what I do. For moments like this. I own the stage and every single person listening to me.
But as we work through the songs on our set list, and I strut across the stage and do my thing, the closer we get to that inevitable moment where we’re due to leave the stage.
I can’t help wondering if Sherlock will be there waiting for me.
The more I think about him not being there, the more strained my voice becomes. Even to the point where Seb takes a time-out between songs under the proviso to get a drink of water. He brings it over to me.
“Forget about him, man. Focus on what’s in front of you.”
I’ve been doing that for ten years to try to get here.
This is supposed to be the end of all accomplishments.
I stare out into the crowd, looking for a head of ginger hopefully sticking out under the desert sun.
There’re too many people. They’re all packed into the cordoned-off desert like sardines.
He could be anywhere.
Or nowhere.
Seb’s right. I need to forget about him and focus.
If he’s here, he deserves the best performance of my life.
If he’s not, the fans deserve the same amount of energy as Sherlock does.
I steal Seb’s water.
He doesn’t even care.
I sing my heart out for the rest of the songs on the set list, and then we reach the new one. One no one has ever heard before.
It’s been ten years
Since I saw your face
Wanting to talk to you
Wanting to see this through
Ten years
Countless beers
Missing you forever
Always losing my nerve
I want to hold you
To the ends of the earth.
I can tell we lose some of the crowd, but I don’t care. This song isn’t for them. This is for the boy I fell hard for at seventeen years old. Said goodbye to at eighteen. And for the man he now is. Whoever that may be.
In my mind, he graduated from Wharton and went on to be some big, important CFO of some company somewhere.
He’s still the same Sherlock. Nerdy on the outside, a confident toppy guy on the inside.
We’ve saved our biggest hit for last, so that’s okay, but I don’t know how well they’re going to react to a Katy Perry song—rock version.
Seb gives me the you owe me look right before addressing the crowd. “Don’t judge us for this next one. We lost a bet.”
I flip him off, and the crowd goes wild.
There’s a reason for Katy Perry. I’m not a closeted pop wannabe.
It just so happens the year this song came out was the same year Sherlock and I started dating. With the amount of airtime it got, it always reminds me of him.
And when we start singing “Teenage Dream,” surprisingly, the crowd goes even wilder. They start singing along to the point I don’t have to sing at all.
Who knew Katy Perry would be such a big hit at a rock festival? I side glance at Seb, and he looks as confused as I am.
We shrug it off and keep rocking out to a song whose target demographic is teenage girls.
It’s actually a lot of fun, but I’ll never, ever admit that out loud. I have a big rock star image to protect.
When we kick into the last song, the screams are deafening. This baby hit the charts and got played to death across radio stations and streaming services.
That cheering. That kind of fandom. This is what musicians live for.
I invoke the rock persona, leaning forward with both hands wrapped around the microphone while I belt out the lyrics.
My hips move, I shake my ass, and I work the stage like a stripper minus the pole. And, uh, the stripping part. Although, I am practically naked already.
Pretty sure anyone in the front can see my dick print through my pants.
When Seb joins in on the chorus, I approach him, and we stand back to back.
Greg isn’t as comfortable with the grinding up on him thing, which is why I stick to doing it to Seb. It makes the tabloids think something is going on between us, because, you know, two gay guys knowing each other without boning is impossible.