Page 84 of Pack Me Up

His thumb moves, tracing a line down the side of my hand. Not sexual, not even affectionate. Just a fact: you’re real, and you’re safe, and I’m right here.

“If you ever want to tap out,” Fox says, “just look stage right. I’ll be there the whole time. If you need to leave or take a breather, just make a signal. It doesn’t matter what, I’ll get it and save you.”

I nod. The shaking is less now, more a tremor than a quake.

Tommy reappears, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Fox stands, his hand drifting up to my shoulder. He squeezes it gently and reassuringly. “Go get ’em,” he says, then steps back, arms crossed but eyes still locked on me.

I move toward the doors, feeling his gaze like a tether. Tommy grins, and together we push into the light.

The crowd is a living thing, roaring louder than any fear I brought in with me.

I know he’s there, just out of sight, and suddenly that’s enough.

We walk out, the spotlights hit, and my vision goes white and my ears ring. Tommy walks out like he owns the place, tossing a wave to the sound guy and slinging his guitar with a single smooth motion.

I follow, but my body is no longer mine. The lights are hotter than I imagined, burning down onto my skull, sweat instantly beading on the back of my neck.

My legs refuse to move. I’m supposed to cross to center stage, but the three steps might as well be a marathon. The microphone waits, a cold sentinel, daring me to come closer.

For a split second, I remember every horrible word my family has ever said to me. The terror is a physical thing, sharp-edged and blooming in my gut.

My mouth is dry. I try to lick my lips, but my tongue doesn’t help.

This is it, I think. This is the moment I break.

Then, through the sunburst glare, I see them.

Stage right, just off the edge of the lights, the Phoenix Pack stands at full attention. Saint is up front, arms crossed, shoulders square, his gaze fixed on me like a threat and a promise. Behind him, Colton and Cody, impossible to tell apart in the haze, are both leaning in twin stances. Fox, a little further back, is smiling, eyes soft, the kind of look that says: you can do this, you just don’t know it yet. Hunter is there too, fidgeting with a cable but never taking his eyes off me. Raw focus and nervous energy are radiating like a signal flare.

They’re a wall. A shield.

The sight of them hits harder than the crowd. It’s like the world narrows down to me, the stage, and the five of them anchoring me in place.

Tommy hits the opening chord, and the sound shocks me back into my body. I take a step. My knees wobble, but I don’t fall. The crowd is silent, expectant, waiting to see what I’ll do.

The microphone is still three feet away, but I force my legs to move. I grip the stand, knuckles white, and close my eyes.

Four in. Hold. Six out.

I find Fox again, and he nods, subtle but sure.

The first note hangs, brittle and perfect, and for a heartbeat I think it might shatter. Then my fingers find the chord, and the sound blooms. My voice follows.

I grip the stand harder, lean in, and let the fear bleed into the music. The verse is simple, almost a lullaby, and I play it straight, my hands moving without permission. Tommy comes in on the second line, his voice a soft shadow under mine, filling the gaps, anchoring the melody. He’s calm and effortless, and the crowd responds to that. They relax, sway, and let themselves be pulled along.

The chorus hits, and my lungs burn. I throw the words out like a dare, louder now, the tone round and bright even as my heart pounds against the inside of my chest. Tommy’s harmonies sharpen, weaving in and around, always there when I falter. He knows where I’ll stumble before I do. He’s my net.

I dig in, remember Fox’s hand steadying mine, the look in Saint’s eyes, the wall of the pack bracing me at my back.

The crowd roars in response. The noise rolls up from the floor and into my bloodstream.

The rest of the set is a blur. I lose track of where I am, who I am, and how long we play. It’s all sensation: the heat, the vibration in the floor, the way the strings cut into the pads of my fingers until they sting. Each song is a little easier than the last.Each time the crowd screams, the fear dulls, replaced by a sweet, dizzying rush.

I open my eyes in the middle of the third song, and the lights have adjusted. I can see the first rows with faces tilted up, eyes wide, and mouths open in awe or joy or both. I see Fox on the edge of the stage, his blue eyes never leaving mine. Next to him is Hunter holding two thumbs up in encouragement. Colton and Cody are posted at opposite sides of the stage, arms crossed, scanning the room like they’re about to tackle a threat. Saint is further back, but his gaze is the same as ever, impossible to ignore, cutting through everything.

I let the energy flood in. I sing louder, stretch the notes and push myself. Tommy laughs into his mic, loving every second, and the crowd howls for more.