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Rocket

E ighty thousand screaming voices sing back at us.

The sound they create surges into the dark of the arena, through the blinding lights of the rigging above, and then slams into us like a wave that crashes onto the stage.

My fingers fly over the keys of my keyboard, feeding off their energy. I’m drenched in sweat, and my pulse thunders with a never-ending rush of adrenaline.

Lights flash.

The sound riots.

Hawkin’s voice roars into the mic.

Vince’s guitar squeals through a lick.

Gizmo slams into his drum kit like he’s trying to crack open the sky.

This is it. The high . The place where nothing matters—where the crowd worships us like the gods we aren’t, and we live on their attention like it’s the oxygen we need to breathe.

We areuntouchable. Indestructible. Met as teens with dreams and now are men who get to live them out. Fucking legends in leather.

I hold the last chord longer than needed—eyes closed, chin tilted to the rafters—the moment fucking surreal.

Then Gizmo hits his drum finale, and the stage explodes in lights and fire as confetti rains down all around us.

The high is stratospheric—this dream we’re living is fucking awesome.

I see it in the faces of the people in the front row. The cell phone lights swaying in the far depths of the arena. In the chants of BENT over and over as we wave goodbye one last time and jog offstage.

Backstage is chaos. Absolute fucking chaos. Security, crew, hangers-on—they all line the hallways as Hawkin, Vince, Gizmo and I take one final walk through the wide corridor toward the greenroom. I pull my sweat-soaked shirt off and chuck it onto the floor where it lands on top of Hawke’s.

The adrenaline crash is coming. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve done this, it still hits. The shakes, the racing heart, the flash of heat that feels like it’s consuming your body. The need for silence but to not be alone.

It’s the weirdest fucking clash of reactions so I do the only thing I’ve learned to combat it—well, other than sex that is—and I grab the bottle of Jameson one of the techs hands me. No glass, no hesitation, I drink itstraightfrom the neck.

“Jesus Christ, you’re an animal.” Vince laughs, pushing past me and grabbing the bottle out of my hand just long enough to take a pull himself.

I grab it back. “We just played our asses off. I earned this.”

“Damn right, brother,” Hawkin says, already two shots in and soaking up the post-show glow like a cigarette after a damn good bout of sex. But by the way his wife is looking at him as she sits with her legs laying across his lap, that might be happening sooner rather than later too.

A sexy blonde drapes herself around my shoulders, her tongue brushing the shell of my ear. “You wereunrealout there,” she murmurs.

Anne? Abby? Her name escapes me, but the suction of her lips from earlier before the show sure as shit doesn’t.

I grin and decide to hell with remembering her name. Security knows to have her out of here soon. “We usually are.”

Gizmo stumbles in behind us, shirt off, hair a mess, drumsticks still in his back pocket, and a newly placed wedding ring glinting off the overhead lights. “You call this an afterparty?” he shouts to no one in particular .

The greenroom smells like sweat, whiskey, and ego. Perfectly fucking BENT.

Our publicist shouts into a phone in the corner as she deals with some invisible crisis.

Our manager’s ordering people around and no doubt jonesing to get the fuck out of here and go home to his wife he never sees.

The road crew and the women they’ve invited back here with them are laughing and hoping to get fucking lucky tonight.

Hawkin has Quinlan and those long legs of hers. Vince has Bristol sitting on his lap, his chin on her shoulder as they take it all in. And Gizmo is dancing drunkenly with his wife.

And then there’s me...sizing up everyone else and contemplating if I really want to take Abby-Anne-whatever her name is to my dressing room before heading back to my house and my bed and the peace I crave.

We’re in Los Angeles. The home we’ve longed for after what’s felt like endless months on the road.

That’s why we made it our final stop before taking a two-month long break.

We’ve done this long enough to know there needs to be a hiatus from the wear and tear on our bodies, our relationships. ..and our livers .

And thank God that break is finally here.

The music is blaring, and the lights were just dimmed, so if I want to lose myself in their shadows to have a little privacy, no one will care what I’m doing.

This is the fucking life.

It’s messy, wild, loud as hell. Ours .

I’m Rocket fucking Caldwell. I’ve got platinum records on my walls and groupies waiting to unzip my jeans.

Thisis who I am.

This is all I’ve ever wanted.

I raise the bottle, take another drink, and let the burn slide down my throat like a reward. Two months off. No shows. No press.

Just excess and freedom and silence.

I tip my head back and let the buzz settle in. Savor the chaos. Own every single fucking moment of it.

But had I known this was the last night of true freedom, I would have savored the predictability more. Because up until this moment, my life felt complete. Mine .