Page 39 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)
TWENTY-SEVEN
T he lights go out just as we’re finishing sound check, and for a moment, I think it’s part of the show. Then I realize the emergency exit signs are the only things still glowing, casting everything in an eerie red wash.
Not just the stage lights. Everything. The entire arena plunges into darkness, the hum of amplifiers dies is quickly drowned out by the sound of the emergency exit telling us we need to leave.
“Well, that’s not good,” Ajay says from behind his drum kit, his voice echoing strangely in the sudden acoustic space.
“Power’s out citywide,” someone shouts from the back of the venue. “Grid failure. Could be hours.”
The arena manager appears with a flashlight, looking more frazzled than I’ve ever seen him. Earlier, his blond hair was gelled stylishly and now it’s a disheveled me, and he’s got his phone pressed to his ear while trying to coordinate with someone on the other end.
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to cancel tonight’s show,” he announces to our small group. “Insurance won’t cover anything without proper lighting and security systems. The fire marshal’s already on his way to shut us down.”
My heart sinks like a stone. Canceling is always the last option. The logistics of rescheduling is a nightmare according to Elle. We got lucky when Elle went into labor, we were about to break for the holidays. It’s as if Elle timed it all perfectly.
“What about the fans?” Dana asks.
“Refunds will be processed within three to five business days,” the manager says, already scrolling through his phone. “Security’s making announcements now.”
“This sucks,” Hendrix says, unplugging his electric guitar from an amp that’s no longer working. “I can’t remember the last time we’ve had to cancel.”
“Actually,” I say, an idea forming that’s either brilliant or completely insane, “what if we don’t cancel?”
Everyone turns to look at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Why does Elle have to be on leave?” Keane groans.
“Insurance, liability, crown control,” the manager says as he shakes his head.
“Here me out,” I say. “If there’s a grid out and no one knows when the lights will be on, isn’t it better the people out there stay here instead of driving? What if there’s an accident?” I ask. “The police are already outside and paid for, why not use them?”
The manager sighs and runs his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends.
“The power’s out, but we’ve got acoustic guitars,” I continue. “We’ve got voices. Battery-powered amps for small venues. And we’ve got fans who came here to hear music, not to see a light show.”
“It would be completely unplugged,” Keane says, and I can hear he’s already considering it. “Like MTV Unplugged, but in a parking lot.”
“With nothing but the music,” Dana says. “Just us and them and the songs. This will be bad ass and intimate. Do I need to call Elle?”
Ajay stands up from behind his kit. “I’m in. I’ve got a cajón in the bus, and honestly? Some of our best songs would sound incredible stripped down.”
I look at the manager who continues to shake his head.
“Dana, maybe get Elle on the phone. Let her know what’s going on and tell her what we want to do.
” I get the hesitation, but this seems like a no brainer.
It’s far better than letting people leave.
At least we’d be able to give them somewhat of a show.
After talking to Elle for a few moments, Dana hangs up with a smile.
“Elle says acoustic only, security must stay close, and people have to say behind the barricades. The police make the final decisions so if they’re not on board, it’s a no go and .
. .” Dana says as she looks at the manager.
“Elle would like to know if it’s possible for you to hand out water, soda, candy, and the food you already had made for the show. She says to bill her for it all.”
The manager groans. “I’ll be right back.” As he walks off stage, he’s talking into his walkie talkie with a raised voice. He barely makes it out of view before he’s back. “Your manager has a lot of pull.”
I smile wide and feel almost giddy at the thought of performing outside.
“You can play outside, as long as there aren’t any disturbances. Once the police say shut it down, it goes down. All fans must stay behind the metal barricades and no meet-and-greets.”
“Deal,” I say, already feeling the adrenaline kick in. I shake his hand, letting him know we’ll be on our best behavior.
Twenty minutes later, we’re set up on the arena’s front door.
Someone found extension cords and a small generator to power a basic PA system.
Ajay’s got his cajón instead of his full kit, Hendrix and I have acoustic guitars, and Keane’s keyboard is set up.
Plum is set up next to us with their acoustic instruments too.
And then someone in the crowd has the bright idea to turn on their headlights. Everyone cheers and some dart off to the cars.
The headlights illuminate our makeshift stage, and people have gathered in a semicircle around us. It’s not three thousand people—maybe three hundred stayed—but their energy is incredible. Intimate. Electric in a way that has nothing to do with actual electricity.
The crowd is different too. Without the barrier of a formal arena, people are close enough that I can see their faces clearly. I feel like I’m back in the café, singing songs I’ve written for people who are there to vibe.
There’s a couple in their sixties holding hands, teenagers with homemade band T-shirts and signs. These are the real fans, the ones who stayed when things got complicated.
“Well, this isn’t exactly how we planned tonight,” I say into the microphone that’s running off a small battery pack.
My voice carries across the arena parking lot, smaller and more intimate than it would be with full amplification.
“But sometimes the best music happens when you least expect it. We’re going to do something a little different and invite Plum to perform with us.
Thankfully, after being on tour for so long, we all know each other’s songs. ”
The crowd cheers, and I catch Justine’s eye. She’s glowing in the car headlights, her guitar cradled in her arms like she was born to hold it. She gives me a small nod, and I know we’re thinking the same thing—this is going to be special.
We start with “Fading Ink,” but stripped of all its production and layers, it becomes something entirely different.
Just my voice, my guitar, and the night air carrying the melody to people who chose to stay.
The crowd sings along softly, creating this incredible harmony that raises goosebumps on my arms.
Without the wall of sound from our usual setup, every word matters more. Every note has space to breathe. I can hear individual voices in the crowd, see people singing the words, watch couples sway together in the headlight beams.
Then Plum takes over with “Electric Heart,” and Justine’s voice floats over the arena parking lot like something ethereal.
People have their phone lights up, swaying gently, and it looks like we’re performing in a field of stars.
Without the production, her voice is even more powerful—raw and honest and completely mesmerizing.
“This song means a lot to me,” Justine says into her mic, her voice carrying easily in the quiet night. “It’s about finding something real in a world full of artificial connections. And right now, with all of you here, choosing to stay when everything went wrong. This feels pretty real.”
The crowd responds with warm applause, and I see people wiping their eyes. There’s something about the intimacy of this setting that’s bringing out everyone’s emotions.
But it’s when we do our duets that something truly magical happens.
“We’re going to do something we’ve never done before,” I announce. “This is ‘Smoke and Mirrors,’ but not like you’ve heard it.”
Without the full band arrangement, the song becomes something entirely different.
Stripped down to just our voices and guitars, every word feels more intimate, more honest. When Justine sings the line about seeing through facades, she’s looking right at me, and I know she’s not singing to the crowd anymore. She’s singing to me.
The first verse is all hers, and her voice carries across the arena parking lot like a prayer. When I join in for the second verse, our voices blend in a way that feels effortless, like we’ve been singing together our whole lives.
For the chorus, we share the microphone, standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo, feel the warmth radiating from her skin despite the cold January air. Our voices intertwine, creating harmonies that seem to rise above the sound of distant traffic and the hum of the generator.
The crowd has gone completely silent except for that collective breath that happens when people are witnessing something special. Even our bandmates have stopped playing their accompaniment, letting just our voices carry the melody.
When we finish, the silence stretches for a heartbeat that feels like forever before the applause erupts. But it’s not the wild cheering of a concert crowd. It’s the warm, appreciative applause of people who’ve just been moved by something real.
“Thank you,” Justine says softly into her mic, and her voice cracks slightly with emotion. “For staying. For being here with us when nothing went according to plan.”
“Sometimes the best things happen when you throw the plan out the window,” I add, and I’m looking at her when I say it. Because this—us, this moment, this connection—none of it was planned, and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.