Wicked (Somerset University #2) - Ruby Vincent Page 0,9
The pushing and shoving to get closer to the stage made it obvious who the crowd was here to see.
“Hello, everyone.” A short guy wearing the bar’s logo spoke into the mic. Behind him, the curtain lowered and a spotlight hit the stage. “Who’s ready for Beyond Berlin?”
Shouts and whoops were his reply.
“They’ve got an amazing set for you guys tonight,” he said. “Let’s show some love to get them out here.”
The bar burst into applause. Gwen got out of her seat and sat next to me. As the band jogged out, she whispered in my ear. Warm Guinness breath washed over me.
“The drummer is Rylan Sherman. He never gets a solo but the fans would go wild if he did. Their panties melt every time he tosses a wink their way.”
A lanky guy in a leather vest took his place at the drums. Shiny, long black and gold hair hung down in his face. He pushed it back with his drumstick and grinned at the crowd. The screams ratcheted up to deafening.
“The guitarist is Chandler Kaufman,” she continued. “Definite interview type.”
Interview types were what Gwen and I called the artists with the charm and wit to handle themselves in interviews. Some artists could do a long set and then play to half a dozen reporters and cameras shoved in their face. Others ripped the microphones out of their hands and threw them at the sound guy. True story. We made sure the interview types were front and center.
Chandler Kaufman could for sure play to the cameras. He has that clean-cut boy-next-door look that Ezra insisted on.
“That’s the bassist,” she said. “Ty Boyce. He’s Welsh. The accent isn’t strong but still swoon-worthy.”
“You’re thinking the label should play up their sex appeal,” I said, following where she was going.
“I don’t make those decisions, but look at this crowd. It’s eighty percent women. It couldn’t hurt to bring the boys out from behind their instruments.”
I nodded. Gwen didn’t have to intern for every department like I did, all the same, I could see the head of the PR department agreeing with her. All that shipping crap could catapult a group to the top faster than their talent.
“But I’m all about the talent,” I said aloud. “Let’s see if they’re as good as everyone says.”
“Trust me,” Gwen replied, “she is.”
She emerged from the back on the wave of a rolling hush passing through the audience. She struck them—and me—dumb.
Glittering, fiery red hair flowed from her black beanie. The shade a perfect match for the ruby gloss on her Cupid’s bow lips. As her eyes swept the crowd, she gifted each one of us a secret smile that wrinkled her sharp nose. She was the ethereal kind of gorgeous. A gorgeous that didn’t seem real. If I reached out to touch her, surely my hand would pass right through.
“Thanks for coming out, everyone,” she began. A low, throaty voice fell from her lips. “We’re Beyond Berlin.”
The screams kicked off louder than the cheers for the drummer.
“That’s Serena Blackwood,” said Gwen. “The band’s singer and songwriter.”
“Stage name?” I asked without looking away.
“Probably. But it suits her.”
“We’re starting off with a favorite of mine.” Serena wrapped herself around the microphone stand, caressing it with long, thin fingers. “Stuck In Your Nightmare.”
The band launched into the song and the world fell away. The screeching fans. Heavy cloud of smoke. Lingering scent of wings and burned barbecue sauce. All of it disappeared as Serena Blackwood sang.
Haunting.
The word Bianca used and its accuracy was frightening. It slipped through your ears and laid claim to your mind like a poltergeist. Weeks, months, years would pass, and I’d never be rid of the memory of her voice. It’d haunt me for the rest of my life.
Serena’s song led the audience through the pain of love lost. Loving a man who couldn’t love and experiencing a pain worse than indifference or hate—invisibility. He never saw her at all.
How could you not see Serena Blackwood?
Gwen described them well. Beyond Berlin had a good beat. People swayed on the dance floor, bobbing their heads to the tune. They gave a little something to dance to, but their lyrics had depth. Serena had something real to say.
An elbow in my gut pulled me out of my reverie.
“What do you think? Interstellar material?”
“Yes,” I replied. “They’re incredible.”
Not just Serena. The entire band was on point. These weren’t amateurs skipping notes or dropping their sticks. It was clear all we needed to do was get them in