Meet Me Backstage

37. Don't Get Any Closer

SKYE

Despite the chill outside tonight, the air in the arena is thick and hot. The entire floor is packed edge-to-edge and there doesn't seem to be an empty seat in the house. Kay told me tonight's crowd was about 17,000 people. I couldn't even begin to count if I tried. From beside the stage, the people in the bleachers look like tiny grey dots.

"You've been amazing, Memphis!" Jacks shouts as the guitar begins. He usually ends his encore set with this song; it's a crowd favorite that everyone always goes wild for. The audience hoots and hollers in recognition.

I snap a few shots as he reaches into the crowd and touches the hands of several fans. One fan practically latches onto his hand, but he manages to slip from her grasp with a bit of a tug.

I don't know how he does this every night—everyone grabbing at him and trying to get a piece of him—it would drive me insane. It's like he's being mobbed by zombies who all want a piece of his flesh, yet he just shakes it off with a smile.

He'd probably be great in an apocalypse.

I feel a quick push to my back and I huff, scowling as I attempt to ignore the overzealous fans beside me. Since I'm in the photography pit, it's practically impossible for the attendees to accidentally push me, so when it happens I know it's done on purpose.

"Get out of my way!" a high voice shouts behind me. I just roll my eyes and keep doing my job.

Teenagers.

In a flash, I feel a sharp tug at the back of my head. Everything suddenly blurs as the room shifts and I struggle to make sense of what's happening. The sounds from the stage and the audience all merge into a singular hiss—an overwhelming wave of homogenized sound crashing around me. My heartbeat throbs in my ears as my tailbone hits the ground with a painful thunk.

I find myself on the floor in front of the barrier. Two bouncers rush over and I see one hover above me, offering to help me up. He reaches out a hand, but I instinctively recoil and he steps back. I try to breathe in but my lungs feel like they can't expand and I panic.

I need to get out of here.

I scramble to my feet and scan the arena for an exit. I run out of the guarded section and start pushing through a thick sea of people as I frantically dash for the glowing green exit sign ahead. Despite my increasingly heavy breaths, I feel like I'm not able to take in oxygen. My skin is on fire and my throat tightens. My elbows swing out and I do whatever I can to clear my way through.

I have to get out of here.

Get out.

Get out.

Get out.

JACKS

I walk off stage to an unusual vibe. The typically enthusiastic post-show energy is more frantic and Kay isn't here to greet me. I walk up to the stage manager, whose attention seems to be focused on whatever message he's receiving through his earpiece.

He catches me in his periphery and turns with a smile.

"Great show, Jackson!" he cheers, patting me on the back.

"Thanks," I say, looking around the room. "Is everything okay?"

During my last song, it seemed like some sort of fight broke out in the corner near the stage, but as far as I could tell it was handled quickly. It's hard to see much with those bright lights in my face, so when bad things do go down, I usually don't really know the details until after the show.