Riffs in Time

I wiped the sweat from my brow as we wrapped up our set and bolted offstage into the dim, cluttered corridors behind the stage, our hands still waving at the lingering crowd. Never in a million years had I imagined that the band we'd started in my family's garage back in high school would one day be renowned. I adored every moment of it—the thrill of the performance, the roar of the crowd, and the freedom of traveling with my closest friends as we played our songs for hundreds of thousands across the map. Though this venue is smaller than an arena, I still loved every second of it. I truly loved my life.

"Great job, you guys!" Jinny, our fiery middle-aged band manager with her unmistakable red hair, sauntered over and wrapped us in one of her signature, all-encompassing hugs. No matter how drenched in sweat we were, she never let go, treating us like her own family. In an industry where management often took advantage of bands like ours, we'd struck gold by finding someone who genuinely had our best interests at heart.

After the embrace, Jinny guided us to our dressing room to freshen up before the big after-party. I couldn't say I was a fan of those parties—events where we had to rub elbows with music producers, record label execs, and anyone with a vested interest in our next big break. Sometimes the encounters were pleasant, but more often, they involved sleazy characters promising fame and fortune in exchange for favors. I'd turned down my fair share, even though each rejection seemed to make the next one more unbearable.

As we made our way down the narrow corridor, Chester couldn't contain his excitement about the show. "Did you hear what Benny did during his drum solo? That was insane!" he exclaimed. Chester's energy was infectious; with his jet-black hair, olive skin, and a skater style that made him look like he'd just rolled off a half-pipe, he exuded coolness.

Benny, standing right beside him, flashed a grin that lit up the dim space. His short, neat ponytail framed a face etched with quiet confidence, and his arms were a canvas of tattoos. The pride in his eyes told me he knew exactly what he'd accomplished on stage.

"Dude, what about Roxy? She absolutely killed it!" I chimed in, still riding the high of the performance. Roxy's explosive guitar shredding had been nothing short of mesmerizing—a fierce force that commanded the spotlight with every riff.

"Knock it off, Yana! We wouldn't be this successful if you weren't for your vocals and Chester's lyrics," Roxy teased, elbowing me in the ribs and rolling her eyes with a playful smile. With her flowing blonde hair and an effortlessly striking aura, she looked every bit as radiant as she did rebellious. Her presence in the spotlight was a perfect counterpoint to our raw, unfiltered energy.

This has always been our tradition: after a set, we share one thing we appreciated about our performance—it really boosts morale.

When we finally reached the dressing room, Jinny hurried off to tend to her endless managerial tasks. Despite our elation, exhaustion was written all over us, and the sweat clung uncomfortably to our skin. I tried to claim the bathroom for a quick freshen-up, but Roxy beat me to it. The guys, as usual, didn't care about hygiene, but I refused to marinate in my own sweat. I felt like a soggy, overworked sock.

"Is there another bathroom back here?" I asked, shifting uncomfortably.

"I think we passed one down the hall," Benny said, already setting up a round of Mario Kart.

"You want company?" Chester asked, giving me a pointed look.

"I'm not five," I shot back with a grin.

"Just be careful," he warned, more serious now. "I heard people get lost back there."

I rolled my eyes but grabbed my towel and spare clothes.