Early the next morning, Jackson tossed and turned in bed. He’d dreamed again, always the damn dream:
“Damn it Jack! Do something!”
Jackson’s jaw clenched, and his fingers worked harder at the slender neck of the guitar. The same four chords over and over again, the drum knocking out a steady beat that grabbed his chest and took over the rhythm of his heart until it matched the drummer’s beat.
He looked to the crowd. Waiting. All of them were gyrating, anxious. The lights were slung low and smoke filled every spare inch of a room that was crammed to capacity with twisting, churning bodies, all with their eyes focused on him.
“Face it, Jack. He’s not coming.”
Jeff’s breath felt like hot liquid against his ear. Adrenaline pumped. Jackson continued to pound out the chords. His fingers rippled over the bars—over and over in the same pattern.
“Do it!”
Samson reached out and hurled Jackson to the front of the stage. He landed perfectly, as if he’d planned it. Something took hold of him—some kind of courage in his belly, daring in his breath. He hunkered in, bent at the knees toward the screaming girls, and squeezed sounds he’d never heard before from his used electric guitar, the one he’d purchased with birthday money from his grandmother.
His gaze shot to the faces surrounding him, moved to the delicate hands reaching out and clutching at him as his fingers slashed at the strings. Then he propelled himself up and pulled away from them. He sang—low, guttural sounds that worked their way up from deep in his throbbing chest. He grabbed the microphone, leaving his guitar to hang limply from his neck.
Someone else in the band picked up the steady, grinding rhythm as he reached out and seemed to clutch the crowd in his hands. He lowered his gaze to the screaming women, his pelvis thrust forward as he worked the stage. Yeah! Only nineteen years old and he had the world in the palm of his hand! Just like Brad. Brad…
Sleep ripped itself away from Jackson Cooper.
“Damn it,” he muttered. He clenched his jaw, steeling himself for the aftereffects of such a simulated high.
He ran his hand through his hair. He was covered in sweat. They had to get the Haven up and running. Lives depended on it. He threw on his jeans and a sweatshirt and headed out….