If Christmas had been a gift and the days after a warm blanket, then New Year’s Eve arrived like a slap on the back from an overexcited best friend who’d brought twenty thousand people with them and no coffee.
“Wait,” Jonah said, peering out the tour bus window as it rumbled to a stop. “Is that a line?”
Emily leaned over and blinked. “That’s not a line. That’s the crowd.”
The venue wasn’t even open yet.
They had arrived at 8:30 a.m.
And already, downtown Edmond looked like a music festival had broken loose without warning. Portable heaters hummed outside tents lined with fan merch and baked goods. Cider stands were doing brisk business next to coffee trucks. Sidewalk chalk art had begun stretching into the crosswalks. And in front of it all: fans wrapped in scarves and beanies, some with painted faces, all chanting songs and lyrics in spontaneous bursts.
“Yup,” Gabriel said, stretching as he stepped off the bus. “We broke the town.”
Diesel grunted. “Let’s not break the power grid while we’re at it.”
The crew scattered like trained professionals on a caffeine high. Thane was already coordinating with city utilities. Mark pulled up the light rig spec sheet and started swearing under his breath about non-standard power connectors. Maya found the sound engineer trying to plug a monitor wedge into a power strip labeled “Do Not Use – Sparks.”
Rico, meanwhile, was just staring at the tiny stage.
“Thane,” he muttered. “This… this is adorable. This is like a pizza parlor stage. I’ve played bigger ones in basements.”
“We’ll make it work,” Thane replied calmly, hoisting a coiled audio cable over one shoulder. “Just need creativity. And some gaffer tape. And possibly minor miracles.”
By midday, the air was a swirling mess of freezing wind and frantic energy.
Emily had taken over a folding table at the back of the venue and turned it into a digital command center. Her laptop was streaming, her backup phone was uploading, and a borrowed tablet showed a real-time heatmap of social media mentions.
“We’re in the top five trends in thirty-one countries,” she announced with a kind of terrified pride. “We’re one puppy video away from number one.”
Mark snorted. “We are the puppy video.”
Cassie rolled up with two cups of tea. “Any word from local news?”
“They’re live-streaming,” Emily said, eyes wide. “So is a German station. And whatever ‘Russia-K Moscow’ is.”
Just then, a familiar voice echoed behind them.
“Wow. You weren’t kidding.”
Every head turned.
Standing near the side alley, looking more sheepish than anyone had ever seen him, was Bret.
Lead singer. Vandal Saints. Former rival. Former jerk.
Now, just… there. With shoulders that looked a lot heavier than they used to.
He stepped forward, eyes on Gabriel.
“I saw the streams. Couldn’t believe it. All this for your band?”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “Our pack. Not just me.”
Bret glanced around at the bustling chaos—the handmade signs, the impromptu food stalls, the fans waving from across the barricades—and shook his head. “I used to think you were just a gimmick. A joke. I didn’t get it.”
Thane crossed his arms. “And now?”
Bret looked directly at him, then at Mark, and finally back to Gabriel.
“Now I see a family that built something the rest of us only talk about.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “I came to say sorry. For all of it.”
A tense silence followed.
Mark said nothing.
Rico said nothing.
Even Maya held back her usual snark.
Gabriel finally spoke.
“You want a clean slate?”
Bret nodded.
Gabriel pointed to the stage. “Come play. Tonight. With us.”
Cassie gave an audible gasp.
“What?” Gabriel shrugged. “We forgave worse people. We let Jonah stay after the glitter cannon incident.”
“That was one time!” Jonah shouted from behind a speaker cabinet.
The rest of the day was a kaleidoscope of rehearsal chaos and impossible logistics. Sound checks bled into video tests. Mark ran lighting cues while directing volunteers like a grizzled commander in a sci-fi war film. Emily spilled cider on her tablet but miraculously saved the livestream rig.
Diesel made peace with two very confused city electricians who kept asking what a “DMX 512 universe” was.
Gabriel and Bret sat on the edge of the stage just before sunset in silence. No drama. Just shared focus, and the kind of eye contact that carried years in a glance.
The sky was a golden haze when the final note of soundcheck rang out.
Fans pressed tighter against the fences. The cider ran hot. The moon began to rise.
And the first few fireworks were already being set.
It wasn’t just a concert anymore.
It was a reckoning.