Half Notes and Highlights (The Road to Rocktoberfest 2024)

CHAPTER TWO

Ethan Jones peered into the crowd and sang his heart out. Wolf Pack was mid-way through their North American tour after six months in Europe. Some might think the constant moving around from city to city would lose its appeal, but to Ethan, each performance felt more exhilarating than the last. The stage was home to him, and nothing raised his adrenaline level more, except when his longtime lover and bandmate turned up the heat.

Wolf Wheeler sauntered across the stage with swagger, his hips leading the way, while plucking out a bassline that made your chest pound. The crowd was at full attention. They knew what to expect. They knew what was coming. And they loved it.

Ethan watched his bandmate approach. The guy dripped sexual energy and charisma. No one could deny that. Wearing a smile that reflected his name, Wolf continued stalking his way across the stage and dropped to his knees so the beautiful arc of his neck was staring up at Ethan, begging to be touched. Grabbing Wolf by the chin, Ethan sang directly to him. As soon as the last lyric of the song left his lips, he leaned down, and still holding Wolf’s exquisite jaw in his hand, kissed him so hard he almost knocked the bass player off his feet. The screams of the crowd were deafening as they cheered their approval, but Ethan was lost in his own head.

Performing always left him in a hypnotic state, and sometimes when the show was over and he reviewed footage or read reviews or spoke to his bandmates or fans, he didn’t remember half the shit he did on stage. So, he tried to be present as he transitioned into the next song. He watched the pyrotechnics light up the stage and the way his bandmates glowed in the reflection of the pulsing flames. It was hypnotic, and he moved around in a trance. Not realizing there was a small riser at the apron, he tripped. In an effort to maintain his balance and not crash to the floor, he ended up running full speed into his guitar player, Marshall. In turn, Marsh went sailing into the side curtain and must have hung onto it in order to break his fall, because the next thing Ethan knew, a section of the curtain fell from the rafters.

At that precise moment, a set of huge flames shot up from the stage, and the curtain went up like a torch.

Ethan stood stock-still, almost in shock and unable to move, as he watched the curtain become a wall of flames. The heat it generated scorched his cheeks and made the hair on his arms sizzle. Vaguely, he heard people shouting and screams of panic. He knew he should move. Run. But he was rooted in place as the blazing curtain fell on top of him. It was so heavy that it knocked him to the floor and covered him like a hot net. Intense heat broiled his forearm and the smell of burning flesh and hair filled his nostrils.

Frantic, he crawled as fast as he could hoping to find a way out, but he couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black, and the smoke made it hard to breathe. He coughed and wheezed as his lungs fought for oxygen. Then everything went black.

***

A tiny slice of light permeated Ethan’s flickering eyelids while voices called his name. It was Wolf. And Marshall. And Harris. They sounded a million miles away, overshadowed by the pounding in his head. Opening his eyes enough to focus, he moaned as he looked at the faces of his bandmates surrounding him. “What happened?” he asked, confusion clouding his mind.

“There was an accident on stage. A fire,” Wolf explained.

Ethan bolted to a sitting position—or tried to—as it all came back to him. “Oh my God. Was anyone hurt?”

“ You were hurt,” Wolf said. “The curtain caught fire and fell on top of you. Then a bunch of light cans fell from the scaffolding and knocked you unconscious.”

“It was fucking mayhem,” Marshall added. “The crowd was screaming and running in all directions. I’m surprised no one got trampled.”

“Are you alright?” Harris asked.

Ethan couldn’t answer because his head was throbbing.

A doctor in a white coat pushed his way through and pressed a button that lifted the front of the bed so Ethan was sitting up, then shined a blinding light in Ethan’s eyes, causing him to wince.

“You have a mild concussion, Mr. Jones,” the doctor stated. “And second-degree burns on your right arm which should heal with minimal scarring. Other than that, you’re fine. We can discharge you in a few hours.”

That’s when Ethan realized his arm stung like a motherfucker. “My tattoos!”

Wolf, Marshall, and Harris exchanged nervous glances before they rested their eyes on Ethan.

“That’s not the worst of it,” Wolf said, cautiously. “Your hair.”

Ethan felt the color drain from his face. His signature mane of black hair had been down to his elbows since he was 17, and it felt like another limb. Fear made him break out in a cold sweat as he remembered the acrid smell of burning hair before he passed out.

Frantically, he pushed both hands through his hair starting at the roots and pulled the length of it over his shoulders. The left side seemed fine, other than a few singed edges, but the right side was gone. “What the fuck?” he shouted as his heart began to race. He pawed at the right side of his head but only curled, burnt pieces of hair fell through his fingertips and landed on the white sheet. “Get me a mirror! Someone get me a fucking mirror!”

The guys looked at one another, wide-eyed, but no one moved.

Ethan jumped out of bed and dragged his IV stand with him as he raced for the bathroom.

“Mr. Jones . . .” the doctor called after him. “Slow down.” But Ethan ignored him.

The bathroom light came on automatically, and Ethan rushed to the mirror. He stared at his reflection, and his jaw dropped open. The left side of his hair cascaded over his shoulder and landed midway down his chest. But the right side hung in jagged chunks that landed at his neck, the ends horribly charred.

His eyes widened while he continued to stare at his reflection with horror and disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? What am I going to do with this?” He grabbed at the tattered hair, yanking on it as if he could make it longer, but all he managed to do was break off more of the frazzled ends. He opened his palm and stared at the curled burnt remnants of his once luscious hair and then at his reflection. “I look ridiculous! I’m fucked!”

“Don’t worry. I have everything under control,” Paul, the band’s tour manager, said from the bathroom doorway. “I have my contacts reaching out to the best hairstylists on the West Coast. The country, if need be. We’ll fix it.”