Ferna
The muffled roar of the crowd was a physical entity, a living beast breathing just beyond the thick velvet ropes of the backstage corridor. Ferna’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum solo in sync with the thumping bass, she could feel vibrating through the floor. She clutched her worn t-shirt, the one emblazoned with the iconic, lightning-bolt logo of “ Tigers Spine ,” more tightly. She’d dreamt of this moment for years, a backstage pass to meet the legendary Stevie Stacks, the voice that had soundtracked her adolescence, the lyrics that had whispered secrets to her soul.
She stood amidst a gaggle of other young women, their faces flushed with excitement, their chatter a nervous, high-pitched hum. Ferna barely registered their presence. They were all here for the same reason a chance to be in the same space as their idols. Ferna, however, felt a sharp sting of isolation. She didn’t know any of them.
A burly man with a clipboard and a perpetual frown materialized his voice a low growl that barely cut through the din. “Alright, ladies. This way. Keep it moving.”
He led them through the dimly lit corridors, the air thick with the scent of sweat, stale beer, and something vaguely floral – probably a desperate attempt to mask something less pleasant. The energy was electric, a palpable buzz of anticipation. Ferna’s breath hitched as they rounded a corner and entered a surprisingly spacious, if somewhat chaotic, dressing room.
And there they were. Tigers spine . Lounging on sofas, fiddling with guitars, their famous faces looking both impossibly glamorous and endearingly normal under the harsh practical lights. The band members offered polite, practiced smiles and a few mumbled “hellos.” The other girls giggled, some fumbling for their phones, others approaching with shy reverence.
Then Ferna understood. The manager’s earlier words, the way he’d ushered them in, the casual way the band members were scattered about – these girls weren’t just here to meet the band. A slow, dawning realization settled in Ferna’s stomach, a chill that had nothing to do with the cool backstage air. The other girls were here to entertain the band. To keep them company, shall we say. The unspoken arrangement hung heavy in the air, a slightly uncomfortable but perhaps perfectly acceptable perk of rock stardom.
Ferna felt a prickle of defiance. That wasn’t why she was here. She wasn’t a prop, a distraction, or a disposable diversion. , she was there for one person: Stevie Stacks. She was here to meet the artist, the poet, the man whose music had been a constant companion.
She positioned herself near the edge of the room, trying to appear casual, observing the interactions, her gaze sweeping over the band members until it landed on him. Stevie. He was leaning against a soundboard, a half-empty bottle of water in his hand, his famous tousled hair falling over his eyes. He looked… real. And he was looking right at her.
He pushed himself off the board and began to walk towards her, a slow, almost predatory grace to his stride. The other girls watched, their murmurs fading into a hushed anticipation. Ferna’s pulse leaped into a frantic gallop. This was it. The moment.
He stopped in front of her, his blue green, far more intense than any photograph could capture, sweeping over her. A slow smile curved his lips. He slid his hand around her waist, his touch surprisingly gentle, sending a jolt of electricity through her.
“Hi, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated deep within her.
Ferna’s voice, when she finally found it, was a little shaky, but clear. “Hello.”
He studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering. “So, you’re here to spend the night with me, are you?” His tone was playful, laced with a practiced charm that had undoubtedly disarmed countless admirers.
Ferna’s grip tightened on her t-shirt. This was the moment of truth. She took a breath, her eyes meeting his directly. “No.”
The smile on Stevie’s face faltered, replaced by a flicker of surprise, then a genuine, unguarded look of shock. He looked at her as if she’d just spoken a different language. “No?” he echoed, his brow furrowed.
“No,” Ferna repeated, her voice gaining a touch more confidence. “I’m here to meet you. Because you are my favourite singer. I’m not here to sleep with you, or with any of the rest of your bandmates.”
Stevie’s eyes widened, his hand still resting on her waist, but the possessive gesture now felt less assured. He glanced around the room, a subtle confusion clouding his features. “Oh… but you came in with the rest of the girls.”
“Yes,” Ferna said, a slight smirk playing on her lips. “I used that to get in.”
A slow, surprised grin spread across Stevie’s face, chasing away the shock. He let out a soft chuckle, a low rumble that felt surprisingly genuine. He liked her. He liked her audacity, her refusal to be categorized, her blunt honesty. He was impressed. And she suspected, a little bit disappointed.
“Now that I’ve met you,” Ferna continued, emboldened by his reaction, “would you sign my t-shirt? Then I will go.”
He looked at the t-shirt, then back at her, his expression thoughtful. “Yes, I’ll sign your t-shirt,” he said, his voice softer now. Then, he added, his gaze locking with hers, “But… don’t go. I want to get to know you.”
Ferna blinked, a wave of pleasant surprise washing over her. “I’m not sleeping with you,” she stated, just to be absolutely clear.
Stevie laughed again, a richer, more genuine sound this time. “Yep, I get that,” he said, his eyes twinkling.
“As long as you’re okay with that.”
“Yep,”
Ferna smiled finally breaking through her carefully constructed resolve.
His hand slid from her waist, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he reached for a marker that was lying on a nearby table, his gaze never leaving her face. As he scribbled his signature across the iconic lightning bolt, Ferna felt a thrill that had nothing to do with the deafening roar of the crowd outside. It was the quiet hum of possibility, the nascent spark of something unexpected.
And that was the beginning of their romance. A romance forged not in the heat of a fleeting backstage encounter, but in the unexpected space between a rock star’s expectation and a fan’s unwavering integrity. It was a love story that started with a firm ‘no,’ a signed t-shirt, and the promise of getting to know someone who saw past the legend to the man, and who dared to be different when everyone else expected her to conform.
Thank You for Read
Deborah C. Langley
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