Who: Apollo, Pan and Medea What: Chatting between sets When: Saturday night Where: The Door Club Warnings: Some mild cursing and f-related bombs
Apollo, now known as Sam, was on a high. Playing always left him rejuvenated but playing for a crowd made him feel a lot like his old self. It left him feeling as though his former powers and glory were just out of reach. Like if he played hard enough and long enough he'd be a god again. But that never happened. He'd see a boost in what latent almost passive abilities he had left but that was all.
He'd been playing for an hour of his two hour long concert and even though he wanted to play through the other members of his band, Lyre Lyre, needed a break. Sam wasn't singing but Mark, the lead singer most of the time, had to rest his voice for the last hour. And if Sam were truthful, his fingers needed a break anyway.
Taking a long swig of his water that drained half the bottle in one go, Sam sat back on one of the band's rolling equipment cases and gave one long loud belch. The rest of the water he dumped on his head. It was July in California and though it was after midnight, the club was packed, the lights were hot, the water was ice cold and he'd been rocking hard. Besides, he was already drenched with sweat. It wasn't like anyone was going to notice.
Grabbing another bottle of water to drink much slower, Sam leaned his head against the wall and stretched out his long legs. Nearby a couple of his band mates were enjoying the attention of a couple of groupies that followed them around. Sam glanced over at them and grinned. Maybe he'd join them later. Right then he was enjoying the relative peace and quiet.