Rowan chewed on his nail and took his hand away, looked at the blood on the clear nail, red on the white crescent moon. Looked like one of the cuts he had picked at had ripped. His lips were now never going to be ready for a lip-gloss for men ad. Did they have those? He continued pacing, doing everything in his power to keep himself from second guessing his routine. Think of other things. You know this thing. You could do it with your eyes closed. Just not with a hand behind your back. You need those to catch the knife.

The bass beat out- he always made sure that was the loudest instrument- that was what he balanced himself against, what he wound his performance around. The bass throbbing the sides of his skull counting the beat into his head. He could black out and he would still know the count, where he was supposed to be when he woke up. He knew that to be true because it had happened before. It was never hard for his father to hit him with enough force to see stars. And when he ducked, well, it was all the worse for him.

Someone was announcing him. He should really start making an effort to know everyone's name. That could be helpful should for some reason he screw up and need people to help him formulate an alibi. Cautiously Rowan flipped a knife and caught it. Rhythm. "I'm a little white boy with a big ole black voice" he heard someone sing, practicing vocals, loosing up, trying to calm down. Dear God, no. That's the last thing he wanted to be stuck in his head. Gabe was watching the show from in the stands. First time. Hope he liked it. Rowan hadn't told Gabe that no one was really going to get hurt (so everyone hoped). Let him see the show like a customer. Customers. Demo. This was a demo. Still a show.

Rowan pushed apart the heavy curtain (weighted so customers couldn't see people warming up, colored dark so customers couldn't see it's difference from the wall) and stepped outside. The bass beat on.