I had to make a concerted effort to get this posted for the #1lineWed theme today. I had no **CONCERT** words to share. I peeked at the Scrivner workbook I had open and boom! There was a scene where a character was humming a Dropkick Murphyers song. And the girl in that scene mentioned the DKM was her favorite band and boom! Almost 500 words and a fresh scene. That’s pretty much the setup. Sean saved Bridget from a jerk and took her home with him–which I didn’t know until writing this because that other scene just sort of started and ended at about 700 words. My brain. It’s weird. I hope you enjoy.
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I had to be outta my mind. People milled about the place and some warm-up band played on the stage. I glanced down at Bridget. Her face still showed the bruises McCarthy had put there. The gobshite was dead and she wasn’t and that’s the whole reason we were here in this crowd.
A concert. Her eyes had lit up when she heard that the Dropkick Murphys were playin’ here at the Pavilion. And I had the clout to get us the tickets so I had. Without a thought. Now I wanted to drop-kick myself.

Bridget took my hand and squeezed it. “Oh, Sean,” she breathed and I felt her excitement all the way to my toes. She wasn’t one for talkin’ and I was still—almost a week later—tryin’ to drag the details out of her. Finding her in McCarthy’s back room, beat to hell and back had done something to me. Then McCarth’s goons tried to shoot me. Which was why the old man was dead. I’d taken Bridget with me and she hadn’t said a word. Not for a few days. Not a feckin’ peep. The chit was about to drive me batty when she finally said, “Bridget.” That and nothing more.

“What?” I’d responded, shocked at the sound of her voice.

“My name,” she’d said.

And then she’d not said another word until I caught her dancing a jig and singing—if you’d call it that—I’m Shipping Up to Boston. She didn’t know I was watchin’ and when the radio announced the concert, her face went all soft and sad. So I wangled the tickets and here we were.

The warm-up band finished and I led Bridget closer to the fence that separated the stage from the crowed. It was a writhing mass but I’d sent a few of the boys in early. And there they were, front and center. I shoved through the mass of body, and none too gently, keeping a firm grip on Bridget’s hand. When we got to the fence, the boys surrounded us and gave us breathin’ room. At least until the band came out and started playin’. I had to nudge Bridie and remind her to breathe.

She still hard stars in her eyes after the last encore. Me? I figured I’d be deaf for a few years at the very least but seein’ the joy on her face? Didn’t matter. It was all worth it.
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And there it is, a very rough first draft of a scene. The Irish Wolves are talking to me, at least a little bit so I’ll continue to write the bones they toss me. Writers, will it take a concerted effort to get you to share a concert scene? And readers, who performed at your favorite concert? I’m old skool. I have to admit it was Neil Diamond. 😉