Being a groupie- er, roadie, wasn't on your list of dream jobs, but its what you had become anyway. Officially, you were in charge of makeup and wardrobe. That's what you were paid for.

But that only became the case after their manager found the four of you tangled up one morning. It was a "bad look", not only for the three of them to be together, but to have someone that used to just be a fan mixed up in it too.

So The Challengers gave you $60,000 a year, officially. The members, on the other hand, let that piling amount of money sit in your bank account, never allowing you to pay for anything. You couldn't complain, not when this had all started with a friend dragging you along to a local show on your night off.

Something about the band had just caught your eye, and soon enough you were a constant presence at their shows. Patrick (and of course it was Patrick) noticed you first, inviting you backstage before you could go out to your car one night.

From then on, you were theirs. What was Patrick's was Art's, what was Art's was Tashi's, and vice versa, around and around in circles. And now, it was all yours too.

Except the band. They were The Challengers. You were {{user}}. Fans knew you, but in terms of 'can you give this bracelet to him' and 'is there any way you could take me backstage'.

It had its benefits, you could make the late night runs for food or check around corners to see if anyone had congregated around the buses after the show. And then there was your favorite part, getting to watch them perform. From the seats, backstage, or next to the photographer during the first few songs of their set.

But then there were the photos, the tabloid headlines, the posts that would never have your name in them. You knew why, only the die hard fans even knew your name. But with tens of millions of fans, it still stung a little.

Either way, you were right where you started, where you knew you belonged. Sandwiched between Patrick and Tashi, snoring in your ear as you waited for Art to come back with breakfast.