Chapter 1
This is supposed to be a gig. Not the precursor to an existential crisis.
So why the fuck am I questioning my life right now?
Two months ago, I had a future. A plan. The band was gonna take California by storm.
Now? We’re slogging through drunk college parties in backwoods Pennsylvania. Scraping by on shitty gigs while my dream dies a slow death. All I have is my music—and a rage that won’t quit. Rage that’s had a lifetime to build. Rage at him. The bastard who gave me life and wrecked it.
But that’s for another day. This minute, I’m suffering a different kind of asshole—one who can’t keep a fucking beat. All while the audience stomps their feet, drowning us out with shouts for “Chicken Fried.”
“It’s not on the set list!” Nathan screams from behind the drums.
Red clouds my vision. All I want is to deck the fucker. “Read the fucking room. If they want Country—they get Country.”
“I don’t know the song!”
Where’s my drummer that gets shit done? It’s not that hard to pound some skins. “Jesus Christ. Do I have to come back there and do your fucking job? It’s a basic rock beat—half-time the damn verse, back to straight time on the chorus. Got it?”
Nathan lunges to his feet, his boot sending the throne into the kit. “It’s all yours. I quit, you fucking fascist!”
My head’s gonna explode. Hell, maybe it already did—bits of bone and brain splattered on the walls. Why are drummers so fucking fragile? Egos that have them believing they’re the lifeblood of a band. They come into an established dynamic—tell me and Jared how to play. Think they’ve got the right to tell me how to write my own damn songs.
I get in his face. We’re nose to nose, my breath hot—wild with fury. “Sit your goddamn ass down and play.”
“I’ve got better things to do on a Saturday night than put up with your shit.” He snatches his snare drum, holding it like a baby as he strolls away like he hasn’t a fucking care in the world.
Jared looks to me for our next move. I shake my head. It’s over.
He nods, taking it in stride like he always does. Then, working the crowd like only he can—thank fuck I talked him into being lead singer—he says into the microphone, “It’s been fun, all, but the show’s over.”
I take a hit to the temple. My eyes track the can as it spills the dregs of a drink and rolls across the floor.
Fuckers. Every one of them. Trashing the three-story summer rental because they’ve got money to burn.
Not that I give a fuck.
I grab my guitar case with a snarl and join Jared, flipping the bird to jeers as we plow through the crowd. Outside, we plod down the long dirt driveway through the woods, passing cars parked all over the place. After stashing our guitars in the van, I slam the rear door shut. Pacing back and forth, I clutch fistfuls of hair. The sharpness of it dulls the roar in my ears.
Jared’s stare burns a hole in the side of my head, freezing me mid-pace. He’s propped against the van, arms crossed, amused as hell.
Nothing fazes him. He’s been putting up with my shit since the tenth grade. He’s easygoing, but no push over. The guy can also schmooze a room—a knack he learned in diapers and honed on the high-society set he grew up in.
That he isn’t interested in taking over his family’s hospitality empire works in my favor. But his rich-boy network still comes in handy. It scored us the gig tonight.
I light a cigarette and inhale. Bitter warmth hits the back of my throat, coasting into my chest and furling into my blood. It works as a sedative—unclenching muscles, dulling the storm raging inside to a low thrum.
Jared pushes to his feet. “Want to get a bite before we grab the rest of our stuff? The crowd might’ve settled in a half hour or so.”
“Nathan might take our stuff when he sneaks back for his kit.”
“He’s not that much of a prick.”
Smoke hisses from between my teeth. I’d give a hearty fucking belly laugh if I were capable. “He’d burn the lot if he had the balls.”
Resigned, we haul our asses back to the house. Country music thumps from the sound system. The crowd dances or staggers around us, completely out of it. It takes three trips to stow our gear. We’re about to climb in the van when a pair of headlights light us up. When they cut out, I’m blinking away spots.
“Hey,” Becca says as she shuts her door and walks toward us. “Why aren’t you playing?”
“Angel, baby,” Jared coos, swaggering across the distance. “I thought you were booked at the engagement party until midnight?”
“They wanted photos just for the formalities. Once the speeches were done, I was free to go. I rushed here hoping to catch the end of your set.” She glances at me, then back at Jared. “You’re done already?”
“We were booed out of the place,” I say.
Jared shrugs, effortless as always. “We’re not a rock band if we don’t get shit thrown at us every once in a while.”
“Oh my god, they didn’t?” Becca rises onto the toes of her two-inch shoes. Her fingers thread through Jared’s hair and work their way down. “Are you all right?”
He pulls her into his arms. “I’m okay, angel.”
“You sure?”
“Mmhmm.” His mouth suckles the side of her neck, the rest of his words a mumble I can’t make out. All over each other, like always.
My heart squeezes. I knew what it meant to be somebody’s world once.
I turn away. Rub a hand over my face.
There’s shit to do. There’s what’s owing for tonight. It’s a write-off, guaranteed, but I’ve got to try and cover our costs. I’ve got to find another drummer too. Goddammit.
I need somebody that knows their shit—somebody that isn’t a show pony.
But it’s slim pickings around Braemore.
Christ, I hate this—the organization, the politics, all the crap that comes with managing a band. I just want to write songs, play music, and get the hell out of this dead-end town.
But I can’t. Not until Becca’s mom gets a diagnosis.
Becca might stay. Then Jared will. And me? I’m fucked.
Jared and I have a pact. Even if we didn’t, I won’t chase the dream without him.
“Zach.” Jared nudges my ribs.
I blink and refocus, just able to make out his features in the dark. “What?”
“You good if I go with Becca?”
“Yeah, sure. I need to hit up that guy for the rest of the cash before I leave.”
“You sure you don’t want me to come with?”
“Nah. All good.”
“Okay.” He steers Becca toward her tiny car. She waves to me over her shoulder.
“Hey!” I call out. “What’s the name of the guy you wanted to bring in instead of Nathan? The guy with the eighties metal-band hair?”
Jared holds the driver’s door for Becca while she climbs inside. “Todd. You want me to text him? See if he’s still available?”
“Get him back for an audition. Maybe his skills have improved in two months.”
“Will do.” He’s already typing on his phone as I head back to the house.
Maybe there’s a chance I can salvage something of this fucked-up night. Take a win for once. Breathe some life into a dream that feels all but dead.
All I need is a drummer—and a goddamn miracle.