Version 1.1
June 2019
Chapter 1
Eric
My fingers, calloused from years of plucking guitar strings, dance against my thighs with anxiety—though I’d never admit that out loud. I’m the face of this band and there’s no room for doubts. Not today.
Somewhere behind me, I can hear James riffing quietly on his bass. The lime green instrument is unplugged so he can go over his chords one last time without drowning out the sound of the cheering people beyond the stage. I’m not even sure why he’s bothering to practice with only a few minutes left before we go on.
Practicing is all we’ve been doing for months. Ever since we found out that we’d managed to secure a gig at Lancaster Stadium we’ve been clocking more practice hours than a med student.
Though the stadium gig is still months away we aren’t taking it for granted. Every musician in this city wants to play in the infamous Battle of the Bands showcase hosted there. Somehow, we managed to be one of the lucky bands selected after the event organizer, Reggie Smith, saw us playing at a nearby dive bar—which is just the type of establishment we find ourselves at tonight.
But not for long.
Lancaster Stadium is going to be our big break—I can feel it.
If we don’t catch an agent’s eye there, we never will, and we’ve all put in too much sweat and tears to fail now. That’s why I booked us this last-minute live show.
We can practice all we want but there’s no substitute for playing in front of a hungry crowd. The energy can make or break you. At a bar as rough as this, my money’s on break, but right now isn’t the time to stress. Right now, it’s time to breathe, to focus, and to down a bit of booze. Liquid courage is mandatory before we hit the stage.
When the curtains move just right, I can see bobbing heads in the crowd. Bodies writhe like snakes, hands lifted in the air, hair flying as their chins sway back and forth to the tune of the loud music pulsing through the speakers. When my band and I arrived a few hours ago, the small dive bar with its black brick walls covered in various out of state license plates had been all but empty. The owner, taking in our uncertain faces, had simply promised us it would be a full house by eleven. Turns out he was right.
I’d heard this seedy underground spot was one of the best to get your start, and we needed a good start since our first big performance at the stadium was quickly approaching. This was the last gig I booked before then.
I check my watch. Nearly showtime.
Some guy with a mic strides past me to address the crowd, the smell of whiskey and cigars follow him. My nose twitches at the familiar scent, making me pine for a shot. My stomach always gets knotted up before performances. The only thing that helps take the edge off is a stiff drink. Plus, it helps me forget things, things I don’t want to bring out on that stage with me.
My life hasn’t always been easy, but at least I’ve always had music. It’s my outlet for the things I can’t seem to face. But the road to this stage has been tough enough without bringing my past into the mix. I’ve fought too hard and struggled too long to be restrained by my past.
I’d always known the path to being a rockstar would be a difficult one, but I had no idea just how twisted that road would be and just how much I would flounder. At least I’m not alone. I glance at Alex and James. They’ve stuck with me, getting me through some dark days—even if they didn’t know it.
The voice of the man on stage with the microphone rises over the noise of the crowd as he explains that the headliner everyone is waiting to see has canceled at the last minute and they’re left with some struggling group of unknowns to entertain them. Us.
We’ve performed here and there over the years, paying our dues on the local music scene, but we’ve yet to have our big break. Until we rock the house at Lancaster Stadium, barely anyone knows our name. But I aim to change that tonight.
I can see the exact moment the people realize the band they’re expecting isn’t coming. All the excited cheers suddenly change to angry grumbles. I feel their pain. They were getting pumped up for a three-woman band that’s already done a nationwide tour. I know I have some tall stilettos to fill.
James stops his quiet bass playing, eyes connecting with mine when I glance at him with an uncertain shrug. There’s not much we can do but play our hearts out. We’ve already been paid for the gig. Might as well make the most of it, even if no one here actually came to see us.
Armed with my smooth vocals and guitar and James and Alex rocking the bass and drums, I have every confidence we’ll change their minds.
The lights dim beyond the moth-eaten curtains. This bar may not be the fanciest in town, but it’s a well-known gold mine for rock groupies looking to headbang and jam out to some sick guitar solos. I’d been trying to get us a gig here for months and the only reason we’d been able to squeeze in is because one of the Rasping Sallies was having a little too much fun on the tour bus last night and took an intoxicated tumble that ended with a concussion. I felt sorry for the girl. Some people just can’t hold their liquor. Luckily, I can. And since I happened to be partying with them, I swiftly offered to fill in when it was obvious they wouldn’t be playing.
“What about the Rasping Sallies, Mick?” cries someone from the crowd. “We paid to see them!”
Mick grimaces as the rest of the crowd begins to holler unhappily in agreement. “We’ve got a great show for y’all, just like we always do,” he answers, shooting us a look offstage that says we better not make a fool of him. He’s gripping his microphone so hard that his knuckles are pale as bone.
“This isn’t gonna be good, Eric.” James says, always the voice of doubt in the group.
I just roll my eyes, blocking out his uncertainty. Only good vibes welcome here.
“It’s the best we’ve got, right?” Alex offers softly with a nudge in my ribs, gripping his drumsticks the same way Mick is gripping his microphone. “I mean we’ve got that huge stadium show coming up and we need to be as prepared as possible. This gig is perfect for that.”
“At least at our next show the crowd will be expecting us,” I mutter back.
Alex holds out a flask of what I know will be warm, spicy whiskey. I grab it and flip it open with a deft thumb, tilting my head back to welcome the booze without hesitation. It stings my tongue, flooding sharp heat down my throat to drip pleasantly into my stomach. I close my eyes as the comforting dullness washes over me, before taking another hearty gulp.
“Hey, man!” Alex grunts, snatching the flask away. “I was just letting you have a pick-me-up, not down the entire thing!”
He stares with dejected eyes at his flask, shaking it lightly to see how much liquor remains. Before he can take his own sip, James steals it and tilts his head back for a refreshing swallow. Alex yells again, reaching for the flask only to find that it’s almost empty. Before we can steal more of the precious amber liquid, he finishes it.
Smirking, I swipe the back of my hand against my mouth and shrug before digging my cell out of my pants pocket. I swipe across the screen, idly checking my texts one last time. Just as I figured, there’s nothing from Donovan.
My best friend is a dick.