I led everyone to the back room that we used for our practice and the guys and I took our places like we have at least twice a week for the past five years. We were a well-oiled machine; we knew what we were doing and that no band worked when someone’s ego was the driving force. I thought that maybe watching what an actual band looked like might help Ryan get off his pedestal. Boone tapped out a lead-in beat and looked at me over the top of his kit. “We gonna play the set for the show or you need to do some harder stuff?” They knew when I was in a mood, really we were friends first and a band second, they just understood where I was at.
I shoved hands through my dark and usually messy hair and rolled my shoulders around. The microphone felt like an extension of my arm when I pulled it out of the stand. I met curious looks all around and nodded at him.
“Yeah, let’s go black and then do the normal set.”
Before I even finished the sentence, deep rhythms were coming off the drums and low bass tones were shaking the ground under my unlaced combat boots. Von made the air ring with guitar chords that were sharp enough to peel the paint off the walls and I started singing. I let all the anger at my dad stream out. I let the frustration of trying to wrangle young talent explode into vocals that ebbed and flowed with every emotion that was trying to strangle me. By the time we had moved to the second song, the guys in BMA had all taken seats on empty instrument cases and were watching us with wide eyes and slack jaws. When we moved on to the mellower stuff, what we played for the bar crowd, I could see that Jorge was really listening to the power behind the lyrics that meant something. I could also see that Ryan was probably going to try to emulate everything I did to a T at their next performance.
After I had yelled, dripped, and purged every bad thing that happened today out of me, I dropped the mic on the floor and pulled the edge of my T-shirt up to wipe my face. I felt empty, but better.
I turned to the guys and told them I was hooking up with Rowdy for a beer if they wanted to come. Usually, we tried to hang out once a week and just touch base, but Catcher was doing some demo work for another band, Von and his girlfriend had just had a baby, and Boone was struggling with a pretty short bout of sobriety. Lately I had been kicking it more and more with Rowdy and the guys from the shop.
I had known Rule and Nash since high school, but those two were a pretty tight unit, and when Rule’s older brother, Rome, was in town, it was worse. I often ended up on the outskirts of whatever they had cooking up. I was stoked when Rowdy had started coming around because he was quirky, unpredictable, and always a hell of a good time. They were all good friends to have, and I liked to think they felt the same about me, but Rowdy and I just clicked and had an understanding so he typically ended up being my go-to bro.
The rest of the guys in both bands filed out the door but Jorge stayed behind as I chugged a bottle of water and moved to put all our stuff away. “What’s up?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at the tips of his tennis shoes instead of at me. “You guys are so much better than us, so much better than half the bands we were on tour with at Metalfest. Why are you helping us out, and not in the studio making albums of your own? I’m just wondering how that happens?”
“You guys are pretty solid, but if you don’t get Ryan to tone it down, you’re going to end up breaking up before you get anywhere. You got a lot of attention from Metalfest, so you should capitalize on it. You’re paying me to help you, Jorge, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize talent when I see it. You write really good songs but anyone can sing them. You don’t need a front man who doesn’t appreciate that.”
He looked up at me and grinned. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“That song you closed with, ‘Whiskey in the Morning,’ it’s about a girl, isn’t it?”
I sighed and clapped him on the back of the neck as I guided him out of the warehouse.
“Aren’t all the best songs about a girl? It doesn’t matter if it’s metal, if it’s country, if it’s blues or rock and roll; all the songs that make us remember and make us want to sing along are about the best kind of girl, the kind you can’t live without but can’t ever get ahold of.”
“You have one of those?”
I barked out a bitter laugh and stopped by the Challenger. “Oh yeah.”
I texted Rowdy to let him know I was on my way, and he shot back that I had better hurry because the place was packed. The girls were all smoking-hot and dressed in sexy little sports-themed uniforms that made Hooters girls look like they were dressed for church. The bar was typically packed so that wasn’t anything new. We went there enough that Lou, the door guy, usually hooked us up with a seat, even if there wasn’t room or if the bar had a long wait.
When I walked in, I noticed the blonde with the giant fake boobs giving me the eye, but I never even blinked in her direction. I knew Ayden hated her and that it was my duty as her friend—god, I hated that word when it came to her—to keep all common enemies at bay, even if said enemy looked like she wanted to give me a bath with her tongue the first chance she got.
Lou gave me a head nod and pointed a meaty finger toward the section of the bar that was off to one side. It was the closest to the patio that was open in the summer, and I had no trouble spotting both Ayden’s dark head and Rowdy’s much blonder and far more prominent one. I don’t know when he decided that a pompadour, long with perfectly groomed chops, was a style he could rock in the real world, but for the last year or so he had been wearing his hair like James Dean and dressing like a cat from the fifties. Rowdy was eccentric and liked flash and attention, so I just rolled with it because it was just part of who he was and not much made me chuckle like he did.
I caught Ayden’s eye and gave her a grin. She looked at me for a second, then looked away without so much as a twitch of her lips. It made me frown as I settled onto the stool across from Rowdy. Even if there was some serious sexual tension between us she was always usually happy to see me.
“What’s her problem tonight?”
I still felt bad about knocking her off the landing, but she had insisted that she was fine, so I didn’t know what I had done to piss her off between then and now. Unless she had felt the instant hard-on that lying on top of her had caused. I couldn’t be held accountable for that uncontrollable response. She was beautiful, and if she had any idea how badly I wanted to be on top of her all the time, it would make her do a lot more than frown at me.