“Where’s everybody else?”
“Backstage. Yo, you’ll love this!” He twisted her around. His green eyes smiled. “These two college kids stopped me at the bar earlier. Get this—they were wearing our t-shirts. The ones I designed with our logo across the chest. I was going nuts.”
“You still are.” She shrugged free. “Listen—”
“Those dudes want selfies with us. Let’s invite them to—”
Ash slapped her hand over his mouth. Cheeto could yap for hours about beer being wet if you let him.
“Flannigan can’t play tonight,” she said.
“That Irish drip.” Cheeto grinned. “He black out again?”
“For once, no.” She dragged him to a less crowded spot, away from the noise. “Someone beat his face in. Fractured the fuck out of his eye socket. I just got back from the ER.”
“What?” Beneath his orange hair Cheeto’s face faded as pale as paper. “Why didn’t you text me?”
“My phone’s dead.” She narrowed her eyes. “You know, because someone’s been hogging my portable charger.”
He groaned. “Flanny… Shit.” His scrawny fingers trembled as he reached into his camo vest for his smokes. He lit one and grimaced as he took a drag. “What happened?”
“No clue. I went to get my guitar from the van and found him passed out under the muffler.” She cringed at the memory of Flannigan’s wrecked face. “It looked brutal.”
“Who the hell did it?”
She shrugged. “Flanny said he got jumped.”
“Ah, man.” Cheeto slumped against the wall. “Remember those death threats we got last month? From those psychos?”
“That was in Maryland.” A chill ran through her, but she shook it off. “I mean, we’re in Pennsylvania now.”
“They could’ve followed us.”
“Cheets…”
“Or wait—we’re close to your hometown, right?”
“Yeah.” Only about fifteen minutes from the suburban shithole that was Hollow Hills. “Too close.”
“Any old grudges?”
“Tons. But none that would earn Flanny a beatdown.”
He frowned.
“Thing is,” she said, “we’re the favorites to win tonight and take the prize money. Chances are, someone KO’d Flanny to sabotage us.”
He took a drag. Exhaled. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” After a deep breath, she looked toward the stage door. “Anyway, you’re on rhythm tonight.”
“What?” Cheeto’s eyes popped. “You’re not cancelling?”
“We don’t cancel.” She strapped her guitar over her shoulder. “That’s not us.”
“But Flanny’s in the ER. We should be there.” He met her eyes. “Come on, Ash. Grow a heart.”
“Flanny insisted we do the show. You know him, he’s no quitter. Plus, he needs the money.”
“No…” Cheeto’s fingers shook so hard he almost dropped his cig. “Fuck this.”
“What’s wrong? Afraid of double duty?”
His face burned red. “It’s not that.”
The hell it isn’t.
“Relax, you’ll kick ass on rhythm.” She cupped his face in her hands. Brushed her thumbs over his scruff. His trembling slowed. She smiled. “Focus on the chords. Your singing will handle itself. Trust me.”
Pulling back, Cheeto dragged on his cig till his cheeks hollowed. Behind him the stage door opened, and a bunch of talentless hacks in Viking helmets stumbled off stage.
“Bad Parts!” the stage manager yelled. “You’re up!”
He closed the door without waiting for them.
Cheeto stomped out his cig. “This is a bad, bad idea.”
Halfway into their opening song, the show turned rough. In the middle of the cramped, dark venue a mosh pit stirred to life, led by a bandanna-headed dude who rushed, shoved, and tackled until he jacked up the pit’s intensity to eleven. Just the way Ash liked it.
Onstage she played her guitar with a pounding pulse. Sweat slicked her face as she strummed faster and rocked harder. She swung her white-girl dreadlocks in a hurricane frenzy, the speakers thundering behind her.
Partway through the set, she spotted two Bad Parts t-shirts down in front, right against the stage barrier. They were the two fans Cheeto mentioned. They screamed lyrics and hammered their heads in sync with her main riff. She stepped toward them in time for a finger-splitting solo, her hand scampering down the fretboard like a methed-up spider.
Both guys went nuclear, pumping their fists in salute.
Behind them the mosh pit spiraled outward, squishing the front rows into the stage barrier. Dozens hunched over the railing, faces hanging down.
The stagehands didn’t arrive to help. They were preoccupied with crowd surfers at the other end.
Ash signaled for Kane, her drummer, to dial back the pace. For a moment the crowd settled. Then Cheeto found his groove. He howled through the opening verse of their hyper-fast song “Slave to the Sound” and sent the place into hysterics.
The pit turned nasty, but Ash couldn’t afford to stop. Not now. Not with Cheeto rocking and the judges noticing. Besides, the crowd craved more. At this rate, they’d all Tweet and Instagram about how Bad Parts had thrashed the place for fifteen relentless minutes.
She tore into the song’s final solo, fingers burning down the strings.
Ash noticed the pair of fans up front gagging as the barrier rail dented against their chests. Both faces burned red. For a moment she made eye contact with one. Then his eyes clenched shut in pain.
Something broke inside her. They were her fans, and nobody fucked with her fans. She needed them like oxygen on the moon.
She nixed the solo and grabbed the mic off Cheeto. He raised his brow in question but stepped aside.
“All you fuckers, back it up,” she called, still strumming. “People up here are getting squashed.”
The pit raged on, led by that bandanna-headed asshole.
“Back it up!”
The crowd ignored her. Especially the swirling mess in the middle.
“Last warning,” she said. “Back off or I walk.”
It was a threat she couldn’t afford to follow through on. Killing the show now would disqualify them and forfeit an easy payday. She looked at Cheeto, his rhythm locked in. Looked past the drum set at Kane, who kept bashing away. Looked across the stage at Remmy, their bassist, whose face was transfixed, like he’d swallowed a whole bag of shrooms and seen Zeus.
The band caught fire.
Ash was certain they were gonna win this.
For the money. For themselves. For Flanny.
But not for her fans. Their mouths hung open, sucking for air, right in front of her. The sight turned her stomach into a ball of ice, yet she kept strumming. If those kids could just hang on. Just one more song. Just—
The pair wilted over the railing.
Ash couldn’t bear another second.
She unplugged her guitar.
The music turned hollow without her.
Cheeto glanced over, his brow furrowed with confusion. The others stared with mixed expressions of disgust and disbelief.