The music stopped.
The crowd booed.
Cursing herself out, Ash marched off stage.
3
Ash loaded the van in silence. It sat under a shaky floodlight toward the back of the parking lot. The inside stank of cut-rate Chinese takeout—nobody’s favorite, but they had to make do. Earlier she promised her bandmates if they won the competition, they could splurge at a steakhouse. That was, of course, before she abruptly ended the show. What a shitheaded move. Sure, she saved two fans from getting crushed, but now she was packing up gear instead of wrecking eardrums in the final round of the competition.
Once her Gibson was securely stored, she stepped aside. Nobody acknowledged her. Remmy tossed his bass inside. Kane stashed his Rock-N-Roller cart, drum cases, and hardware bag. The two of them announced they were gonna meet up with some chicks they met earlier. When Cheeto reminded them that Flanny was still hospitalized, they said they’d visit him later. Much later.
Cheeto went ballistic. Soon the three of them were shoving and trading insults.
Ash, her mind still on the show, didn’t bother intervening. Losing easy money was bad, but walking out on a crowd was pure sin. She took her frustrations out on their gear cases, playing a rough game of luggage-Tetris until all of it was stashed. By then, Remmy and Kane had disappeared into the gloom.
Raindrops began to patter against the van roof. Cheeto sat on the tailgate and lit a smoke. He grinned, eyeing her up and down.
“Yo, Ashes.”
She slammed the opposite door shut. “What?”
“That was kinda cool, what you did.”
“Kinda stupid, you mean?”
“No way.” He tapped his cig. “I didn’t notice people were getting squeezed. Good thing you stopped it.”
“Yeah. Couldn’t let our fans get hurt. I mean, what good am I without them?”
“Crazy good.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes.
“What? I’m serious.”
“I wish the music biz would get serious.”
“They will,” he said. “Don’t forget about our Friday gig. That’s our coming-out party!”
Her mind tingled at the thought. They were opening for Deathgrip, an underrated 80s thrash group that made Slayer look slow. When Deathgrip announced their farewell tour, Ash emailed them and somehow earned an opening slot at their Ft. Lauderdale gig—the very last show in the band’s history. Thousands would be in attendance, even some bigwigs from major labels.
“We’re gonna rock that stage to rubble,” she said.
“Hell yeah! Buddy of mine at the venue said they already sold six thousand tickets. Monster gig for us.”
“Bout time,” she said, clenching her fists. “I’m sick of playing these cramped little shithouses. I’m too good for it.”
“Relax. You’ll be the queen of metal someday.”
“Someday? Try Friday.” Goosebumps rushed across her neck in anticipation. “I’ll yank that throne out from any bitch ballsy enough to sit on it.”
“Save me a seat on the armrest, milady.” He stood and delivered a sweeping bow.
Ash snorted. “You can lie on the floor. Be my footrest.”
They laughed. He flung his cig into a puddle. “All right. Ready to visit Flanny?”
“You go.”
“Just me?”
“Yep.” She reached behind him and grabbed a stack of demo CDs. Tonight’s show may have bombed, but it wasn’t too late to recruit new fans over by the bar. “Pick me up in an hour.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Sure can,” she said. “Besides, I already saw Flanny. Remember? I’m the one who drove him to the ER.”
“Oh, come on, Ash! Don’t leave him hanging.”
She shouldered past him, ignoring his chiding remarks.
The drizzle picked up, drowning out Cheeto’s voice and splashing her with November chills. She hurried, cutting between parked cars, until she heard someone approach on her left.
Without streetlamps, she saw only darkness in that direction. Then a silhouette emerged, tall and boxy-shouldered, like one of the pub’s bouncers. She assumed he was just that, though his head twitched in an odd, spazzy way. It reminded her of someone headbanging, but there was no rhythm to it.
There was, however, rhythm to his legs. Puddles splashed beneath him as he rushed closer.
Rushed straight for her.
Her spine turned to ice. Another moment passed before Ash noticed he was wearing a ski mask. That settled it—clearly this guy wasn’t coming over for a selfie with her.
The man started running.
So did she.
“Cheeto!” she shouted.
Ahead of her the van’s taillights flickered as he backed out of the parking spot.
“Cheeto, wait!”
The brakes gave an aching squeal.
Behind her, footfalls splashed closer.
She sprinted for the passenger side and dropped the CDs as she tore open the door. With shuddering relief, Ash threw herself inside.
“I knew it!” Cheeto said with a triumphant fist pump. “Knew you wouldn’t leave Flanny hanging.”
“Shut up. There’s a psycho out there.”
“What?”
“Somebody chased me.” Breathing heavy, she checked the side mirror. All she saw was darkness and the orange dots of distant streetlamps. “The guy, his head was twitching. Like he was possessed or some shit.”
“For real?” He squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Just get us outta here.”
4
Ash pressed a shaky hand over her pounding heart. The heater cooked her face and turned her tongue to cardboard as she panted for breath. She shouldn’t have been this unsettled—not after countless run-ins with drunken concert-goers—but this lunatic was different. Something about the way his head shook disturbed her.
Cheeto put the van in reverse and hit the gas. The vehicle flinched but otherwise didn’t move. Ash urged him to give it more juice. The engine growled, but they went nowhere. They traded worried looks before he shifted into drive; the van inched forward until they were lined up with the adjacent parked cars. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he shifted into reverse again.
Cheeto stabbed the gas pedal.
Pumped it.
Floored it.
The tires squealed in place.
“He’s back there,” she said, checking the side mirror. She couldn’t see anyone but knew better. “Dude’s probably methed out of his mind.”
“Call the pub,” Cheeto said, his voice shrinking. “Have them send out some bouncers.”
With a sudden whoosh of cold air, the back doors popped open. Ash heard hands slap at the instrument cases in the back. Something large—maybe one of her amps—hit the pavement with a crack.
Panic flooded her veins. If this psycho was desperate for cash, he might try to steal their gear and pawn it. Her Gibson would fetch a high price, around two grand. But no way in hell would she let him take it. Not her guitar—her baby.
Ash yanked a can of pepper spray from her purse.
“The hell you doing?” Cheeto whispered.