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  Of course. I roll my eyes upward. “Yeah. I would have.” Duh, Tabby.

  “Um. Come in three hours before the doors open and we should have plenty of time to get through it before the pretty boys rock up for their tuning.”

  The first sound guy lifts a palm. “Don’t tell them we called them that.”

  I chuckle, liking these two already. “Secret’s safe with me.”

  “So, do you want to do another?”

  I look to Kendall. “Do you need to go?”

  “I’m right where I belong, babe.” She grins, flicking the back of her hand at me. “I’ve got time before I have to be at work. Play away.”

  I turn back to the sound guys and give them a smile. “One more then.”

  “Stage is yours, pretty lady.”

  ELEVEN

  Rey

  “Fell On Black Days” - Soundgarden

  I stayed. Tabby-cat thought we all bailed on her, but truth is I got into an argument with Rick and shoved him out the door onto the sidewalk before I let Kris know that if he so much as opened his mouth to cough he’d be dead.

  All I wanted was a minute’s fucking silence so I could listen.

  Holy shit.

  I felt it.

  In. My. Fucking. Soul.

  “I think we’ve got a problem,” I murmur to Toby as I flip Rick the bird in response to his glare.

  “Like what?”

  I tug on my brother’s sleeve so he drops back behind the group. “You heard her, right?”

  Rick gets in the front seat of the vehicle, Kris and Emery clambering into the back. Toby frowns at them before shifting his focus back to me. “Nope. I was out here reminding Rick why we need a fucking vocalist.”

  Okay. So I may have pushed him a little hard.

  “She’s good, man.”

  “So?” He leans in the SUV and gives Emery a shove, gesturing for our bassist to get in the back.

  “So, she’s supposed to be awkward and shit. She’s supposed to bore everyone half to death so they’re gagging for it by the time we come on stage.”

  “You were using her to amp up our performance?” He scowls at me as he slides into the middle seat.

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I had her pegged as good publicity: Charitable Dark Tide Give Solo Artist Golden Opportunity. But with a performance like that, she could damn well rival the shit we’ve got planned to steal the show.

  “She’s classical.” Toby states the obvious while I get in behind him. “The only thing our fans will care about is how long she hogs the stage before they get to see us.”

  “True.” I tug the door shut behind me, and then hang on as our driver reenacts his youth. “Easy on the pedal, man.”

  “We’re late,” Rick clips. “No thanks to you.”

  Fuck off. So we’re ten minutes behind his perfect schedule. It’s not that much of a big deal, is it?

  It is. By the time we get through reception at the radio station and are directed to the studio, the murderous stares we get from behind the soundproof glass could strip paint.

  The DJ wriggles around animatedly as he announces the next song, smacking the button at the exact same time as his fake smile falls clean off his face. He shunts the chair out from underneath him, and stalks to the door as Led Zeppelin plays.

  “I can’t fit you in now.” He tosses his hands in the air. “My show wraps up after this song.”

  “Can we shift across to the next one?” Rick asks hopefully.

  I shrink into the shadows, suitably guilty. Fucking traffic. Our ten minute late departure became a twenty-five minute late arrival.

  “The next show is a fucking preprogrammed countdown,” the guy grits out though a stiff jaw. “We don’t do live slots again for another eight hours.”

  He’s tall with curly hair. Kind of reminds me of Jeremy Clarkson. I look around to see if the Stig is hiding somewhere nearby.

  “Come on.” Toby rests his hand on my shoulder, jerking his chin at Emery to turn him around. “Leave Rick to it, hey?”

  Kris sighs out his nose, head shaking as he takes the lead on our retreat. “He’s going to be fuming, man.”

  “I know.” For once Rick would be justified in tearing strips off me. “It’s only a radio show, though, right?”

  The unimpressed glare I get from Kris says it all.

  “Yeah, I know. We need all the publicity we can get to keep momentum.”

  Our dream is to be the headline act at one of the many epic music festivals held around the country each year. Fuck, our mini goal is just to be high enough on the poster that our band name is printed in the correct font, not just what fits under the big guns’ names. Carry on how we are, and we just might get there. But one too many screw-ups like this and we might not, too.

  The four of us get situated in the lobby to wait Rick out. Toby stands with his hands in pockets to read the posters framed on the wall. I sink into the plush two-seater with Kris, while Em drums a beat on the receptionist’s desk with two pens.

  My head hits the back of the seat, and I stare up at the tiny holes in the ceiling panels. We’ve got eight stops and sixteen shows to go, and that doesn’t include this bonus performance. We play tomorrow night, and then it’s back on schedule with two shows at the stadium across town before we catch a red-eye to the east coast.

  We’ve played 335 times in the last six years, varying from gigs with a dozen bar patrons, to joint shows with other local up-and-comers. This tour? It might be our first structured trip, but prior to it kicking off we had one month’s downtime to record the new album. Before that we were on the road in our shit-box of a van, playing anywhere and everywhere we could.

  I wrote every single lyric on this album either crammed in the van’s bench seat, or in the semidarkness of a gig. You learn to adapt when luxury isn’t a choice.

  “Well,” Rick announces, joining us in the foyer. “I managed to get them to edge ‘Succession’ in before the countdown starts. Threw a free double-pass in as an apology.”

  “No interview then?” Toby asks.

  “Not today.” Rick holds my eye as he answers.

  Damn. “Guess that means we’re free to go get an early dinner, huh?”

  “Fuck, Rey.” Toby rolls his eyes. “How about we head back to the hotel and decide on the set list order? Or I don’t know, run through our bookings to make sure Rick hasn’t fucked up any more stops?”

  “Hey.” Rick frowns.

  “It’s a legit idea,” Kris mumbles.

  “Come on, Em.” Toby clips him around the back of the head to grab his attention. “We’re out of here.”

  The Casanova leans over the reception desk to whisper something at the woman who looks old enough to be his mother. She blushes and laughs, ducking her chin to hide her face.

  Unstoppable. That guy is off the charts ridiculous.

  “Really?” I ask Em as we head outside.

  He shrugs. “No harm in having a little fun, is there?”

  “This morning you were crying into your milk over Deanna.”

  He scowls at the mention of the bitch’s name. “Yeah. Well what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

  “She should know,” Toby adds, overhearing our conversation as we cross the parking lot to the SUV. “Maybe then she’d leave you the fuck alone and you’d move the hell on.”

  “I don’t need to move on.” Emery charges ahead, wrapping his arm around Kris’s shoulders.

  “He’s a lost cause. You know that, right?”

  I nod at Toby. “If we keep our asses on the road, then he’ll be fine.” I catch his quirked eyebrow in my periphery. “She’ll never tour with him.”

  “True that.” He nods to one side. “She’ll also never let him go. Not as long as she has a shot at being Mrs. Rich Rock Star.”

  “We need a lawyer.”

  He huffs a laugh as we arrive at the car. “We need a hit man, more like.”

  “Amen to that.”

  TWELVEr />
  Tabitha

  “Go To War” – Nothing More

  “It’s not going to be enough.” I grip my hair with one hand, resting my head in the hold. “I won’t win them over with this.”

  Kendall groans from her spot stretched out on the sofa, one arm thrown over her eyes. “Just stop. Please.”

  “Excuse me for wanting to not fuck this up,” I snap. “It’s not every day I get an audience that big, is it?”

  Eight hundred and forty-three. Turns out Dark Tide have quite the super fan base, there.

  “What have you got so far?”

  I slide off where I’d been perched on the end of the kitchen counter, and carry my scratched and rescratched playlist over to her.

  Kendall skims the names, mouth twisted as she reads. “This one.” She points to my third choice. “Is that the one that goes…”

  I do everything I can not to grimace at the way she butchers the piece by trying to sound it out with her voice. “If we’re thinking of the same one, then yes.”

  “Put it second to last.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll make them think you’re winding down and then, bam! You’ll hit them with this one.”

  I snatch the notepaper from her and mentally shuffle the songs. “I think you might have a point.”

  “Babe. I haven’t hung around with you the past six years without picking up a thing or two about your music.”

  She giggles as I crush her in a hug, and then pull back to read the list one last time. Kendall’s my rock. It’s crazy when I think back to the first time we met, how badly we couldn’t stand each other.

  “I still think it’s flat,” I complain. “I’m competing with this, for crying out loud.” I dash over and retrieve my phone, smacking the passcode in to unlock the screen.

  It still shows the YouTube video I watched over and over while Kendall showered.

  She takes the device from me and hits Play. “For starters, they’re in a huge arena, Tab. They won’t have as many lights and fire and shit in that theater.”

  I know she only tries to placate me, but I can see the same look in her eyes as I felt in mine watching Dark Tide perform their breakout song on the first stop of the tour: awe. All the light effects and pyrotechnics in the world can’t outshine Rey’s raw magnetism.

  He draws you in to him by just being. The man could be bent over, thrashing out the chorus, or static while he serenades a softer verse. It doesn’t matter; you’re captivated all the same.

  He’s what they call natural talent. Marketable material. He’s a promoter’s dream. No wonder the band blazes a trail through the rock world.

  “What do you propose then?” Kendall hands my phone back, her lips set in a flat line.

  I shrug. “That’s the problem; I don’t know.”

  “Do you need a piece with more oomph? Something original?”

  I level her with a hard stare. How in hell does she expect me to come up with an original piece in twenty-four hours?

  “Okay,” she cedes. “Maybe not original, then.”

  Although. My index finger taps my lips as the idea forms. “Maybe I can’t do completely original,” I say. “But I could do an original take on a favorite.”

  “You mean make one of these old pieces more modern?”

  I shake my head, my veins charged at the thought. “Nope. Make something modern sound like an old classic.”

  She frowns.

  “I’ll play one of their songs.”

  Kendall jackknifes into a seated position. “Now you’re talking.”

  “It shouldn’t be hard,” I muse aloud. “All their songs are basic when you break it down; easy chords and progressions. It’s just how they put it all together.”

  “What one are you thinking?”

  I open my Spotify app and thumb through their song list. “This one might translate well.” I tap the little triangle. “You have to remember that I’m replacing his voice with my violin, so it needs to be a melodic tune for me to carry it.”

  She nods as Dark Tide’s “Pull Me Under” begins. The two of us sit in silence, listening to the ballad as it plays through the small speaker. The song wraps up with a long guitar solo, but I’m pretty sure I can wing it if I cut that out.

  “Do you think you can do it?” Kendall asks as the next song auto plays.

  My heart beats heavy in my chest. “Only one way to know.” She still sits where I left her when I return a few moments later, my violin in hand. “Play it again.”

  I listen to their signature track upwards of forty times, scratching a few notes to guide me, before I’m confident enough to attempt it start to finish. The clock on the microwave shows we’re already into tomorrow as Kendal cradles her cup of coffee and sits cross-legged to hear me out.

  “Are you ready?” I lift the violin to my shoulder.

  She nods, one hand splayed. “I think I’ve memorized how it should sound by now.”

  We both chuckle before I pull in a deep breath and let my eyes close. You can do this. I fuck up the start three times before it sticks. Easy chords, remember? I pull a deep breath, and to my relief play the ballad start to finish, all four and half minutes of it.

  Kendall stares at me with her lips twisted as I set my instrument aside.

  “What?”

  “It’s missing something.”

  I flop onto the arm of the sofa. “I know.” I jerk my chin toward my phone beside her. “Play it one more time?”

  She taps the icon and we both sit staring off into space as the tune plays.

  “I need the drums,” I say with a shake of my head. “That’s what makes it flat on my own.”

  “Shit.”

  “How am I going to do that without giving it away?”

  A wicked smile creeps across her lips. “I have his number, you know.”

  “Toby?”

  She nods. “I could ask him to play drums for you, but not say what song it is.”

  My shoulders drop. “He’ll want to know.”

  “So tell him tonight before the thing kicks off.”

  She might be on to something. It’s not as though he needs practice; he’s playing his own music. All I need is to be able to divert him from the details until the concert starts. And looking at the blonde knockout next to me, I think I have just the thing.

  “Message him.” I give a nod. “Tell him I need a drummer to back me up on my final track and that I’ll give him the details when we get there. If he asks, tell him it’s an easy beat so he can play it from the sheet.”

  Kendall remains silent beside me, drawing my focus to her. She sits with pride in her eyes, and what could almost be read as satisfaction in the way she relaxes into the seat.

  “You okay?” I ask with a hint of a smile.

  “You’ve totally got this, Tab. You’re going to show that arrogant bastard what’s up, that’s for sure.”

  And if not, then damn it all if I’m not going to have fun in the process.

  THIRTEEN

  Rey

  “Bottom of a Bottle” – Smile Empty Soul

  “What the hell?” Toby exclaims as the first notes of Tabby-cat’s performance play above us. “Is she on stage already?”

  “It’s eight,” I tell him, feet kicked up on the small coffee table in the dressing room. “Time for her to start.”

  “Shit.” He pushes to his feet.

  Toby’s always the cool, calm, and collected one. It’s odd being in a role reversal situation. “What’s the deal, bro?”

  He frowns at Emery as our resident drunk brings a hip flask out for a swig. “She said she had some music for me.”

  “What?” I drop my feet and lean forward, elbows on knees. “What do you mean, music for you?”

  He slices his gaze my way. “As in, she asked me to play for her final song. Said it was just a basic backing track, and that I could follow the sheet music easy enough.”

  Kris pauses in his application of eyeliner to look at Tob
y in the mirror. “She wants you to play drums for a classical track?”

  He’s on the money; it doesn’t make sense. Unless he’s literally banging his bass a dozen times in the climax, a drum set like Toby’s has no place with her music.

  “Hey,” Toby protests. “I didn’t ask questions. I just thought it was cool she had enough kahunas to ask.”

  Fucking little minx is up to something. “Where’s that pal of hers? Café Girl?”

  He shrugs. “Haven’t seen her since before we warmed up.”

  “Message her. Ask if she has it.” Fuck. “Do you even know when you’re going on?” I stifle a laugh.

  He’s so royally messed up it shouldn’t be funny… but it is. It’s downright hilarious watching the normally collected band member lose his fucking shit.

  “Christ, man,” he hollers, jerking his head. “What the hell do I do?”

  “Get your ass side of stage,” Em offers, “and wait until you get your cue.”

  Not much else he can do. I push out of my seat and chuckle under my breath as I turn for the mirror. Kris twists his head left to right, checking his makeup. We’d give him shit in the early days about prettying himself up like an eighties glam rocker, but I have to give it to him: his look is his image, now.

  Black eyes, smudged so he looks like some child of the devil. Team it with his undercut black hair that’s forever in his fucking face, and he looks like some hot mess cross between emo and goth. He’s too pretty for one, and not skinny enough for the other.

  He’s just Kris, and people seem to love that.

  I lean over him to grab the tub of hair wax and then swipe a little out on my index finger. It warms between my palms; just enough that I can make sure the ends of my spiked hair stay rigid. I finish it off same as I always do with a cloud of extra-hold lacquer, making Kris cough in the process.

  “Swear to God,” he chokes. “If I get cancer from breathing in that shit, you’re paying for me to go to some fancy Swiss treatment center.”

  “Deal.” I pinch a wayward spike between my forefinger and thumb. “Come on, fuckers. Let’s go see when Toby has to get his ass on stage for the mystery song.”