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Chapter 4
The small crowd gatheredin this dimly lit pub echoes through the air as the final chord of my final set fades away. I run a shaky hand through my disheveled hair, and sweat glistens on my forehead.
The haze of this performance lingers in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the days when my music echoed in arenas, my name emblazoned across marques and adorned by thousands.
I jump off the stage and turn to wave at the band. Fuck if I remember their names, this is a pure business transaction. I get paid to play bass guitar as Callum Evans, an ex-Sonic Revolution member, and it pulls in the punters.
The damp scent of beer and the distant murmur of the crowd envelop my nasal senses. Scanning the dimly lit room, I search for solace in the anonymity of the crowd. My eyes settle on the bar, where the soft glow of neon signs cast an ethereal glow.
Taking a seat on a worn-out stool, the bartender slides a pint in front of me, and I gratefully take a sip of the cold amber liquid. The pleasantly crisp malt sweetness seems to momentarily drown the ghosts of my past.
“Hey Callum, fancy round two?”
I look to my left and find the leggy blonde I shagged earlier when the band was on a break. On my other side, I feel another warm body draw up close and turn to find blondie’s friend, the busty brunette. If they told me their names, I forgot, but one had a great pair of legs, and the other fucking huge creamy tits. Both were eager for a good shag in the women’s toilets. It was a good uplift to get me in the moodto play on stage, but now that feeling’s passed, and I’m no longer in need of finding that buzz.
I never fancy a round two with the same woman. That leads to complications I don’t need in my life. I’m a firm believer in milking my knob, but relationships aren’t my thing.
Plus, I’m out of condoms, and I don’t trust how long the ones have been in the dispenser of this grimy pub.
I’d rather just sink into the funk I’m feeling and get home before I go on a piss to the point where I don’t give a fuck where my knob sinks into. I lost my dignity a few times in the past, and it isn’t a place where I want to deal with the after-effects.
“Not now, darling,” I say apologetically. “How about I catch you two ladies in a bit. Alright?”
I never take a bird home, either. That just opens up a whole set of problems in the morning.
“You know where we are, luv,” Blondie says as she links her arm with her friend, and they walk off together. In the corner of my eye, I watch them approach the band members as they pack up.
Groupies.I roll my eyes.
Leaning against the bar, I survey the room, catching the eyes of a pair of familiar faces in the crowds. Two figures sit in the shadows, their gazes on me. A chill runs down my spine as I recognize them.
Jagger and Asher.
It’s been a while since we last met up, but they’ve never come to find me when I play a set.
Jagger, the lead guitarist and lead vocals —untilshetook over— with whom I had once shared the rhythm of success, raises his glass in acknowledgment. Even after the Sonics lead vocals were taken over by a girl, Jagger always maintained a kind of leadership role over the group.
Asher, the drummer who once served as the vital synchronized link between us, offers a tight-lipped smile.
My heart skips a beat, the past rushing back to me like a relentless tide.
Why are they here?
We had a silent mutual agreement to never share music between us again. It was a banned topic whenever we got together. This is the last place I need my ex-band members seeing me here, relegated to the shadows of local gigs and small-town pubs.
I finish my pint in a single gulp, the cold brew spreading through me, momentarily dulling the pain. Gathering what remains of mycomposure, I make my way toward the duo, my guitar slung over my shoulder.
“Jagger, Ash,” I greet them, trying to sound nonchalant despite the vulnerability that lingers in my voice.
“Callum,” Jagger replies, a mix of nostalgia and sympathy in his eyes. He gets up to greet me as we clash our hands and forearms together. “How are you, mate?”
“Same shite, Jag,” I say and throw in a wobbly grin.
Asher gets up to greet me in a similar manner, and the three of us stand here, a silent acknowledgment of a shared history. The pub's ambient noise surrounds us like a protective cocoon. My fingers absentmindedly trace the contours of my guitar, a tangible link to a time when the world seemed to revolve around our music.
"I caught the set. You still got it," Jagger says, his tone carrying both admiration and a tinge of regret.
"Yeah, well, not every stage can be an arena," I quip, attempting to mask the ache in my words with a forced smile.
