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Jinx’s face got right into mine. “Are you high?”
“No. Maybe later.” There was always time to smoke a joint later.
Jinx scoffed. “You’ve lost your mind? That it?”
“Also no.”
“Fine.” Jinx turned and stomped back across the stage to where Bobby, his tech, had his Fender strapped on, working on tuning. But Miami was still there, staring at me.
“What?”
“Anything you want to tell us, Zig?” The self-proclaimed leader of the band waited. He was sucking on a lozenge, which was part of this pre-show ritual. He didn’t have a tech waiting on him. He worked closely with our sound and lights guy, Pete, but he took care of his own microphones. Because he was an egotistical asshole. Not that I gave a fuck.
“No.”
He slurped a bit. I could see his mouth working as he tucked the lozenge in his cheek. “Then get some fucking clothes on and count us in. Time’s wasting, dude.”
I refrained from flipping him off, but it was a close thing. Instead, I stuck my tongue out at them. It had been hard enough getting my jeans off over my sneakers. They weren’t going back the same way, so I kicked them off. After a few minutes of wiggling and jumping around on the stage, I had them over my ass but left them unbuttoned. I left the shirt and shoes right the fuck where they were and padded barefoot over to my kit.
Simon handed me a pair of sticks. “Thanks, man.”
“Thanks for the show.” He smacked my ass and walked away, but not without throwing a wink over his shoulder. He was playing. He flirted with everyone, including Wolf’s tech, Ross, who was super close with Bobby. I thought they had something going. Super drama among techs. I didn’t give a fuck.
Everyone seemed to be ready, the techs moving off the stage. Griffin leaned closer. “You’re good to go, man. Knock ‘em dead.”
I tipped a salute with one of my sticks. The guys were looking at me, Wolf and Jinx, with their axes strapped over their shoulders. Miami bounced on his toes. There was nothing left to do for soundcheck except play. I counted off our first song and banged my toms, cymbals, snare, bass. This was my world. I tipped the hi-hat.
Miami started screaming into the mic.
It happens more than I like
It's a whirlwind of spitfire
Fucking hell it's another fight
We had decided the lineup before we’d played the Miami show, and we were starting with our classic,The One About Fighting. Everyone loved it. Classic Midnight Hunt. And I had a fucking killer drum solo that I’d updated from when we originally recorded it.
I pounded my feet on the double bass. Left-right, right, right-left. And banged it out over the toms.
My mind wandered.
To Coleman. I could imagine his sexy smirk and perfectly styled hair…
Maybe it was because the song was old, and I knew it to my bones. I could and did play by rote. Until I fucked it up.
I stopped playing and everyone turned to look at me.
God damned Coleman. Why couldn’t he at least shoot me a text?
Fuck this. Hadn’t I made my own personal declaration to forget his sorry ass right before we started playing? I tossed my sticks over my kit, not caring where they landed.
Wolf yelled, “Hey, fucker! Watch it.”
I stood up and flipped them all off, double-fisted, before heading backstage. Fuck this. Fuck them. Fuck playing. Fuck Coleman.
No one stopped me, and when I made it to my dressing room, I dug through my duffle until I found the fifth of Crown in its little purple pouch. I pulled it out, opened it, and drank right from the bottle. That first sip was warm and comfortable, always giving me a deep sigh of relaxation.
I heard the band kick off again. Took another swig of whisky, enjoying the sweetness. Most likely, Simon was behind the kit. Couldn’t hurt to take another sip. I sat on the couch that took up most of the space in the small room. Part of the reason we hired Simon was he knew all of our songs. He was good. I listened. I sipped. He could play them almost as well as I could. Fucking traitor.
