Page 1 of Styx’s Storm

Styx

“Fucking Baxter.” As I stood in the middle of First Avenue in Mission, British Columbia, I cursed my friend, bandmate, and the biggest asshole I knew. With this stunt, he’d landed at the top of my list of jackasses.

I gazed up and down the street, desperately searching—yet in my heart knowing that I wasn’t going to see him.

I realized I didn’t even have my guitar. Nope. Baxter had pulled the clanking, smoke-belching van over, tossed me my bag of clothes to "hold onto" and told me he’d take care of things. Then he hesitated, his eyes on mine and said an odd, muffled, "Goodbye," before he drove away.

There I was on the side of the road, staring after him, when I realized I had no idea where he was going. A repair shop, probably, but why did he make me get out? Why no plans to meet up? Where was he taking our only ride and my fucking guitar?

Still, I clung to hope, there on the sidewalk. Waited for his text. Waited for him to respond to mine. Or the next one. Or ten more after that, or calls that went to voicemail. Till, an hour later, it dawned on me, he wasn't coming back.

All my hopes and plans melted to nothing on that gray, November pavement. No van, no Baxter, and no guitar. I wouldn't even be able to busk for some money, if this pretty downtown allowed such a thing. I was alone. Right.

The damned camper van had broken down just two klicks from Mission City. I was incredibly grateful she’d waited till that moment. Because theoretically she could’ve given up the ghost anywhere between Oshawa, Ontario and the west coast of British Columbia. Lots of stretches on that long-ass trip where breaking down would’ve been a nightmare.

Still.

Baxter and I had decided on Vancouver for our fresh start.

We were not in Vancouver.

I thought about the small amount of cash in my wallet.

I thought about the commuter train leaving Monday morning for the big city.

I thought about how expensive that city was going to be if I tried to live there on my own with no transportation, no one to share rent.

The math wasn’t mathing.

Plus, this was a Friday night. There might be some bus or something, but I couldn’t find any mention of one on the transit website. So did anyone too broke to own a car just hang around this town all weekend? Seemed nice enough…but definitely not my speed.

I sat at a bus stop to contemplate my options.

Of which there were damn few.

My phone sat heavy in my hand. At least I charged it at Tim Hortons. I’d be okay for a bit.

Then I did something I hadn’t done in eighteen months.

I pulled up the hookup app I used to use as a way to get out of my head when I wanted to feel, not think.

Baxter and I had been fuck buddies with benefits, but he’d married a woman and I’d…struck out on my own. The app had been my way to line up a warm body for an hour or two.

Until Frank died. After that, hooking up felt wrong. So I hadn’t.

As I scrolled through local guys, I tried not to dwell on our dead drummer. The horrible way he’d died. His blood, our screams, and that awful, final—I pushed the memory away.

Baxter played keyboard, I was vocals and guitar. Frank had been the third member of our garage indie band. We’d played through high school and into our twenties. With varying degrees of success. Then everything had gone to shit in the blink of an eye.

My life was never going to be the same. Hence, us starting over. New city. New province. New…whatever this was.

On the screen I was barely paying attention to, one profile caught my notice.

An avatar.

Okay, lack of any kind of photo was not cool. I wasn’t enamored with dick pics—but a nice chest went a long way. Or sturdy thighs.

Maybe he doesn’t have a great body. Maybe he’s just really shy. Those ideas had merit. I was, objectively, a good-looking guy. Which helped when I was crooning away for a tough crowd. I’d always have a few fans at the front, hanging on my every note. Ego boosts.