Page 3 of After Midnight

So, I’m going to pay the tuition instead.

I finish with my spreadsheets, then save my documents, move my cash into my lockbox, and grab a tray of leftover Whole Foods sushi from the fridge. Then I collapse onto my couch, pull a blanket over myself, and flip the TV on, keeping the volume low as sunlight tries to creep around my closed blinds.

Tomorrow night is another shift, another room to command and control.

Saturday nights are always eventful. It should be a good payout.

I yawn and pop a sushi into my mouth. And I fall asleep before I’ve finished the last of my avocado rolls.

chapter 2

Sebastian

LAS VEGAS IS HOT AS fuck. The sun went down hours ago, but the air still feels dry and scorching, like sand is blasting down my throat every time I take a breath.

Even though it sucks, it’s pretty sick too.

The energy in Vegas is electric. We’ve played so many venues that I probably couldn’t recall half of them. But I’ll remember this one: the Sin City Sound Festival, a two-day event with tons of big-name artists. And Loaded God Complex landed the sweetest spot of all.

Saturday-night headliner.

It’s just after eleven when we prepare to step onto the main stage. Heat radiates up from the stage and into my sneakers, and I draw an arm across my forehead. I’m already sweating, and I haven’t even pulled out my drumsticks yet. This is going to be a hell of a show.

Beside me, Dex has his arms by his sides, wearing a tank revealing the tats covering his skin. And when my gaze dips down to his left hand, I still feel surprised to see the ring there.

He’s not even married yet, but he’s been wearing a ring since he proposed to Nora. That’s how obsessed he is with her. If someone had told me last year that he’d been engaged to a shy violinist with a cat and a gaming hobby, I would’ve asked if they were drunk. Guess that’s what love does to you—not that I’d know, being the only single one in the band.

Lucas and Michael are behind us.

Lucas rolls his shoulders once, his jaw tight, his shaggy blond hair falling into his eyes. He’s letting it grow out, but I think it just makes him more irritable than usual. He’s got that look in his eyes that he gets before a show—half tense, half bored, like a snake deciding whether it wants to strike.

And Michael looks calm, as always. He glances down at his phone, then types a quick message before silencing it and sliding it into his pocket. Probably texting Jordan, his wife. None of the ladies came with us this weekend; they weren’t stoked about a Vegas show in the summer.

A stage manager gives us the signal, and onstage, the lights change, swirling in a dizzying dance against the blue-black Vegas sky.

The crowd roars, even before we step onto the stage. Their screams vibrate through the metal scaffolding and up through my legs, rattling my bones, making my blood course fast through my veins. At my sides, I flex my fingers, already imagining the feel of my drumsticks, the pedal beneath my foot.

Ever since the beginning, since we were nobodies playing in shitty clubs and bars in LA, this has been my favorite part: the moment before we walk out, where every breath feels suspended, like the moment of weightlessness at the very top of a roller coaster. And I love this fucking feeling.

Dex glances back at me, his pale eyes and lip ring illuminated by the lights, and offers me his fist. I bump it, then turn and do the same to Lucas. It’s our ritual, a preshow tradition since the very beginning.

Dex bounces on the balls of his feet, the chain he wears around his neck thumping against his chest as he rolls out his neck.

“Let’s do this shit, boys,” he says.

Then he explodes through the curtain and onto the stage, and the sound that erupts is deafening, tens of thousands of voices rolling across the desert. I follow behind him, breathing in the heat and the dust. It’s gritty on my tongue, and it reminds me of the beach back home, where I like to surf. In the distance, the Strip glitters, casting light for miles all around.

I move to my drum kit and settle onto my stool, then pick up my drumsticks, twirling them a few times, warming up my fingers and wrists. A bead of sweat slides down my spine before I even hit the kick.

The crowd chants our name.

“LGC! LGC!”

Dex, Lucas, and Michael have their instruments slung across their bodies, and I can see they’re already sweating too, their skin shining under the lights.

After this, I’m going to need the longest shower ever known to man. Then another one for good measure.

“Fuck, Vegas,” Dex says into the mic, his voice echoing out over the crowd, causing them to scream some more. “What the fuck are you all doing out here? Don’t you know this is the desert?”