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Before Steve managed to settle behind the underwhelming drum kit, Reagan dashed into the room carrying an armload of papers. More sheet music, Steve presumed. She’d been given the task of gathering up any missing songs from Jessica’s absurd idea of a playlist. Steve scrutinized the scores for “Twist and Shout” and “Crazy for You,” discovering that both had minimal drums. He yawned as he sat on his stool and picked up his drumsticks. He’d done more intricate drum work on Mams’s pots and pans as a toddler. Why was he there? They could have hired a chimp to cover this crap.
“Sorry I was so late,” Reagan said as she passed out more pages to each underwhelmed band member. “I was . . .”
She flushed, and Steve began to imagine what a woman who was dating two men was probably doing. Her engagement ring caught the light as she shuffled through her stack of music, reminding Steve that she’d recently become engaged to Trey and was in a huge rush to marry him. Did that mean Ethan was free? Maybe he could get Zach out of his funk. Ethan was tall, dark, and hunky. Not exactly Zach’s type. Zach gravitated toward more feminine-looking men. Steve glanced at his friend, who was on his phone—probably cyberstalking pretty-boy Enrique on Instagram again. Steve wanted Zach to be happy yet wasn’t sure how to help him get back to that state. Maybe when they got to Europe Zach would have so much fun, he’d forget all about that stupid actor.
“I’ve got the set list here for each of you.” Reagan passed out a printed list of songs to each band member. Steve placed the paper on the floor by his foot. “You’re starting with ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’ Don’t metal that one up like the others. That’s Sed and Jess’s song, and it has to be perfect.” She smiled like a fool in love.
Steve wanted to find a song with Roux. Would any song truly capture how he felt about her? He suddenly felt less cranky about playing at a wedding reception, even if the first song didn’t use a bass drum at all. He yawned again. Logan had a more complicated part on bass than Steve did on drums, for fuck’s sake. What was an underchallenged drummer to do?
Improvise.
“From the top,” Max said into his mic. The cheap sound system wasn’t doing his deep voice any favors.
Steve started out drumming the repetitive tap, tap, tap on his snare and cymbal, but two measures in, he added a few extra taps, and then the bass, and then a progression around the toms. It took him a moment to realize his entire band had stopped and were staring at him.
“What are you doing?” Dare asked. “She said we can’t make this one metal.”
“Maybe not. But no one said it had to be boring,” Steve said.
Max grinned. “You’re right.”
Max admitting that Steve was right twice in one week? Steve stared up at the ceiling, expecting a meteor to come crashing through. Dare brought Steve’s attention back to earth when his fingers ripped out the signature riff from “Layla.” Now why couldn’t that song have been on Jessica’s lame playlist?
The rest of the afternoon was spent making sure every overplayed Top 40 song they were performing the next day had been transformed into a pure metal masterpiece. By the end of rehearsal, Steve had worked up a sweat, and even Zach was smiling.
“This is going to be the most awesome wedding reception in history,” Zach said. “Almost makes me want to get married.”
“You guys will play at my wedding next weekend, won’t you?” Reagan asked. “Trey would love that.”
“Of course,” Dare volunteered without consulting anyone.
“I wasn’t invited,” Steve reminded her.
“Me neither,” said Max.
“Uh.” Reagan flushed. “There wasn’t enough space in the chapel after we invited all the reporters to cover the event, but you all can come to the reception.” She licked her lips. “If we have one.”
“Why the fuck would you invite reporters?” Steve asked. “Don’t celebrities usually do everything in their power to keep the press away from their special day?”
“Not when they’re trying to cover up the truth about their unconventional relationship,” Dare said.
He leveled Reagan with a disapproving stare. She looked away, but Steve caught the sick look on her face. She didn’t comment; just hurried from the room before anyone could press her for details.
“So she plans to keep both guys even after she marries your brother?” Max asked.
Dare closed the lid on his guitar case and lifted it by its handle. He wasn’t trusting enough to leave such a valuable instrument at the venue overnight.
“Yep,” he said as he headed for the exit.
Steve guessed Ethan wasn’t available to fuck Zach out of his funk after all. That was unfortunate. Zach was already frowning again.
*~*~*
The next day, with the exception of Eric kicking Steve off his drum kit for the initial song, and Sed singing the nonmetal version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” to Jessica while they swayed to their first dance, the amped up set list went over well with the reception’s guests. They partied well beyond the time when the happy newlyweds left on their honeymoon. The worst part about having to play at the reception was that Steve didn’t get to take advantage of the open bar. Zach, on the other hand, had drunk enough for himself and all the members of Exodus End combined.
“Drunks really are annoying when you’re sober,” Steve said, half carrying, half dragging Zach to Max’s pristine white vintage Rolls Royce. He’d offered them a ride, which made Steve wonder if Max had an ulterior motive. He wasn’t known for taxiing people around.
“If he pukes in my car, you clean it up,” Max said, hoarse from singing for hours.
“With your shirt.”
“I never throw up,” Zach said, his voice slurred. “You can . . .” He blinked, blurry-eyed. “You can count on me . . . hic . . . boss.” He saluted Max and fell sideways into the back seat.
Paparazzi had been milling about outside the venue all evening, and they didn’t miss their opportunity to snap pictures of the spectacle. Do not engage, Steve repeated to himself in a silent mantra. As much as he hated the leeches that made their living on more famous people’s misery, he’d learned through his own trials with the jerks that the best way to be left alone was to be as fucking boring as possible.
“Is it true that Exodus End played live at the reception?” some reporter yelled.
“That is true,” Max said, as always, maintaining his cool.
Steve sometimes thought that Max liked the attention of the press, which was baffling.
“We even took a few requests. For your safety, please step back from the car. We need to get our friend home.” His winning smile plastered on his face, Max slipped into the driver’s seat and shut the door.
“Is Zach Mercier drunk because he’s torn up over Enrique Sanz denying their relationship?” a different reporter asked. He was standing close to Steve—within punching distance—and had a look of concern on his face. That didn’t stop Steve from despising him.
“He just came from an awesome party,” Steve said. “Why wouldn’t he be drunk?”
“Is it true that Zach is living with you? Are you two finally ready to expose the depth of your relationship?”
“We’re best friends,” Steve snarled. “That’s the entire story.” He hopped into the passenger seat since Zach was lying facedown across the back one.
Max cranked up the stereo and waved at the mingling reporters as he slowly and graciously did not run over any of them. The paparazzi spotted Reagan leaving with Trey and scrambled over to make her life miserable.
“I don’t know how you can stand those people,” Steve said to Max, watching Reagan walk very stiffly down the steps, her head held high and her mouth sealed shut.
“The paparazzi?”
“No, bathroom attendants.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Yes, the paparazzi.”
Max shrugged. “We need them.”
“Just like we needed Sam.” No one would ever convince Steve of that.
“We did need
Sam. And we might still need someone like him, but we’re taking him down.” Max’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the light traffic in front of him.
“Do you really think replacing one blood-sucking leech with another is the best idea?” Because, no, it wasn’t. It wasn’t even a mediocre idea. It sucked.
“Your goal is to concentrate on making music, right? The fame, the fortune, the fun—none of that is important to you.”
Steve hadn’t realized that Max paid attention to such things. “Not particularly.” He scratched his nose and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, the fun, maybe.”
“If we have to sell our own records, when will we have time to make music? We need someone like Sam to get our product out there so we can concentrate on what’s important to us.”
“Getting your ass kissed?” Zach murmured from the back seat.
So he wasn’t unconscious? Steve was surprised.
Max smirked. “A definite perk of the gig.”
“I didn’t know you swung that way,” Zach said. “I’ve got mad ass-kissing skills if you’re interested.” He made lewd sucking noises that made Max cringe.
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Max said, stopping at a red light. He peered into the back seat through the rearview mirror. “How are you still conscious?”
“My liver has had lots of training,” Zach said.
