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One
Viper
EARLY MORNINGS. THERE was nothing I hated more. Yet here I was at the ass crack of dawn at Electric Sound Studio in NoHo waiting to meet the latest wannabe Trent Knox replacement. It was the third time this week Killian had dragged our asses out of bed and told us to get over to the studio, and this shit was wearing thin.
It’d been nearly seven and a half months since our illustrious lead singer had walked out during a recording session, and about seven and a half months since I’d decided I hated his fucking guts. Trent Knox had deserted TBD—and his bandmates—at the worst possible time. We’d just come off a worldwide tour that had been a gigantic success and were heading back to the recording studio, when he decided he needed to go and “find himself.” Meanwhile, the rest of us had been left holding our dicks in our hands.
Yeah, did I mention I hated his guts?
“Viper?” Killian, TBD’s bassist and my longtime friend, cut into my not-so-pleasant thoughts and had my attention returning to the reason I was up before noon. “You ready?”
I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Ready? Considering I’d never expected to be in this position in the first fucking place, that would be a hard no. But I couldn’t say that to Killian after everything we’d been through, and if he wanted to try and find someone to replace Trent, who was I to stop him?
“I guess” was my less-than-enthusiastic response.
A snort from across the room had my eyes landing on Slade, our drummer, who was sprawled on the red velvet couch twirling his drumsticks through his fingers. “Yeah, you sound real excited over there.”
“Eat me.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Slade retorted, to which I shot the finger.
“The last three weren’t that bad,” Killian said, trying to make the most of the shit situation we were all in.
“‘Weren’t that bad’ isn’t gonna work for me, Kill,” I said. “As much as I hate to admit it, Trent was dynamite on the stage—”
“Fucker,” Slade grumbled, to which I nodded. Trent was a fucker, and I’d made sure to let everyone who asked me about him leaving know it.
But I was getting off track, something that happened a lot whenever I thought about the way my dream had come to a grinding halt because of one goddamn person. I walked over to Killian and said, “Whoever walks through that door needs to be able to match Trent. You know that and so do I. I’m not about to settle for less.” If anything, I wanted more. I wanted better if it existed. So we could shove it up Trent’s ass.
“You’re right.” Killian looked at Slade, and then to his watch. “Where’s Jagger?”
“Dude, I don’t know. Out getting his shoes shined? Picking up his dry cleaning? Take your pick. You know if you need him somewhere, he needs more warning than two hours to be presentable for the public.” Slade’s comment drew a chuckle from me but had Killian shaking his head.
Since our rise to fame, our keyboardist, Jagger, had developed quite an affinity for the finer things in life. Finer clothes, finer cars, and, as he would say, fine-ass women.
Whereas the only thing I liked finer these days was my alcohol. Right now I’d settle for a shot of whatever was on hand to get me through the next couple of hours of hearing some aspiring singer do covers of our hits.
“Text his ass and see where he’s at, would you?” Killian glanced at his phone, checking a message, and then added, “Halo should be here any minute now.”
Wait up… “The guy’s name is Halo? What kind of a fucking name is that?”
Killian aimed a pointed glare my way. “Okay, Viper.”
“You know what I mean. Halo doesn’t exactly make me think TBD. This ain’t no church choir.”
“Thanks for clearing that up for me. But right now, I wouldn’t care if he was a priest. As long as he can sing. You wanna sit here for another seven months?”
Letting out a sigh, I took up a spot by one of the windows. I crossed my arms and resigned myself to the fact there was no way I was getting out of this unless I quit—and I was not a quitter. But before this morning of monotony began, one thing needed to happen.
“You think I could get a drink sometime this century?”
“It’s nine in the morning,” Killian pointed out.
“It’s noon somewhere. And if you want me to sit through hours of some amateur chewing up and spitting out our songs, I need something to dull the pain. Okay?”
Killian held his palms up. “Whatever gets you through it.” Then he pulled open the door and called out for four whiskeys. Before he got an answer, Killian raised a hand and waved to someone down the hall, and it didn’t take a genius to know that Halo had obviously turned up.
