Ryland throws his hands up in the air and flops back onto the couch.
“We just can’t fuck this up,” he says, leaning forward and drumming his fingers on his cymbal. “Headstone’s owner? Big guy. Very… intimidating. Rumor has it he’s tied up with some, uh… family business. Let’s just say that you don’t want to make a mistake around him.”
Luca snorts. “Oh, please. You’re just trying to scare us, Ry.”
Ryland shrugs innocently. “Maybe. But maybe not. What if we walk in there and play a cover from a band he fucking hates,and suddenly, we find ourselves unable to play anymore because we’ve lost our kneecaps.”
Their voices fade, and I bite my lip. I strum some muted chords as the familiar twinge winds its way around my stomach. Shadows I’ve tried to hide in darkness flicker to life, but I push them down. My fingers tighten on the guitar neck.
Focus, Kat.
It’s just a rumor.
The door creaks behind me and cold air wraps around my ankles.
“Sorry, I’m late!” Harper calls out as she hurries in, hair damp and breath coming fast from the cold. She throws her jacket onto the couch and flashes us a sheepish smile. “My bus was delayed, and then of course I got talking to the weird dude down the street selling homemade bongs. Did you know he learned how to glass-blow in prison?”
I exhale, my body loosening as a small wave of relief washes over me. The moment she arrives, a little weight lifts. Harper always has that grounding effect on me.
Ryland groans, shaking his head at her dramatic entrance. “Perfect timing, as always.”
She sticks out her tongue and gives him the middle finger. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but she cuts him off as she begins her vocal warmup.
“Okay,” I say, strumming a chord to get everyone’s attention. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
Ryland leans back in his seat, letting out a theatrical yawn. “Enlighten us with your plan, Kat. Not like someone else hasn’t been trying to do that all fucking evening.”
“Amps?” I ask, looking at Ryland and ignoring his sarcasm. “Do we take our usual ones or rely on theirs?”
“Depends if they want to lend us their ancient amps or make us haul our babies up two flights of stairs,” he says with a shrug. “I vote we haul ours. They’re familiar. Less chance of fuck ups.”
“We should be there an hour early,” Luca chimes in. “Traffic can be a bitch at that time of day, we don’t want to be late.”
“Or we might not survive…” Ryland says under his breath, but not quietly enough that no one hears him.
I strum a chord, letting my mind wander and imagine the chaos of tomorrow. It’ll be full of nerves and doubt, but at least I don’t feel alone. Being with these three people makes me feel like I have a little control in the madness to come.
Four
Kat
Rebel Yell – Dope
“They’re fucking good,” Harper shouts from my left. Her eyes are fixed on the band in front of us as she bites her nails. Her knee shakes restlessly. I nod slowly. Theyarefucking good.
But so are we, I tell myself. Although it takes effort to believe it.
The room looks different when it’s not full of people. We’re at Headstone, but it doesn’tfeellike Headstone. Lining every inch of spare space on the maroon-painted walls are posters that represent every gig that’s taken place here, signed by the bands who played them—almost like a grunge tapestry of Headstone’s history.
At the bar, a thick layer of dust coats the liquor on the top shelf, aside from one bottle. I can’t make out the label from here but I can see it’s half-empty. It evensmellsdifferent in here. Bleach and citrus, rather than the stale beer and sweat I thought was baked into the walls. The usually sticky dance floor has been polished to within an inch of its life, sparkling proudly under the stage lights.
Like I said.Different.
The sound of a guitar solo cuts through the air, and I realize I’ve been looking at the room this entire time rather than our competition. They’re not just playing the music; theyarethe fucking music. They command the stage with complete confidence. The guitarist moves his body with the sound of the solo as he glides across the stage. He drops to his knees as the final notes of his solo ring out.
The familiar feeling of inadequacy pushes forward—a sinking feeling plummeting in my stomach. Will I ever be able to do that? The first time I ever played on stage with Tether, it was about a month after joining them. I’d thrown up twice before I could face stepping on stage. And even then, I spent the entire twenty-minute set looking down at my guitar and hiding from the spotlight. It was a small gig—maybe thirty or so people. Nothing like the kinds of crowds I’ve seen Headstone pull. The thought alone is enough to make the back of my neck sweat.
The band on stage, however, don’t look like the size intimidates them at all. Especially the guitarist. The stage belongs to him. His shoulder rolls with the rhythm, his expression almost manic. He looks free. And I hate that that’s what I notice.
