Page 236 of End Game

“Sounds complicated.”

“Very. My job is mostly show up and make noise.”

“Finally, a skill set I recognize.”

He laughs again.

“The show is bringing in musicians from all over. Mostly rock, alternative, punk. Couple big names. Couple regional bands. Some people you've probably never heard of.”

“Mysterious.”

“We're also recording a benefit track.”

I go still. “Original?”

“Yeah.”

The forgotten coffee maker clicks behind me as it shuts itself off.

I don't move.

Austin continues, “Not exactly We Are the World. It won’t be thirty people swaying together in headphones.”

“Coward.”

“But similar idea. Different frontmen taking sections. Harmonies. Everybody comes together on the last chorus. Track goes out with the benefit, proceeds keep feeding the project afterward.”

“That sounds fucking cool.”

“It is.”

There's another pause.

Then he says, “I want you on it.”

Even though I knew this was where he was probably building to, everything in the kitchen goes silent.

Not literally.

The refrigerator is humming.

The washing machine is doing its weird uneven-spin thing.

A truck goes past outside.

But my brain apparently decides none of those sounds matter anymore.

“You want Grave Intentions?”

“I want you.”

Austin keeps going before I can figure out what to do with that.

“Your band is good. I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. But this is frontmen. Vocalists. And I want your voice on the track.”

I stare at the cold slice of pizza on the counter. “Okay.”

“You're also a songwriter.”