Page 291 of End Game

“What?”

“You are not skipping a month writing with Signal Saints because we have a ninety-minute set in Denver.”

“I didn't say I was.”

“You were thinking it really loudly.”

I hate knowing people.

I cross my arms. “We're a band.”

“Correct,” Alex says.

“Bands generally require the frontman.”

“Also correct.”

Cruz grins. “But if our frontman gets writing credits on the next Signal Saints album, do you understand how aggressively we're going to exploit that?”

I blink.

Mila points a drumstick at him. “He's right.”

“You too?”

“Absolutely. Grave Intentions featuring songwriter Dex Mercer, who has worked with multi-platinum artists?”

She shrugs. “We're putting that shit everywhere.”

Alex nods thoughtfully. “Could probably get better bookings.”

“Maybe festival interest.” Cruz's grin grows.

“If you become famous, I expect you to be very clear that we knew you when you still forgot your own cables,” Mila adds.

“I hate all of you.”

Mila smiles. “No, you don't.”

No.

I really fucking don't.

That's another problem.

Grave Intentions isn't just a hobby in the sense that it doesn't matter.

It matters a lot.

We practice twice a week because we like being together.

We play maybe ten shows a year because that's what fits into everyone's lives.

I've written songs with these people.

Sweated on stages with them.

Fought over arrangements and eaten shitty diner food at two in the morning after shows nobody will ever remember except us.