Page 28 of Unfinished Noise

The van went dead silent.

Farlan’s words would have struck Billy with the force of a physical blow. Spencer didn’t turn around because he didn’t need to see Billy’s body go rigid behind him.

Billy’s voice cracked with fury. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

Farlan fired right back. “Then stop making me say it!”

Billy leaned forward, practically shouting. “I’m trying! You think this is easy for me? You think I don’t know I screw things up? You think I don’t hear that shit every damn day?”

Nathan muttered under his breath. “Jesus Christ…”

Spencer stared out the windshield, jaw tight. The fight behind him wasn’t noise—it was déjà vu. He remembered Billy yelling at him years ago, the same tone, the same heat. He remembered the way Billy’s anger always came from fear, like he wasn’t enough. Those fights had torn the band apart piece by piece.

Spencer turned slightly, voice low but firm. “Hey. Both of you. Enough.”

Billy didn’t stop. “He acts like I’m some burden he has to drag around—”

“Billy,” Spencer said, sharper this time.

Billy froze mid‑sentence.

Spencer looked back at him. “You’re not a burden. But you’re not helping yourself right now.”

Billy’s eyes were bright, furious, and hurt. “So you’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking the side where we don’t blow up the van before the show,” Spencer said. “We need to get through tonight. All of us.”

Farlan slumped back, arms crossed, still fuming. Billy stared at the floor, chest rising and falling too fast.

Nathan exhaled hard. “We’re five minutes out. Everyone shut the fuck up.”

The van fell into a thick, vibrating silence.

Spencer leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for a moment. The noise behind him had quieted, but the echo of it stayed—old fights, old fractures, old wounds that never fully healed. He wished Jamie were here. Jamie would’ve known how to soften the edges, how to calm Billy, how to pull Farlan back from the brink. Jamie had a way of smoothing chaos without even trying. But Jamie wasn’t here. And Spencer felt the weight of that absence like a hand pressing against his chest.

The club lights appeared ahead, glowing through the windshield.

Nathan muttered, “Let’s get through the night.”

Spencer nodded, opening his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do that.”

Chapter Eleven

Spencer

The club smelled of old wood, spilled beer, and the kind of electricity that only showed up when a crowd was already buzzing before the band even hit the stage. Spencer carried his mic stand to its spot, adjusted the height, and tried to shake off the hollow feeling sitting under his ribs.

Jamie should’ve been here.

He kept glancing toward the side entrance as if Jamie might suddenly appear with that shy smile and the paint still smudged on his fingers. Instead, it was roadies, cables, and the low hum of the crowd warming up.

Billy walked past him, tuning his bass. “Are you good?”

“Fine,” Spencer lied.

Billy shot him a quick, knowing glance but didn’t press the issue. Spencer appreciated that. He didn’t have the bandwidth to explain the weird ache of performing without Jamie nearby. It wasn’t about needing him; it was about wanting him. Jamie grounded him in a way nothing else did.

The lights dropped fast, washing the room in darkness long enough for the crowd to explode. A roar surged up from the floor, rolling over Spencer as he stepped to the mic, heart thudding in time with the noise. Nathan lifted his sticks, gave a quick count‑off, and the whole place snapped to life.