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“Yeah, unfortunately. But as long as we can’t record our songs ourselves, we have to rely on them. Maybe I can still convince Carol. After all, we proved with our first album that we have what it takes and are serious about our careers.”

“You’re really lucky with Carol,” Milo said. “Rick, the guy I’m playing for right now, knows her and said that Carol is very loyal. If she takes a band under her wing, she does it wholeheartedly.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Tristan drifted his gaze back to the road and smiled. “Hmm … I might be a little nervous,” he admitted.

“You don’t need to be. If the take sucks, you just record a new one.”

“Sure, because we have all the time in the world.”

Tristan glanced over at Milo, and they both burst out laughing.

“Why should I be nervous?” Tristan corrected himself. “I’m never nervous.”

“Of course. What’s there to be nervous about?”

“It’s not my fault you get a racing heart every time you record the drums.”

“I’m not nervous,” Milo defended himself, grinning. “I’m focused.”

“What else would it be,” Tristan teased.

“Oh, and you claim to always be cool? What about before gigs? Who can't go on stage without certain substances because he can’t face the audience otherwise?”

“Stop it.” Tristan chuckled and directed his attention back to the window again. “That was a long time ago.”

“Sure, now the audience doesn’t just see your back but also your face.”

“Still better than puking all over the front row,” Tristan sang back.

“I’m proud of you, little brother,” Milo said, stopping at a red light. “I think it’s great how far you’ve come.”

Tristan studied him from the side, noticing how he’d suddenly become so serious.

Something was up.

“What is it? I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The I’ve-messed-up look.”

Milo turned right, parked in front of the studio, and put on a fake smile. “I didn’t get the job,” he said with a shrug. “Bill didn’t want me.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes and scrutinized Milo closely. He knew his brother too well to believe that this answer wasn’t the whole truth. It sounded rehearsed, in case he was asked what was wrong.

“And what else?” Tristan asked sternly.

Milo refused to look at him and stared at the steering wheel, then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He knew he couldn’t simply brush Tristan off with a casual remark.

“Have you been … gambling again?” Tristan asked warily. “Please, no.”

“I didn’t want to upset you,” Milo said remorsefully. “So please, don’t make a big deal out of it now.”

Tristan’s mouth fell open. “Not a big deal? Damn it, Milo!”

“It’s all good,” his older brother reassured him and finally looked at him again.

Indeed, there was great confidence in his expression, and his eyes seemed incredibly calm and composed, making Tristan hesitate. This was not like Milo. This time, it seemed like he actually had the situation under control.