The beat courses through my veins. My fingers manipulate the frets as I close my eyes and get lost in the only thing I’ve ever been able to control—music.
My fingers fly. Fast and furious. Full tones emphasized with a touch of treble. The house band switches it up, and I welcome the challenge to adjust, to improvise, and to contribute to the fucking killer music they’re making.
The Viper Room is packed. It always is. But I don’t feel any pressure from the audience’s stares. I don’t feel the heat of the stage lights beating down on me. I don’t feel the burden of having to produce an album that will succeed.
It’s just me. It’s just my guitar. It’s just an off-the-cuff invite to jump onstage and play a little with the house band.
To remember how hungry I used to be for this feeling. For this freedom. For the lack of expectation from anonymity and the adrenaline hit when you know you’re absolutely fucking killing it.
No vocals required.
No front man shit expected.
Just me and my instrument and a fuck ton of inspiration.
I open my eyes and almost expect to see Hawkin at the mic, Rocket beside me, and Giz behind me on the drums like the old days.
Like how I want them to be.
I pour my anger into my playing. I add the hurt onto it. It’s the only way I know how to cope.
The only way I know how to sort through my confusion.
The only way I know how to survive.
• • •
“That was fucking awesome, man.” The lead singer of the house band fist-bumps me and then pats my back. “Honor of my life to get to share the stage with you.”
“I appreciate the invite.”
“Normally I’d play it cool, but, dude, it’s fucking you. I mean, me and the guys saw you walk in. We wanted to ask you to play with us but were so fucking nervous we had to play Rock, Paper, Scissors over who was going to do the asking.” He chuckles and gives a flick of his cigarette.
“I’m glad you did. It felt good to just jam without expectations.”
“Isn’t that the fucking best?”
I lift my bottle of beer to my lips and peer into the crowd around us. Women are everywhere—tight tops, short skirts—making come fuck me eyes each time I connect with them. Then again, they are always everywhere when you live my life.
Typically, I’d pick one for the night. Use them to help chase the high performing onstage gave me. But no one piques my interest tonight.
The one I’m looking for isn’t here.
“It is.” Let’s see how fast word spreads on the Internet. I give it twenty minutes until Xavier calls.
He won’t be pissed that I did it. He’ll be pissed that it wasn’t his idea. That he wasn’t in control of it.
And I need to leave while I can before word spreads and people flock here.
“I’m out.” I shake his hand again.
“Come back any time.”
I jostle my way through the crowd. In an attempt to not be a complete asshole, I stop every few feet and give a half-assed smile for someone’s selfie or picture. I’m ushered to the backstage area and out the back door.
The paps are there. Fucking knew they would be. Flashes go off like fireworks in the dark alley. My sunglasses help save my eyes.
But with the flashes come the barrage of rapid-fire questions. One after another as I try to push through the crowd to get to my car.
“Vince. Over here.”
“Is it true you broke up Bent?”
“When does the next single drop?”
“Did you sleep with Hawke’s wife? Is that why they kicked you out of the band?”
My hands fist as I use every ounce of restraint to be on my best behavior.
“Get the fuck out of the way,” I say and wave my hands at them as I struggle to get my door open against the rush.
I use my forearm to shield against more flashes as I start the car and begin to pull away.
When my cell rings, I just laugh.
“Keeping tabs on me, McMann?” I laugh out the question.
“Yeah, but I ain’t McMann.”
My fingers grip the steering wheel harder at the sound of my dad’s voice. “Dad.”
“Son,” he mocks me. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”
No shit. That’s the plan. “Didn’t know you needed to.”
“Ah, I’m always up for a little one-on-one time. Me. My boy.”
Throw in some insults, some demeaning comments, and it’s a downright Jennings party like only he can throw.
“It’s a little late for you to be up, isn’t it?”
“Cancer knows no hours.”
I bite back the smart-ass remark the asshole in me would love to say. “Why are you calling me?”
“Ah, did little Vinnie get his feelings hurt the last time we talked? Don’t blame your old man for telling the truth. A spade is a spade.”
“What’d you need, Dad?” Don’t ruin my good night. Don’t start with your bullshit.
“I was getting a little light on cash. Needed some CBD for the nausea and you know that medical grade shit is expensive.”
I snort. “I pay for your insurance. I pay for your out-of-pocket expenses for treatment. I pay to keep a roof over your head. That’s about the equivalent of what you did for me growing up. I don’t owe you any more than that.” He’s not getting another dime out of me.
“Does it make you feel good to say that? To try and stick it to me?” His chuckle makes me clench my jaw. “It’s no wonder your mother left you, you talentless fraud.”
“I’m fulfilling my obligation to you. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
“You think those people who came poking around here, the ones who are doing that story on you, would want to know what a worthless piece of shit you are for how you treat your dying dad?”
“Be my guest. I stopped fucking caring about what you thought of me a long time ago,” I lie.
“Ooooh, your balls finally dropped. Took them long enough. Congratulations. Finally something I can be proud of you for.”
Fuck you, Dad.
Fuck. You.
