I can barely hear my own guitar riff over the screaming fans filling the outdoor stadium as far as the eye can see. They’re dressed as ghouls, cartoon characters and animals. But no matter how different their costumes are, they have one thing in common.
They’re freaking loving our music.
It should be an ego boost—all this screaming and mass adoration. It should mean something to me.
But it doesn’t.
It never has.
In fact, tonight, as I shred my fingers over the guitar, sweat leaking down my face, I’m not there with the crowd belting out the song.
I’m not worried about what notes I’m playing either.
My mind is on Brahms.
Is music still a burden?
The last time she asked me that question, she was in disguise. This time, she was herself and it still left a damn impression.
Is music still a burden?
I thought I was the only one pushing her buttons in the pool last night. How is it that she always manages to take a bite out of me whenever I attack?
My heart pounds in time to the kick. The crowd is slurping up every note we put down. They paid for a show. Hell, Zane alone is giving them one.
My twin smacks his sticks against the drums, beating out his frustrations on the kit. He’s a professional and he’s been playing with a metronome since he was in diapers. Zane can keep a steady and perfect rhythm in the middle of a hurricane.
The problem is… he’s playing like he is the hurricane.
I let the drums take over since it’s so loud and insistent.
The crowd thinks its rehearsed and cheer at the unexpected musical break. The noise becomes even louder when the heat of the stage gets to me and I whip my shirt over my head.
Girls in the crowd go wild, screaming bloody murder. I can feel their adoration from somewhere outside of me, but it doesn’t make a damn difference. Their faces are all a mush, blending into the darkness beyond the lights of the stage.
I can just barely make out the decorations. There are black plastic roses all over the place. Tacky black and orange streamers have me wondering if a PTA mom was in charge of the decorating.
The neon-purple strobe lights are nearly blinding as they streak their way across our part of the stage again. Fog machines puff out smoke from both corners. It’s a grand production. Some would say a little above our pay grade.
Not that I’ve ever cared what people thought our pay grade was.
I catch Finn’s eyes before I turn to grip the mike. My brother clutches the bass, keeping a calm, steady rhythm and grounding Zane’s frantic drum beat so it feels rehearsed.
Running my fingers through my hair sends a spray of sweat over the stage. I swing the guitar back over my head and finish the set.
After the last note rings out, the crowd roars for an encore, but I don’t oblige. If Zane goes another round on those drums, he’s going to stake his sticks right through the face of the instrument and we’re going to look like idiots.
I raise a hand over my head, grabbing my shirt from where I’d discarded it next to the amps. Finn waves too, setting his bass on the stand gently. Zane is the only one who doesn’t give two damns about the crowd.
He swipes the bottle that was hidden behind his kick drum, uncaps the top and downs it. Two hundred dollars says that clear liquid isn’t water.
Finn and I turn to follow Zane off the stage, but we can still see the crowd behind the platform. Tonight’s Halloween bash is being held in an old warehouse near a cemetery.
Fitting for Halloween, even if it is a little cliché.
The warehouse is in an abandoned side of town with very little buildings. Through the large, broken windows, the stars are out in full force.
“Heads-up.” Finn tosses me a bottle of water.
I catch it with my open palms and use my discarded T-shirt, that’s wet and dripping with sweat, to wipe the rest of my face.
As we walk to our dressing room, I glance around. The front of the building was decorated and painted over for the concert-goers, but the back shows the wear and tear the warehouse has endured over the years. Doors are off their hinges, the walls smell like mold, and the floor is cracked cement and dirt chips.
The stage crew is bustling around, but they all stop and take in a breath when we stalk past them. Most gigs are like that. People either don’t expect much from us because we’re in high school or they think we’ve gotten this far on Jarod Cross’s clout.
When they hear our sound, there’s always this sheepish acknowledgement, like they want us to think we had their approval from the start.
I stalk past them without acknowledgement and follow my brothers into the hallway that leads to the dressing rooms. Even this distance from the stage, we can still hear Bex Dane’s band booming out into the dark night.
The first room we walk by is occupied. Another band is in there, snorting coke. Barely-clad girls are on their laps, ready and willing to do whatever they want just to say they slept with rockstars.
I hate my dad for the choices he made, but if there’s ever an industry that tempts you down a road littered with bad decisions, it’s the music business.
Zane falls into a couch and kicks his legs out. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I grumble.
“Your face says it all.” Zane’s nostrils flare. “I know. I went too hard on the set tonight.”
“You kept the rhythm. The crowd liked the energy.” He’s already beating himself up enough. I’m not going to join him.
Zane aggressively rams his fingers through his hair. He got the sides shaved recently, so only the top is long enough to hold his sweat.
“I won’t let dad mess with my head forever. I’ll figure myself out,” Zane says.
Finn plants a hand on his shoulder and squeezes in silent solidarity.
I check my watch. It’s half-past one.
“I’ll stay back and pack up the instruments,” I offer. “You two can leave if you’ve got other plans.”
Zane rubs his temple. “My head is pounding. I’ll head home first.”
I don’t know if he’ll make it that far. There are plenty of women here who would love to take his mind off Miss Jamieson. But I nod and Zane slips away.
Finn watches the door as it clicks shut. “He’s slamming so hard on the self-destruct button, it’ll break before he’s finished with it.”
“If he goes too far, we’ll reel him back.”
Finn nods.
I sigh wearily. “Any word from Sol?”
“No.” Finn pauses. “But I know for a fact that he hasn’t been sent to any more boot camps. He’s staying close to home.”
“Good. He needs his family now more than ever. One loose cannon is more than enough for us to handle.” I glance at the door that Zane stepped through.
“What are we going to do about Miller?” Finn asks, lounging against the wall and staring at me.
I rub my palms over my cheeks. Images of Brahms’ beautiful face as she whimpered for me fill my head. All my life, I’ve been a dark shadow, never passing too close to the sun, just coasting on numbness and apathy.
Brahms is terrifying.
She pulled me closer to the light just as much as I dragged her into the darkness.
“We can’t touch the friend,” I say steadily.
Finn’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t comment.
“Miller won’t like his authority challenged in public. It’ll make him more stubborn. We need another way to get our point across.”
“I’ll set up a private meeting.”
I nod. “We’ll end this on Monday.”
