Page 25 of Down Beat
NINE
Rey
“Invincible” – Adelitas Way
There’s nothing like the crisp sound of money as it rolls between your fingers, especially when that movement will eventually satisfy an intense craving.
“Anything full-strength,” I instruct Pete, handing him the two twenties. “And get something sugary with the change.”
I ran out of smokes half an hour ago, and with the diva shots Emery calls, I’m about ready to gut the next fucker who asks me to “stand there for a moment and give me a few lines.”
“Can you hear that echo?” Toby hollers from behind his set. He smacks the snare a couple of times, head cocked.
“Yeah.” I lean on the front of the stage, facing him, with my elbows near my head. “It should sound different with a full house, though.”
Our sound tech nods from behind his desk as though to agree. Pack a venue with a thousand sacks of flesh and bone, and the acoustics change notably. That’s why we pay these fuckers who operate the board: they know how to predict that change and to adjust the levels for it.
I tuck my chin between my outstretched arms as Toby strikes the drums a few more times, using my peripheral vision to watch Tabby-cat. She sits in the front row with Café Girl, chatting. You’d be forgiven for thinking she’s relaxed by the way she talks, yet her incessantly tapping foot says otherwise.
I took two steps inside their apartment and the raw reality of her situation hit me smack in the face. I’ve been there. I’ve lived with only the bare necessities while I fought to get where I am today. Shit. One look in her eyes when I opened my goddamn mouth and stated the obvious, and I was thrust back to the good old days when that was Toby and me.
Beaten down. Embarrassed. But too fucking stubborn to quit.
I jacked this thing up and told myself it was because I wanted to humiliate the woman who stormed into my rehearsal and made me feel insignificant. But ten minutes in her apartment and I realize how much of a fucking liar I am, even to myself.
I want to help her because she deserves better than this.
“Where the fuck is my stand?” Emery hollers from the side of the stage. The crash of metal on wood precedes a growled “Fuck!”
Should have given Pete money to get alcohol, too.
Toby tips his head back, jaw slack as he makes a strained face. I chuckle into my arms, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the stage to fend off my cravings. Idle hands …
Some bands hate this part, the setup. It’s tedious, broken practice. But I love it. Throw the four of us in a room, banging around pointlessly, and it’s as though we’re twenty and jamming in Emery’s games room again. It’s the fun before the bullshit. It’s the essence of why we all embarked on this fucked-up ride of lights, sound, and motherfucking publicity.
Fuck, the publicity.
Apparently we can’t market the band without being involved—who would have thought? Swear to God I’ll find a way, though. Bring it back to the music. I didn’t move out of home to get a career in style and opinion pieces. I hit the road to make a living doing what I love, what brings me alive.
What’s almost killed me several times over.
“We’re set for you now, T,” our sound tech calls across the auditorium. “Can you guys run through a couple of songs? We’ll see how it mixes.”
I cast a glance Tabby’s way to find her quiet, focused, and seemingly eager to hear us play. Fuck—it’s never crossed my mind to ask the woman if she’s heard our music. Does she live and breathe classical, or do her tastes vary?
Time to find out.
I jog up the steps side of stage, two at a time, and head across to grab my guitar. I saved for what felt like a fucking lifetime to buy this baby at the start: a PRS SE custom. No matter how much money I make, how many guitars I get gifted by sponsors, this girl will always be my baby. The strap rests across my shoulder, comfortable and familiar, as I lean in to check song choice with Toby.
“Think we should start with ‘Descent of My Mind’?”
Emery strides on from the side of the stage, mumbling under his breath.
Toby flicks his eyes across to the moody fucker, and then back to me. “Think he’ll break his guitar if he fucks up the end again?”
“Should we find out?” I pull the pick from my strings and give a couple of warm-ups.
“What we playing?” Em asks, brow furrowed.