Chasing Death Metal Dreams (22 page)

Mia gave him a glare. “You’re not being subtle.”

He held his hands in the air. “Trying to help. My bad.” He stretched, feeling the tingle in his thighs as circulation returned. “Okay, time to gear up.” He pulled out his phone and checked it. Still three bars. Still no calls and no texts. He could text Foster again, but there were a dozen already waiting for the guy. What good would it do? He took a couple of breaths, trying to center. He had a show to do, no matter what. Music to play. Lyrics to give voice.

Nate said, “Do you want me to help?”

Carlos was half-startled to realize Nate was still there. “No offense, but we know where it goes and the venue guys have the practice. Maybe just, um, go enjoy the show?”

“’K.” Nate leaned over and hugged Mia, then held out a fist for a bump. “Break a leg, guys.”

“I’ll break both of Foster’s legs,” Mia muttered. “Thanks.”

Carlos didn’t have time to watch Nate walk away. The red-shirts came over with hand trucks and the next fifteen minutes were spent getting the amps and cabs set up, hooking into the soundboard, and testing everything. They set up Foster’s mike too, and Carlos did the sound check on it. His stomach was tying itself in knots, until he could taste the acid in the back of his throat.
Now would be a good fucking time to actually show up, motherfucker.

The venue lighting guy came over. “Do you want me running lights?”

“Yeah.” There was no one else. Because they were pitifully small-time.

“Three spots? I have three names, but I see four mikes.”

“The cello is mine. There are only two songs with a cello part.”

“Which?”

“Second and fifth.”

“Got it. Any special requests?”

“My drummer has a solo in the third song. Make her look good?”

“You got it. Maybe some strobe? Right. Have fun, guys.” He walked away.

Carlos met Mia’s eyes where she sat behind her kit. The touch of panic he saw was probably an exact match for how he looked. He walked over there. “We got this.”

“We are not a duet, Carlos.”

“We’ll improvise.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Not if I get to him first.”

There was a sudden argument in the left wings. Carlos turned, suddenly hopeful. A security guy hurried to the edge of the stage, steering Foster with an arm up behind his back. “This guy says he’s with you.”

Relief made Carlos almost black out. “Yeah—” he started, then narrowed his eyes. Foster swayed on his feet, his face flushed, shirt pulled askew. There was no guitar in his hands. “Where’s your axe, Foster?”

Foster gave him a wide grin, his glittering eyes showing pinpoint pupils. “Carlos, buddy, I’m here.”

“No shit! I can see that. Your guitar isn’t.”

Foster waved behind him, tipping off balance with the gesture until the guard had to tighten his grip to keep Foster upright. “It’s back there. I’ll find it. We got time yet, right, have some time? Yeah.” His voice was slurred.

“Shit.” Mia jumped down from behind her drums and marched over to him. “You are fucking wasted!”

“Nope. Not. I can play. I just had some fun, a bit of fun. I’m all loosey ready to play.” He flapped his free hand in the air randomly.

The smack of her palm on his cheek echoed across the stage. Carlos lunged, trying to protect his own guitar with one hand, and grabbed her with the other. “Dammit, Mia. Not now.”

“He’s completely shitfaced.” She turned to Carlos, her face crumpled like a little kid’s. “Our chance, and he’s flushing it right down the toilet. Carlos!” The bright house lights beyond the stage silhouetted her, and he hoped no one past the footlights could really see their faces.

“I know.” He gave her a one armed hug.

Foster drawled, “Sorry, Mimi! I’m good. Give me a minute, a cup of coffee. I’m fine. I’m yeah, I can, I’ll play. No problem.” He rubbed at his face, still grinning manically.

Carlos looked at the security guy, who still had Foster’s arm in a tight grip, then at the nearest audience members who were eyeing them with curiosity, although they probably couldn’t hear anything over the roar of conversations. “You have a way of dealing with wasted fans?”

“Um. Yeah.”

Carlos eased his arm from around Mia and pointed at Foster. His hand was shaking, but his voice was rock steady. “Well, that guy’s not in our band, so I guess you should do whatever you do.”

Foster blinked hard, swaying. “What the hell? Carlos? I’m in the band. I’m the best fucking guitar in the band.”

“You used to be. Now you’re history.”

“Screw you!” His face got ugly. “You can’t fire me. Hell, no. You can’t. He can’t. I’m great, fine, I’ll play. No problem.”

“You can’t even fucking stand straight.”

Foster took a fast step forward and lurched against the guard’s grip. “I can. See? Standing.”

Carlos turned away, biting his lip. No more.
Ni una palabra más.
Another excuse, another fucking word, and he’d puke. “Get him out of here.”

He was caught by surprise when something slammed into his back. Foster snarled in his ear, “You can’t treat me like shit, dump me, not now, no way!” He staggered, slamming his elbow back, and connected with something. Foster yelped.

Then the guard was there, dragging Foster off him. “Sorry, sir. I got him.” He waved at the wings and a couple more guys came running to help. Between them, they dragged Foster offstage, still ranting and struggling. As they muscled him out of sight, he shouted, “You’ll be sorry. Fuck you! You’ll regret this, damn you, cunt…” His words became lost in the noise.

Carlos took a deep breath and met Mia’s eyes. She had her fist pressed to her mouth, and he stepped close again, pulling her in. “Are you gonna puke?” he whispered in her ear.

“No.” She turned in against his neck. “No way. Not crying. Not puking. Screw him. He doesn’t get that.”

Carlos felt numb. His voice sounded like it was coming from outside himself somewhere. “Atta girl. We’ve practiced without the sumbitch often enough. We can do this.”

“We can’t. It’s gonna suck!”

“Yeah. We can. You know what?” He set her away gently. “Blaze of glory. We’re going to do all original shit. No covers. No mercy. I’ll announce them. We’ll skip “Candyblades”, and I’ll do cello just on “Underhill”. We’ll do “Freakboy”, and “Yesterday’s News”. Right?”

Mia rubbed her face and straightened her shirt. “We haven’t practiced “Freakboy” very much.”

“I have.” It was Nate’s song. Carlos had played it on his old acoustic so often this week, he could play it in his sleep. They hadn’t had time for Foster to learn it, but now that didn’t matter. “You’re solid. No need for fancy. I want to play it.”

“Right. You’re the boss.”

“The hell I am.
We’re
both KnifeSwitch. Right?”

Mia raised a fist and bumped him.

An older man, red shirt stretched over his ample stomach, came hurrying over. “I heard there was a problem.”

“My bass guitar just quit the band.” Carlos was really proud of the even way he said it.

“Oh.” The man glanced around. “Do you need to scratch?”

“No! We’re going on. We just have to rearrange the set a bit.” He dug deep for some lead-guitar attitude. “It might not sound as good as usual, but it’ll be a whole lot better than those last guys.”

The man actually smiled. “You’re sure? Anything we can get for you?”

A new bassist who knows our stuff? All the extra synth parts I have recorded on my system at home? A million dollars?
“Nope.”

“Right. Five minutes, then. Show us what you’ve got.”

“Plan to.”

As the man walked off stage, Carlos dragged in a harsh breath. Then another slower one. He pulled his stage persona around him. Carlos Medina, lead guitar for KnifeSwitch, was a cocky son of a bitch who didn’t let
anything
stand in his way. He stepped up to his mike, adjusted his guitar, touched the E-string for luck, just enough to make it hum, and turned a shit-eating grin on Mia. She settled behind her rack and raised a stick, looking at him. “‘Not Going Down’,” he told her. “On my mark.”

The house lights went down, and the spots came up. The PA announced, “Let’s hear it for another local band. This is KnifeSwitch, from Tacoma.”

Usually, Carlos would have engaged the crowd for a moment and introduced the band. This time he waited one beat, then launched into the first song. It was thin, without Foster’s base to fill in the low notes. Mia added more drums in the lower register, to help out. Carlos closed his eyes, put his mouth to the mike, and screamed, “
Not going under, Not going down…
”

It was the strangest concert of his life. Foster’s absence was like this big aching hole in the songs, and he and Mia hit new heights trying to fill it. Her drum solo took the house down, everyone screaming and pounding approval. He pulled out all the stops, shredding on the strings until he figured he’d bleed tonight. His voice didn’t have to hold out beyond this half hour, not anymore, not for anything, and he used it ruthlessly. When they eased down into “Freakboy”, the audience stilled, swaying and listening like it was a rock concert and not metal. He sang the words, about how the right person could make a true man out of a cobbled-together boy. His throat hurt. His heart hurt. He let the last note hang for a second, then dove into “Coals Against the Skin” without stopping for breath, relieved to be able to scream and roar.

And then they were done. Mia hit the rim of her cymbal, a clean, sharp sound in the moment of silence that was everything he’d hoped to hear. And then the audience cheered and roared. For a while. And stopped. No screams for an encore, no wild approval. Just a decent response to a job well done.

Maybe it was just as well. He wasn’t sure he had another song in him. He moved up to the mike, one last time. His voice rasped, as he said, “Thanks. I’m Carlos Medina, and over there, the wildwoman on drums is Mia Fontaine.” He applauded in her direction and there was a decent echo of applause mixed with whistles from the crowd. “We’re KnifeSwitch. Thanks for coming out; we’ll see you all again!” The applause was loud but short, and as the house lights came up, the roar of conversations was already heavy. He was glad when they cut the stage lights, leaving them in near-darkness.

He swung the strap of his guitar over his neck and staggered. If one of the roadies hadn’t already been hurrying onstage to get their gear, he’d have fallen. The guy grabbed his arm, shoved him upright, and said, “Great set,” before letting go and bending to unplug his mike.

Carlos eased his guitar to the floor and turned toward the drums. Mia stood up stiffly and came over to him. He opened his arms and she walked into them. They held each other, rocking together, not needing words. But eventually she muttered, “We
owned
that fucking stage.”

“Damned straight.”

She kissed his cheek, then pulled free. “Gotta see my babies get taken down right.”

“Yeah.” He wanted nothing more than to leave, to find some corner to hide in and have a breakdown. But those were expensive amps and the best mikes he could find, and he needed to take care of them. He turned to the nearest roadie and said, “I’ll take our mikes, if you get the rest.”
Professional. Be professional. Even when you want to kill someone and then cry.

When they got back to their patch of naked concrete, Nate was waiting. Carlos just had time to set the mikes down and ease his guitar to the floor, before Nate jumped him. Carlos staggered, returning the hug, too achingly glad of the human contact to care what it looked like.

“You were amazing,” Nate said softly. “You were so, so awesome, and I’m going to kill Foster.”

Carlos chuckled damply. “You’ll have to stand in line.” He allowed himself one more moment with his arms around Nate, chest against chest, cheek against his hair, breathing in the smell of him. Then he shoved himself away. “Wait here. We have more shit to get, and I have to inventory. Wait, okay?”

“I’ll be here.”

As Carlos turned away, Mia set her snare down carefully and then rushed past him and grabbed Nate. “So, what did you think?” She hugged him hard. “Were we awesome or what?”

“You were fucking awesome.”

“And now I need a beer.” She stepped back and wiped her arm across her forehead. “Jesus, you think it would kill them to turn the air up? I just about melted out there.”

“Nate can buy us beer,” Carlos said. “He didn’t do any work.”

“Three beers coming up,” Nate said.

Mia shook her head. “Better make it six.”

“Done.” Nate hurried off, dodging red-shirts.

Mia muttered to Carlos as they headed back to the stage, “If you don’t keep that guy, I want him.”

“I thought you weren’t dating any more guys.” He didn’t have to work to whisper. His throat was on fire.

“I’d make an exception. He’s sweet.”

“Find your own sweet guy.”

“I don’t like sweet either, actually. Maybe I’ll go find my own wicked woman.”

“After the beer.”

“Well, yeah.”

They got their equipment cleared out, and stowed back in their square. Carlos went through it, making sure they had everything they came with. When he was done, he turned. Mia had her first beer almost empty, tipped up high as she drank, her second in her other hand. Nate bent to pick up a can from the floor by his feet and tossed it to Carlos. “Done?”

Carlos popped the top, took a long swallow, and coughed as the bitterness hit his throat. He took a second more careful sip and winced but didn’t stop. After half the can, he said, “Yeah. Other than moving stuff to the van.” His voice sounded like hell.

Nate’s lips twisted, but he didn’t comment, just said mildly, “So are you going to hang around?”

Carlos was going to ask what the fucking point would be, when Mia said, “Yeah. Why not? Just for laughs. We might sell some more shit. Who knows, we could even still win it.”

Carlos shook his head. “If all the rest of the bands come down with whooping cough, maybe.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Nate handed him another beer. “You were better than the first two.”

Mia drawled, “My farts are better than the first two.”

Carlos stared at her. “How many beers have you had.”