Chasing Death Metal Dreams (23 page)

“Two.” She held up her newly opened can. “And a bit.”

“She stole one of mine,” Nate said. “I figured she’d sweated it out.”

“He’s a gentleman.” She took another big swig.

“And you weigh all of a hundred pounds, and you’re a lightweight. You might want to switch to soda.”

“Not a lightweight.” She frowned at the can. “Anyway, I’m going to get wasted and listen to music and think of evil ways to kill Foster.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He raised his own beer to her. “Good thinking.”

“Do you need to load up your van first?” Nate asked.

“Nah. Don’t want to leave our equipment in the parking lot. This is fine.” Carlos found a space to sit against the wall. The sound of the next band warming up was a bit heavy on the distortion, but not too bad.

Mia said, “You know what though? I don’t want to kill my ass. I’ve got a blanket in the van. Be right back.” She handed her beer to Nate. “Hold that.”

He stared after her as she hurried down the aisle. “Will she be okay?”

“She can still pronounce ‘blanket’. She’s fine.”

Nate came over and sat beside Carlos, close enough that their shoulders touched. His voice was soft and low. “What about you? Are you fine?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Be kind. Not right now.” He blinked hard and poured some more battery-acid-in-a-can down his raw throat.

“Can I get a head start on the ways to kill Foster?”

Carlos coughed. “I guess. Really, I just want to not think about it, you know.”

“Got it.”

They drank beer in silence. After a while, Mia came back with the blanket from the van and another six-pack. They folded the blanket up enough to make a pad for the three of them. They had to sit close together, but despite the heat, none of them complained. The beer was cold, anyway.

****

Chapter 11

The afternoon turned to evening. Bands came and went. Carlos thought that KnifeSwitch hadn’t been the worst of them, or even close to worst, but he had no illusions. With four bands still to go, at least a couple others had already put out much better sets than his.

He’d managed to make a trip out to the merch tables, to chat with fans and thank Mia’s sister for her help. But the fans who stopped all wanted to know what was up with Foster, and he didn’t have any answers and his throat fucking hurt. Mia’s sister had looked pretty sick of all the questions too, so he’d told her to pack it up and enjoy the rest of the show. He’d helped stow away the merch boxes and then hurried back to where Mia and Nate were hanging out. Nate greeted him with another beer. There was a lot to be said for having good friends.

Nate set his latest empty can down and said, “I should go wish Eli luck. They’re up after this one.”

“Yeah. Me too.” His voice was still wrecked. He decided that was okay. Fitting.

“Bring back more beer,” Mia told him.

“Sure.” They’d all had a few, but a beer an hour wasn’t going to put anyone out. He stood and held a hand down to Nate. Nate took it, letting Carlos haul him to his feet. They set off down the aisle, and around the corner to the double-digit band zone. Carlos hung back and let Nate go up to his brother, who was busy working on his pedalboard.

Eli looked up with a harried look. “Hey.”

“Problem?” Nate asked.

“Defective pedal. No FX signal return. Just fucking glad I’ve got a spare and it didn’t go out while we were onstage.”

“Hell, yeah,” Nate agreed. “Anyway, we just stopped by to say hey.”

“We’ll be pulling for you,” Carlos offered. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You better play my songs right.”

Eli managed a strained smile. “Thanks. Hey, what happened to you? I heard your set. They said your bassist was hauled off by the cops.”

“Huh? Not that bad. Just too stoned to play.”

“Oh. Hell, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it. You got a spare bass player?”

“Keep your paws off Chris.”

“Like he’d leave your band for mine anyway.” Carlos only realized how bitter he sounded when Nate, standing beside him, touched his arm. “Never mind. Go break a fucking leg, right?”

“Thanks.” Eli nodded at them distractedly, turning to RoRo. “Listen, make sure you really scream when we do vocal levels. You were miked too high at the last show.” RoRo nodded.

Nate nudged Carlos. “Come on. Let’s go watch from somewhere good.”

They wandered a bit and found a place high up above the seats that gave a good view of the stage. A bunch of other band dudes were already there, but they made room. Carlos squeezed into the corner, and pulled Nate in close beside him, hiding a grip on the hem of Nate’s shirt in between their bodies. He felt oddly unsettled, floaty but not in a good way. Like there was nothing keeping him from drifting off, except that bit of cotton between his fingers. The number nine band below was at full teeth-rattling volume, and the mosh pit in the center floor heaved and writhed, but there was a little hum in Carlos’s ears that filtered it all down to a blur.

It was just tinnitus left over from being too close to his own speakers, he decided. He rubbed his eyes with his other hand and tried to focus on the music. Nate moved closer, their thighs touching, and that helped. He still couldn’t focus on the lyrics though, and the music didn’t do much for him. He sighed when the band wrapped it up to moderate applause.

Nate said, “Eli’s next.”

“Are you nervous?” He kept to a whisper, easier on his vocal chords, and safer, just between them.

“A bit. It would be such a big deal for him.”

“I’m betting it’s all a gimmick. The contest.” He’d told himself that as a reality check a hundred times in the last week. “I bet they already know what band the producer wants. This is just publicity, like chumming the waters.”

“Like
what
?”

“Throwing a bunch of wounded fish in to attract sharks.” He hesitated, running the analogy through in his mind. Or was it a simile? Damned if he knew. “Um, maybe I didn’t think that through.”

“You’re a strange guy. You’re lucky I like you.”

For once he didn’t even look around to see who might have heard, just admitted, “Yeah, I know.”

It took a while to get that band taken down and Serpentine set up. Carlos didn’t try to talk to Nate, just sat there next to him and watched through half-closed eyes, trying to make out details under the dimmed stage lights. It was pretty hard to see down there, with the house so bright. He could hope that Foster’s meltdown had only been noticed by the hundred or so fans down on the floor. For all the good that would do.

The lights began to fade, and under the cover of darkness Nate grabbed his hand, fingers crushing his. “God. I hope they kill it.”

The house went dark, the stage lights blossomed in a shower of gold and red. Eli’s friend had clearly brought some custom lighting, as the images of a multi-headed snake that was the band logo writhed across the backdrop.

“Hey, you.” Eli’s voice into the mike was a deep growl. “Shut up now and listen, ’cause we’re Serpentine.” Tom launched a fast rhythm on the bass drum, Chris came in hard and clean, and then Eli and RoRo screamed out the first notes in perfect unison.

Carlos sat up and listened, letting Nate squish his fingers bloodless. They were good. Better than good. He’d heard the band practice, even worked with them, but here in concert they’d cranked it up a whole bunch of notches. Eli’s voice rumbled, then soared, moving from a velvet purr to a primal scream with control Carlos had never had, even before his voice changed. Tom might not be better than Mia, but he sure as hell wasn’t worse, and Foster at his best wasn’t even fit to clean Chris’s shoes.

As they launched into one of Carlos’s own songs he sat tensely, torn between satisfaction and envy.
That.
That was how he’d heard it in his head. But it was beyond unfair that someone else was playing it, someone else was taking those words and those notes and setting them loose. He ached to be down there on that stage, and for a moment, he hated how good they were with a burning pain in his gut, and yet he also hated when the song ended.

They
got an encore. In fact they got two. By the time the stage lights went down and stayed that way, Nate sounded hoarse from screaming and whistling. He turned to Carlos in the brightening fluorescents. “Did you hear them? Holy shit!” He laughed breathlessly, eyes shining.

“Yeah. They were great.”

Carlos thought he managed to be enthusiastic, but Nate smacked his thigh lightly. “And your songs were the best.”

“Ya think?” he drawled.

“Jackass.” Nate bounced in place. “They have a shot. Seriously.”

“Don’t jinx it.”

The next band set up quickly, as if eager not to let the audience buzz too much about Serpentine. Their show was high-energy and high volume, with some semi-pro lighting effects, but their singer’s voice was more shrill and didn’t have the range Eli did.

“Really primal screaming,” Carlos noted when the lights came back up.

“Not as good though, you think? I didn’t think they were close to Eli’s band?”

“Nope.” Carlos tried to ramp down the excitement. “I hope I’m wrong about it being rigged. Although probably not.”

“You’re such a cynic.”

“I’m a realist.”

“Cynic.”

“Well, Mr. Cynic to you then.”

Nate laughed. “God, I’m so stoked. Eli must be going nuts. Do you think we should go down there?”

“I think he and his band are probably hanging out. You can if you want.” Carlos hated admitting he was jealous. He’d be like that little cloud over people’s heads, raining on their parade. Unless one of the organizers was a fanatic for original lyrics, he was fucked. KnifeSwitch was a decent little band, or had been pre-Foster— “Fuck. Motherfucker.”

“Who? Eli?” Nate’s forehead wrinkled.

“Shit, no. Foster.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Hidden between their bodies, Nate rubbed a knuckle on Carlos’s thigh. “That sucks. What will you do?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t want to think about it. “Ask Mia, I guess, whether we start auditions.”

“Is there another option?”

His chest ached. “She could join half a dozen bands. A truly sick drummer is always in demand.”

“And what about you?”

He didn’t know. He didn’t want to think about it. He stood abruptly. “Wanna go down to the mosh pit?”

“You have a death wish? Anyway, we don’t have floor tickets.”

“We’re with a band. I bet we could get in.”

Nate tugged on his cuff. “Forget it. Sit. One band to go. I don’t want to die without knowing whether Eli won. Or you, of course.”

That should have felt supportive, but it got under Carlos’s skin and stung. “I’m going to head down to staging. I’ll check in with Mia, see if she wants to see Twisted Stonemason
.
”

“I’ll come with you.” Nate struggled to his feet, rolling his shoulders. “We can check on Eli too.”

Of course we can check on precious Eli.
“You don’t have to. You can hang here.”

Nate frowned at him and led the way off the walk, down into the corridor behind the seats. “What’s with you?” he muttered as they got out of public sight.

Carlos gritted his teeth and glanced around. They were alone for a moment. “I’m fucking jealous. All right? Do I get to be petty and mean for once? Eli has every fucking thing I want, from a top band to a top voice to a great family to a face like Lucifer to a—” He cut off his bitter spew before he said ‘
dick
’
.
Not going there.

Nate grabbed his arm and tugged him around. “Yeah. Okay, he’s charmed. He’s my brother and sometimes I hate him. But you know what he doesn’t have?”

Carlos tugged his arm free roughly. “What?”

Nate grinned slowly and wickedly, looked Carlos up and down, ran his hands slowly down himself, then turned and walked off.

Carlos gave himself a moment to fume, then followed. “Ego, much?”

“Am I wrong?”

“You’re impossible.”

“That’s not like being wrong.”

Carlos bumped his shoulder, hard enough to throw Nate off balance a step. “It’s good you’re hot in bed.”

“It really is.” Nate laughed.

“Big ego, jerk.”

“Resorting to insults means you lost the argument.”

“I call it creative speech. Why were we arguing again?”

“I forget.” Nate moved closer. “Let’s find Mia. C’mon.” Carlos noticed that he didn’t mention Eli and felt a mix of gratitude and shame. Their arms brushed as they turned into a public corridor. He stepped away automatically. Time to be the public Carlos Medina again, for whatever that was worth. He raised his chin and straightened his shoulders.

Mia was sitting beside her drums, on her phone again, when they approached. The hallway was crowded, with a couple of bands clearly hoping to beat the takedown rush by moving their gear out now. She glanced up at them. “Hey, guys. Serpentine sounded fucking fan-damn-tastic from here.”

“They played good,” Carlos admitted. “Almost up to the quality of my songs.”

“Hah.”

“So, do you want to swap? Go up front for the last set?”

Mia shook her head, not getting up. “I’m okay here, even if the cell reception sucks donkey balls, and the WiFi isn’t much better. You guys can go back.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m beat, and I have the entire blanket to myself. My sister dropped off the merch when she headed out, and I’m sitting on, like, a dozen shirts with Foster’s face on them. I’m comfortable.”

Carlos wasn’t sure whether to laugh or wince. He rubbed a hand over his face.

Nate said, “Hey, Carlos, why don’t you hang with Mia while I go check on Eli?”

“I’ll come with you.” He could be a good guy about this, surely. “I have to give him a hard time about missing a note in that bridge.”

“I’m sure no one else noticed.”

“That’s why he needs me to harass him.” He thought Nate actually looked worried, so he added. “Just kidding. I want to tell him they were awesome.”

“All right.” Nate looked at Mia. “Can I get you anything?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

Carlos told her, “We’ll be back at the end to help load and all.”

“You’d better be, or your guitar will be on my front bumper.”