Chasing Death Metal Dreams (24 page)

Nate said, “Thanks, Mia.”

“Take this guy away and keep him from getting ragey, and that’ll do for thanks.”

“Got it.”

Carlos realized as he followed Nate down the row, dodging big cabs on handcarts, that for once, he’d failed to manage
ragey
. He just felt tired and small and ready for the night to be over.

Eli and his guys were hanging out in their space, arguing over a football game, when they spotted him and Nate. Eli jumped up, ran over, grabbed Nate up in a bear hug and swung him around, narrowly missing connecting Nate’s foot with Carlos’s groin. “Did you see it? Was that the sickest, greatest thing ever? Man, we
killed
it. Right?”

“Put me down, stupid.” Nate bopped Eli on the head with his palm. “Yeah, you were okay.”

Eli dropped him back on his feet. “Okay?”

“Not bad?”

“Try ‘perfect’.”

“Adequate.”

Eli glanced at Carlos. “Help a fellow musician out here?”

Carlos shrugged, a little of the tension in his spine unwinding. “I don’t control Nate.”

“God, you are in trouble then.”

Nate kicked at Eli’s shin and missed. “I guess I could go as high as ‘
good
’
.
”

“You could go as high as the top of that dumpster outside.”

Carlos said, “You killed it, Eli. Of course, it was all due to my songs.”

“Fuck you.” But he was laughing. After a moment he sobered. “You do know those rocked, right? Seriously, we owe you, dude.”

“You paid me.”

“I guess.”

“Get the damned bridge right and I’ll call it even.”

“I changed it.”

“Screw you.”

“You’ll have to settle for my brother.”

Carlos winced and looked around fast, glad no one was paying attention. This,
this
was what happened when you started getting careless with the truth. Nate didn’t even notice, muttering, “Settle? Screw you twice, E.”

“Incest, bro.”

The lights flickered in warning. Nate said to Eli, “We’re going to watch Stonemason out front. Any of you want to come?”

The guys all shook their heads. Eli said, “If they’re great, I don’t want to see it, you know?”

Carlos said, “Sure. Fingers crossed they fall off the stage or something.”

Nate singsonged, “’Cause that’s what it would ta-ake.”

Eli looked a little green, and his “Get fucked,” was a bit too real.

Carlos felt a rush of sympathy. “You guys totally deserve to win. Even over me, and I don’t say that lightly.”

Eli managed a hint of a smile. “Thanks.”

“See you later.” Carlos led Nate off toward the exit.

After a few steps, Nate muttered, “I screwed that up.”

“He’ll be fine. Especially when they win.”

“Your mouth to God’s ears.”

Carlos blinked. “I think God stopped listening to me when I was ten.”
Or maybe before.

Nate paused and touched his arm. “That’s bullshit. But we won’t get into it here. You can cross your fingers and toes and invoke Odin if you prefer.”

Odd how Nate could make the old sore places feel better. “That I can do.”

Their previous space was occupied, and the glares they got said no one was interested in squishing further, so they made their way further along and higher, past other groups of guys and girls in notches along the bracework, until they found an empty one. Carlos gave in to temptation and sat down with his legs straddled. He patted the concrete between his knees. “Sit here.”

Nate didn’t even glance around, just sat obediently with his back to Carlos.

“Fingers crossed,” Carlos said against his hair.

Nate raised his hands, fingers braided and thumbs locked together. “Hell yeah.”

The houselights went down.

Unfortunately, Twisted Stonemason didn’t suck. Their singer didn’t have Eli’s range either, but he was a pro, and he knew how to use his voice. The band was slick, the effects a notch up from anyone so far, the songs original but well-known enough locally to have the audience screaming the choruses back at them. With each song, Carlos’s heart dropped a notch. KnifeSwitch wasn’t close to competing with that. Even Serpentine wasn’t in the same league.

When they were done, he said succinctly, “Fuck.”

“Yeah.” Nate leaned back against his chest. “Maybe the organizer hates them. Maybe the lead singer screwed over his daughter or something.”

Carlos barked a laugh and wrapped his arms around Nate.

A man wearing a red Sparkfest shirt under a charcoal suit came onstage and took the lead singer’s mike. “So, it’s been a great night, and we’re all waiting to see who won this thing. Am I right?”

The audience roared back with drunken enthusiasm.

“Who will it be? Who walks out of here with five thousand dollars and a production contract.” The man waved at the backdrop. A projection flickered through all of the band logos, and a bunch of onstage pictures clearly taken tonight. There was one of Mia, sticks flying so fast the ends blurred, her blond dreads flipping around her head. Carlos wondered if he could get a copy. The video slowed down, and began posting the logos again. The man intoned, “Tombsgate? Lords of Meyhem? KnifeSwitch…”

There was applause for everyone, but the loudest screams were for Stonemason. No surprise. Carlos didn’t think he was giving in to the melodrama of the buildup until Nate winced and peeled Carlos’s clutching grip off his forearm. “Sorry,” Carlos muttered.

Another man walked onstage to join the first at the mike. He said, “I’m Donald Naylor. We’ve seen twelve excellent bands tonight. Let’s give them one more round of applause.”

That round was weaker and short, and he coughed. “Okay, without more waiting. The top band tonight was chosen through a combination of judging and your comments on the floor. Those of you who spoke to a guy in red about the bands? Your voices were heard. And the winner is… Twisted Stonemason.”

Carlos thought he was braced for that, but the rush of hurt made his eyes water and his breath hitch. He clung to Nate and tried to center and breathe slowly.
Stupid. Idiot! There never was a chance.

“Buuuut don’t go yet,” the man shouted above the roar of the approving crowd. “Quiet? Everyone?” When they’d settled to a dull roar, he said, “Twisted Stonemason already has an album in production with another label. So they win the five thousand dollars, but the production contract goes to… Serpentine.”

“Oh my God!” Nate’s whistle almost took out Carlos’s eardrums. “Did you hear that? Oh, God. Eli is going to be so stoked!”

Carlos bit his cheek viciously to keep from saying all the nasty things that sprang to mind.
It’s just a tentative offer. Most albums don’t make money these days. They picked Eli because the girls will drool over his looks.
He managed to say calmly, “He deserves it.” It was only the truth.

On stage, the announcer had called the winning bands up. The guys were shaking hands and pounding backs. From this distance, they were little figures, faces a blur, dancing with joy. Carlos said, “You should go down there. Congratulate him.”

“Hell, yeah!” Nate jumped to his feet, then turned back when Carlos didn’t immediately do the same. “What about you?”

“Give me a minute. I’ll follow you in a bit.”

“Oh.” A little of the elation faded from Nate’s face. “I’m sorry you didn’t win.”

“I never had a chance.” It was a bitter truth, but he was proud of himself for saying it evenly.

Nate looked like he wanted to contradict that, but couldn’t find words. Instead, after a second he said, “Promise you won’t run off?”

Carlos shook his head. “I’m not up for a celebration, but I’ll see you before we go.”

“Okay. Promise?”

“Yeah.” Carlos flapped his hand. “Go.
Anda
. Tell Eli I said he was the world’s luckiest motherfucker and the next song will cost him two hundred.”

Nate laughed, turned and ran.

Carlos sat alone on the hard concrete, above where a couple thousand loud and rowdy fans were slowly clearing out of the arena. They were singing, bumping, shouting, gesturing. He wondered if any of them were saying, “KnifeSwitch totally got robbed. They had the best songs.”

It wasn’t likely.

In a minute he needed to get up and find Mia. In a minute he had to move on and do the next thing, be a man, clear out their gear and figure out if he even still had a band. But now, for just a minute, he gave himself permission to mourn a dream. He raised his knees, put his face down on them, and cried.

****

Chapter 12

Down in the backstage area, Nate shoved Eli off his neck roughly. “Let go! I need to go find Carlos.”

“Yeah. Find Carlos. Tell him he writes like a boss. Tell him we need more songs. Lots more songs.” Eli’s arm was still heavy on his shoulder, and Chris whooped in his ear. They’d clearly spent Stonemason’s set getting half-wasted.

Nate dropped out from under. “I’ll tell him. See you later.”

“We’re going out to celebrate! Gonna close the town down. Come on, bro!” Eli reached for him, but Nate dodged.

“You don’t need me for that.” There were enough girlfriends and roadies and best friends crowding into the space. Nate backed away. “I’ll see you when you get over the hangover.”

“Party-poophead,” Eli said, then laughed hysterically.

“What are we, three?” Nate turned away.

Eli yelled after him, “We’re twenty-six, and I’m going to get smashed!”

Nate yelled back, “Make sure someone sober drives, motherfucker!”

RoRo called after him. “I’m DD. No worries.”

Nate relaxed. He’d forgotten that RoRo was on meds he couldn’t drink with. And tonight that would be a damned good thing.

As he turned the corner into the confusion of the other hallway, he heard Mia’s voice, loud and shrill. “Well, screw you!”

Nate dodged through the crowd and ran up to where Mia stood, drumsticks in her hand, threatening to hit Foster.

Foster’s face was flushed and furious. “You owe me. You both owe me. Come on.”

“We don’t owe you a damned thing.” Mia wasn’t backing down, even though Foster was twice her size. The crowd around them looked entertained, but not likely to help out. Nate pushed through to stand next to her.

Foster glared at him. “Who’re you? This is none of your fucking business.”

Nate said, “Mia’s my friend. What do you want, Foster?”

Foster curled his lip at Nate and moved closer to Mia. “Come on. Don’t be a bitch. One of those mikes is mine and I chipped in on the amp. Fifty bucks. I’ll pay you back.”

“You can take your mike, then, and get lost.” Mia raised the sticks.

“I don’t want the mike. Look, I’ll pay you back Tuesday after practice.”

“There is no practice!” Carlos’s voice was harsh and loud, as he pushed through the crowd. “Because there is no fucking band!”

“Oh, come on, Carlos.” Foster turned to face him. “Look, I screwed up. I
know
that, right? I was nervous. I took something to calm down.”

“You couldn’t even stand up!”

“I took too much. I’m sorry, right? It won’t happen again.”

“Damned fucking right it won’t!” Carlos strode up to him and shoved him in the chest, rocking him back a step. “You’re gone, you bastard. You’re out. You and your drugs and your
sorry
and your fucking half-assed not bothering to show up. Out!”

“Hey! I was here!” Foster stuck out his jaw mulishly. “I drove the whole way here, and I was
on time.
”

Carlos’s voice nearly reached his stage scream. “It only counts if you’re
awake enough to play! Motherfucker!
”
He shoved Foster again, harder. Foster staggered, bumping one of the cabs, and Mia jumped to steady it.

“Keep your hands off me,” Foster snarled, taking an ineffectual swing at Carlos. “You’re not my boss.”

“For this band, I am. And you’re
fired!
” The word ended in a squeak that made Carlos’s face redden. He raised a clenched fist.

Foster scrambled sideways. “Then pay me off. I put a bunch of money into our gear over the years. I want that money.”

“Screw you,” Mia said, glaring at him. “Between Carlos and me, we’ve loaned you more than you ever put in, and you never paid us back a cent.”

Foster folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not moving until you pay me. That mike had to be… at least a hundred dollars. And I put three hundred into the amp. No, four hundred.”

Carlos began, “We’re not paying you one—”

But Mia cut in, “Here.” She held out her hand, a couple of folded bills in it. “Forty bucks. You can take it now and be gone, or you can sue us for it all and lose big.” She waved the bills in front of him.

Foster got a cunning look in his eyes. “A hundred. And the rest later.”

“Do I look like I have a hundred bucks? You’re lucky I just went to the ATM for forty.”

Carlos rumbled, “Right. Enough. For God’s sake, Mia, don’t pay the fucker.”

“I want him gone.” She turned to Carlos, and Nate could see tears standing in her eyes. “I want him gone! Right now!”

“I can do that.” The muscles in Carlos’s biceps bunched, as he clenched his fists.

Nate stepped closer, deliberately blocking his line to Foster, and said to the bassist, “You’d better take what you can get and run, you creep. Or you may never play guitar again.”

Foster looked back and forth among the three of them, then around at the bystanders. Finally he reached out and snatched the money from Mia, knocking her hand hard enough that she yelped. “Fine. I’m gone.” He stared hard at Carlos. “I can work for anyone, lots of bands, fucking better than you! You’ll be sorry.” He whirled and shoved through the crowd, his passage marked by their curses and shouts.

After a moment, Nate moved aside. Carlos looked at him with an unfriendly glare. “What were you trying to do?”

“Keep you out of jail for assault.”

“You should’ve stood in front of me.” Mia shook out her hand, then rubbed at her eyes. “One more word and I was going for justified homicide. I was gonna stuff a drumstick up his nose till it came out his ear.”

Carlos sighed, and some of the color drained from his face, leaving him looking exhausted. “He used to be a decent guy and a hell of a bass player.” His voice was scratchy and rough.