Zeb opens the entry and allows me to go into the club first, then fist-bumps me before stalking away.
Zeb fucking Helms.
I’m still smiling about it when I reach my friends.
The interrogation about meeting both Rad and Zeb is just what I expected. I leave out most of the details, only telling them to stay far, far, away from Rad and mentioning Zeb giving me a light. Their conversation switches to other bands they’ve met, and I start to tune out their voices as I peer around the room again.
Reed and Mads are still in the corner, now chatting up who looks to be someone with a notepad. Probably a social media journalist from around town. There are a few who report on indie rock bands that I follow—one more reason I found Young Decay.
It’s another ten minutes before I see Reed and Mads head backstage. Even with their disappearance, Rad remains. I’ve hardly heard anything my friends have said the last few minutes, too focused on replaying the conversation back and honestly concerned for the woman chatting with him right now. I can’t see her face, and the bright blue hair braided into space buns atop her head makes me wonder if she’s wearing a wig.
My first instinct is to go over there and steal her from this jackass.
Free drinks and pussy.
What a fucking dickwad.
And he doesn’t like the music? How can you not like the fucking music and still be in the band? I’m sure they could find a better fucking drummer than that asshat.
Mira offers me another shot, and I debate pushing it away. I can tell the drink is beginning to get to me, and I don’t want to be passed out before their set.
I sip it instead of chugging this time.
Another woman approaches the pair and starts yelling at Rad, who argues back. There’s a commotion between the three that’s suddenly blocked by two others stepping up to the bar,and the next thing I see is Rad throwing his hands up like he’s trying to keep his hands away from hitting this person.
I push away from the table, ready to get between them if I need to, but Rad picks up his drink, gulps down the rest of it, and then storms backstage.
“—go get a place up front,” my friend, Simone, says.
Let it go, Bon.
Mira tugs on my arm, and I tuck my drink into my hand before following her and the others to the front of the crowd.
Fifteen minutes go by before the bar owner comes out to introduce them. I whistle and cheer along with the rest of the crowd as Mads, Zeb, and Reed pile onstage, hands up and waving to everyone. Reed has just grabbed the mic when Rad comes up the steps, and as I stare at him, whatever Reed is saying doesn’t register.
Rad looks like shit—more so than he looked a half hour ago.
He’s swaying, his face almost drooping as he staggers onto the seat. I squint at him, noticing the white powder noticeable around one of his nostrils. He brings up his sticks like he’s going to hit them together to count the band down, yet as he does, his eyes roll.
“Oh shit—”
Reed moves out of the way just as part of the kit topples over. There’s a thud, and the entire crowd winces in response.
Rad is passed out on the floor.
“Fuck.”
Zeb and Reed rush to him, the former almost falling over the crashed cymbal. Reed reaches Rad first and presses two fingers to his neck like he’s looking for a pulse.
“Dude, that’s not the right—Watch out,” Zeb says as he crouches down on the other side.
Mads remains upright, hands resting on his bass. “Guys, I can see him breathing,” he says after a few seconds.
Zeb slaps Rad’s cheek a couple of times like he’s trying to wake him up, and when the drummer doesn’t respond, Zeb hangs his head and curses under his breath.
“Shit. Fucker’s out,” Zeb declares. He glances at the bartender and nods his chin. “Hey, can you call an ambulance or something? I think he’s OD’d.”
“Motherfucker,” Reed mutters, standing.
