Mads says something else, but only Reed hears it. He nods like he’s agreeing, hands on his hips when he looks back down at Rad.
“We’re fucking cooked,” Reed says. “Of coursetonight. Of all nights.”
A couple of bouncers push through the crowd, one shoving past me like the news that Rad’s still breathing simply makes the incident an annoyance. And a few seconds later, they’re dragging him off the stage.
“—so fucked,” I hear Mads' muffled voice.
“So fucked,” Zeb agrees. “What do you want to do?”
“We can’t fucking play. Death Tower is here tonight. Without a drummer, there’s no chance,” Mads says.
Death Tower…
Holy shit.They have a deal riding on this?!
“He’s toast when he wakes up,” Zeb mutters. “Done with him this time. Should have been done with him last time.”
“It was just for tonight,” I hear Mads argue.
The crowd is beginning to move, a few already choosing to head toward the exit.
Reed drops his hands, letting them slap his thighs. “What do you want to do? Call it? We can’t play without a drummer,” he says.
Mads lets his bass hang. “Fuck,” he snaps, hands swiping over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I—”
I launch toward the stage and shove the crowd out of the way, already standing at the edge before I even realize I’ve moved.
“I can play,” I blurt out.
The three turn in my direction, and a few onlookers snicker nearby, whispers beginning.
“Bonnie, what are you doing?!” I hear Mira ask. “Bon!”
I block them out.
I can do this.
I’m a damn good drummer, and I know their fucking music.
“I can play,” I repeat. I haul myself onto the stage, taking Reed’s hand when he offers it, and when I’m standing in front of them, I feel shorter than I normally do.
“Holy hell, you guys are tall,” I say. “Are you—”
“So, you play drums?” Mads interrupts me.
I try to keep my cool as I reply, “Yeah, I play.”
Zeb is smirking at me, though he’s yet to speak.
“Are you any good?” Mads asks.
“Hell yeah,” I tell him. “Ten times better than the asshat who just OD’d on you. You should have dragged him off the stool after the first album. He’s been getting shittier since the showing in Chicago when he puked in the case.”
“Where the hell did you see that?” Reed asks.
“Social media.”
Zeb’s maniacal laughter rings through the space. “Dudes, this is her,” he says to his bandmates, pointing at me. “I told you.”
