“Fuck. Yeah, we’re coming,” Zeb says, and Reed and Mads head back out to help the crew pack up. Zeb peers my way. “That’s the house kit, so it’s an easy breakdown tonight—at least we don’t have to clean up Rad’s shit. You’re hanging out, right?”
Shit yeah, I’m hanging out.
I’m never leaving.
“As long as that’s cool with you guys,” I say, playing it off. “How can I help?”
Reed is still going on about the set as we pack up like he has to talk it through just to make sure he’s processing all of it without missing any details. I take five seconds to chat with my roommate when I see her standing near the stage, and she brings me a shot of vodka. I kick it back, letting the warmth fill my chest as she squeals excitedly.
“Oh my god, that was—Bonnie!”
I laugh. “Insane, right? Hey, I’m going to hang out with them. I’ll get a ride back, okay? Don’t wait up for me.”
“Okay, text me!” she says as I straighten.
A few fans come up while we’re packing, and none of them turn down a chance for a picture or autograph. I’m so fucking happy that none of the rest of the band seem as entitled or selfish as Rad had been—to the point that I question how they were ever even friends with him. Still, once they’re packed up in the black van out back, I’m back to wondering how I ended up in this position.
I inhale a drag on my cigarette as we chill outside the back doors, Zeb counting the cash in the back of their van. Reed and Mads are chatting about the next gig and whether they saw the Death Tower exec in the audience.
“—fucker probably left as soon as Rad hit the dirt,” Mads says.
Reed blows out a plume of smoke from his joint. “Maybe not. Maybe he saw this one jump on the stage and was like, ‘Oh shit, female drummer? I need to see this,’” he says, grinning at me.
Zeb taps on the table, and Reed leans into the van to grab his payout.
“I still can’t get over that you just let a random stranger onto the stage with you without even knowing if they were full of shit or not,” I say.
“—full of sugar, honey—”
Reed begins to sing the lyrics of a song by another rock band that I immediately recognize, and I beam when he slaps the stack of cash on his palm, then hands it to me with a wide grin.
“You fucking earned this,” he tells me. “Seriously.”
It isn’t a lot of cash but it’s more than I ever expected to earn playing a drum kit.
“You earned the hell out of that,” Mads agrees.
“Tempted to give you my share,” Zeb says. “But I really need weed,” he says with a wink.
“Hey—” Reed smacks Mads in the stomach. “Where are we rehearsing tomorrow?”
“Ah, fuck,” Mads groans, hand scratching the back of his neck. “Have to find a new place now that we’re officially done with Rad.”
The three of them look my way as if they’re waiting for an answer.
“What?” I ask.
A smirk curls on Reed’s lips. “We’re asking if you want to be our drummer.”
I wobble on my feet, quickly catch myself, and try to stay calm; however, I’m sure the shock on my face is giving me away.
“What?” I repeat. “What about Rad?”
“Fuck that guy,” Zeb says, spitting on the ground.
“It was his last night in the band,” Mads says. “Only had him here so Death Tower would hear our music. Of course, I’m sure they exited the moment they saw him pass out.”
“No one wants to sign an already fucked up band,” Zeb mumbles. He glances my way. “Not you. You were amazing.”
