Fucking play it back.
I blow out an audible breath and stretch my neck. “Gothic vampires, right?” I ask as I meet Mads’ gaze through the glass.
He scoffs, smile widening. “Yeah. Horror movie rage. Do you need to hear it without playing again?”
I already have the basic rhythm track laid down from the day before. This is the performance line, the added embellishments to really accentuate the sounds. I swallow and shake my head, glancing down at the notes I’ve made. I know this song like the back of my hand. I’ve heard it in my sleep since we started fucking around with it on the plane from DeathFest.
The drumsticks twist in my callused fingers, and I hit the double-kick, setting myself up for this run-through.
“Hey. You got this, Bon,” Mads reminds me. “Fuck the noise.”
Another short, heavy breath leaves me.
“Fuck the goddamn noise,” I mutter. “Play it again.”
The next play-through is ten times better than the few before.Just fucking play. I let it flow through my muscles, focusing solely on the music.Just play. Every strike is an extension of a soul broken beneath the surface and begging to be stitched back together with the next hit. I’m so consumed with this run that I don’t notice the extra people stepping into the studio. This one feels right. This play feels natural. I can see the stage, people circling in the pit—
And a blue-haired stranger holding up the smiley face sign in the crowd.
The noise of the final cymbal strike rings in my ears. It fades with the haunting strings, the thump of the bass… I hang my head and repeat the four-counts, eyes closed, and in the darkness, I can see my stalker sitting on that stool at the party. Patiently waiting for her prey to come to her.
I know now… I was the moth. She was the flame.
And I played into her grasp perfectly.
“That’s my goddamn girl!” a woman says on the com as the music wraps.
“Hell fucking yes—”
“Holyshit, Bon!”
The com shuts off as I look up, finding Reed and Zeb high-fiving with both hands, Andi nearly screaming, and in the middle of all the commotion is Mads, who’s grinning like a mad scientist who just watched his creation come to life.
He leans down and hits the button again, letting the shrieks of excitement fill the booth. “Sick, twisted, and epic, Bed,” he says in his even tone. “Seriously. Fucking epic.”
My muscles relax, and I let my body hang, head falling back. A scream of my own frustration and madness leaves me, laughter mixing with it. The end of every song feels like this, and I can’t wait to play it onstage.
“Hey, bitch, I brought chocolate,” Andi says. “Come get a treat.”
I chuckle at her and stand. God, my legs feel like jelly.
Worth it.
“I thought we had a donut date this morning,” I say as I head toward the booth door, Andi’s presence a welcome distraction from the shit threatening to close in again. “What happened?”
“Your security,” she mumbles as we hug. “Not allowed to leave, right?”
“Damn Avie,” Zeb says without looking up from his phone. He’s already slumped on the couch, foot kicked up on the coffee table.
“Hey, you have the sheet we were working on?” Reed asks Mads.
Mads leans over the soundboard for a marked-up piece of paper and gives it to the singer. Reed takes a seat in one of thechairs and leans over his knees, heel tapping on the floor as he pours over the lyrics and notes he and Mads added for emphasis and direction last night. I can hear Reed singing the words under his breath, and I smirk as I look at Wren.
“Is it stuck in your head yet?” I ask her.
“Like an echo,” she mutters as she takes a photo of Reed. “Have to document his serious faces.”
Reed glances up through his shaggy hair, smirk licking at his lips as he continues singing softly. He winks at his wife before once again turning his attention back to the music.
