“What?”
“You were just checking out her ass,” he whispered.
“Why do you keep pushing that crap, dude? She’s hot, yeah. Anyone with eyes can see that.” It was the truth. Though it didn’t cause any sort of tingling or shivering inside of him. Much less compared to the idiot still in his trunks in front of him. He hadn’t even realized he was looking at her. “But she is also hurting right now and doesn’t need this kind of shit. So drop it.”
“You wanna kiss her, you wanna hug her, you wanna fuck her…” Chris sang, ignoring him.
The fuck. “Are you jealous of her being prettier than you, shitface?”
“Maybe I’m jealous of you thinking that, Marco Polo.” Chris leaned back, legs apart, allowing his friend’s eyes to feast on the insanely large bulge between them.
Fucking oblivious tease.
“Go die, Schmidt,” Marc said as he got up, throwing a stuffed elephant at him that a fan had given them the day before.
Thedaywentbyin a flash and now stars were adorning the sky.
After their visit to Niagara Falls and having lunch in the area, Buried Alive’s crew had come back to the concert field, where they’d split up. Some had gone to nap, some to play video games on the bus, others to talk with their loved ones, and Chris, Marc, and Leah had joined a few other musicians who were playing poker by the pond. Musicians from Dark Omen, a Scandinavian progressive death metal band, and Custom Killing, who had rescued the most classic thrash metal sound and brought it to the present with their own characteristic twists.
Dark OmenandCustom Killing.
He still couldn’t believe their friendship with the Norwegians was real. Those dudes; he’d admired them from the very first album they’d released in two thousand and six. And now here they were, not only touring but actually being friends with them. And the Texans? They were so insanely talented it wasn’t fair to the rest of mortals. However, even after being part of the industry for over two decades, they were still such kind, humble souls it was impossible not to feel drawn towards them.
The festival was full of amazing artists, but these two bands were special. Although neither of them was his favorite genre, the way their compositions spoke to Marc had no rival. Sure, they didn’t have Metallica or Iron Maiden’s big names—underground-ish groups would never be that famous—but they were at the top of their careers, doing what they loved, moving the world with them, and inspiring people like him.
For some, music was just a background sound to do their chores or to get pumped during a gym workout. For him, it was identity and therapy.
After his father had died on duty, life at the Zimmer’s took a 180-degree turn. In the blink of an eye, their entire world revolved backwards and everyone had to bear the burden together. His mother didn’t even have time to mourn her husband. With two kids and three teens to take care of, she’d had to work a second job to provide for her family—the widow’s pension wasn’t enough for all of them. Thank God their other two siblings were already living away from home and had been helping care for the youngest ones.
Still, amongst all this pain and confusion ten-year-old Marc and his entire family went through, what he clearly remembered were the karaoke and Guitar Hero nights. Once a month, they would all gather, order pizza, and stay until early morning, when they’d tuck in their sleeping bags in the living room.
These events had repeated for a year and ended up becoming a Christmas tradition that not only helped Marc’s healing process, but had also awoken a passion in him.
Music had allowed him to release and express emotions he couldn’t with simple words. It’d been his escape and refuge. Music, for Marc, was life and freedom.
The bassist slid down on the plastic chair and exhaled a cloud of smoke, tossing his head back. The starry sky above and the distant sound of chitchat, laughter, and soft guitar harmonies were like a balm for his soul.
“You’re already stoned?” Chris said after having been silent for the longest Marc could remember.
He passed him the spliff. “No.”
“Then why are you so quiet?” he asked before taking a drag.
“Because I don’t need to be talking all the time, like others.”
“Asshole.”
“Jackass.”
“You guys are funny,” one of their new Aussie friends blurted, slurring his words.
Marc raised a brow, realizing how buzzed most people in their circle were. While alcohol had been rolling since dinner,Mary Janehad just joined the party.
In another situation, Marc would have probably refused. Dark Omen’s bassist, Alex, was still struggling with drug withdrawal. He didn’t want to make things harder for him, but the dude had already left, and the chillness that shit gave was most welcome in moments like this. Nothing he’d taken yet was having the desired effect.
Maybe his body had leveled up and his tolerance to illicit substances had increased once again. Seriously, it took a lot for him to get intoxicated. Far more if he’d filled his stomach beforehand. The only one beating him at this stupid game was the Norwegian band’s drummer, and he had nothing on him because the fucking Viking was twice his size. Or maybe his system wasn’t processing anything because his brain was wrestling with another type ofaddiction.
Love and pain. In a way, they were the same.
