Not yet, I think bitterly. My life is full of those words.
And I follow my band out into the light.
The studio smells like hairspray,warm lights, and a faint electrical hum that always makes me think of stage rigs even when we’re nowhere near a stage. We’ve done so many of these over the years that my body knows the sequence before my brain catches up.
Park. Enter through the side door. Smile at the receptionist. Security check. Lanyards. A producer who talks too fast. A handler who sayslove you, guyslike we’re friends. Green room. Mic check. Sound check. Couch. Questions. Laugh at the right places. Play the song. Leave.
Rinse. Repeat.
We’re barely through the door when a woman with a headset and a clipboard appears like she’s been summoned by our footsteps. “Steel Saints!” she chirps. “Hi—welcome. I’m Naomi.”
Naomi’s smile is bright and practiced, but her eyes are kind. She looks like she’s supercharged on coffee and has been going since dawn and somehow still has the energy to beam at us like we’re the first interesting thing she’s seen all day.
“Hi,” Miles says smoothly. “Thanks for having us.”
“No problem!” Naomi gestures down the hallway. “We’re just going to get you settled, then do a quick sound check onstage. After that, you’ll hang in the green room until we’re ready to bring you out.”
“Green room,” Vinny mutters. “Why is it never green?”
Naomi laughs like she’s heard that joke a thousand times and still enjoys it. “Ours actually is, a little.”
“That’s unsettling,” Seth says.
Naomi leads us through a maze of corridors with framed photos on the walls—celebrities frozen mid-laugh on this same set, old hosts shaking hands with politicians and actors and athletes.The Late Loungeis basically the LA version of a cozy talk show. Casual, funny, plenty of banter, a live audience that laughs easily.
It’s also filmed, which means whatever version of myself I put on today is going to live forever on the internet.
Lucky me.
Naomi opens a door and ushers us into a room with a couch, snacks that look expensive, and a coffee machine that probablymakes drinks better than I do. Though to be fair, I still make a mean latte.
“Here you go,” she says. “Bathroom’s down the hall, two doors left. The host—Cal—will say hi before we start. He’s just finishing his rehearsal.”
Cal. Right. The presenter.
Cal Hart is… actually a good guy. He’s funny without being cruel and charming without making it about him. Which is why I agreed to this without fighting harder.
“Sound check in ten,” Naomi adds. “Just hang tight.” She disappears before anyone can complain.
Drew immediately makes a beeline for the snacks like he hasn’t eaten in a week.
“Didn’t you come straight from lunch?” I say. “How are you still hungry?”
“I have a gift,” he says, mouth already full.
Eli sits beside him, grinning. “Ignore him.”
Miles checks his phone and fiddles with a guitar pick even though we’re not onstage yet. Vinny and Seth sit close by, already looking bored as though they wish they’d gone into another profession.
And me? I head for the mini fridge, open it, and grab a can of soda.
No alcohol. Not anymore. Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.
After that first international tour and my… friends stepping in, drinking stopped feeling fun and started feeling like a way to avoid my own thoughts. And I’m tired of running from them.
I crack open the can, take a sip, and let the cold fizz ground me.
A few minutes later, Naomi reappears. “Okay! Let’s do sound check.”
