Page 135 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

The stage lights are hot-ass cans aimed at his eyes—too bright when he looks up, too dim when he looks anywhere else.

So he keeps them moving, keepin’ one eye on Matt, who’s swayin’ through lead like a drunk candle.

Matty popped mollies before pluggin’ in, and Andrew’s prayin’ like hell he don’t eat shit before the bridge hits.

Matt was jonesing for a fix.

Andrew’s jonesing for salami-and-provolone on a hard roll. He ain’t starvin’ for drugs or sex. He’s starvin’ for a sandwich.

Anything, really, ‘cause he hasn’t eaten a real meal in over eighteen hours. His back’s shot from schlepping suitcases all day, hands torn up from mixing drinks ‘til last call.

But even though it ain’t his band, they’re his boys. Mikey’s at his cousin’s funeral, and they needed him to fill in.

Andrew knows the songs—could play them in his sleep—so he said yeah. He always does. Didn’t matter if he was run ragged. Showing up was easier than sittin’ with the guilt trip of leavin’ ‘em hangin’ or lettin’ ‘em down.

It’s that ‘thanks, man’. That sigh of relief after he agrees. That shit hit him like nicotine. Until the moment he actually had to do the shit he agreed to. Then none of it felt good at all.

And right now? Andrew Harding feels like shit.

His body’s got that poundin’ ache. He should be payin’ attention to the lyrics, the crowd, the next cue. But he’s thinking about the half-eaten tray of lasagna in the fridge. In his head, he’s already home, in the kitchen, standing at the counter, eyes closed, red sauce drippin’ from the corner of his mouth, creamy ricotta on his tongue.

Then sleep.

Real sleep. Dead sleep. The kind where dreams don’t even come.

But instead, he’s tryin' to block out the pulled muscle in his shoulder, countin' down every chorus until the end of the song, when he gets five seconds to drop to a knee by the amp.

Until then, he keeps goin'.

He’s in front of an entire crowd who paid for this.

He’s on stage with guys who are countin’ on him to hold it down.

So he moves on autopilot, leanin’ into the mic every time Matt stumbles back, throwin' enough pain in his voice to keep the crowd feral.

The girl on the rail wants the music to break her heart a little. So he breaks it. Just a little. He locks eyes with her, crackin’ open the chorus and makin’ it bleed the kind of desperation you can fuck to.

And then there’s Miss Mini Skirt—blonde with pink streaks, pressed up against the stage, holdin’ her second drink. She hasn’t left his orbit, starin’ up at him all night, the moon in her sky. She’s givin’ him her gaze, wantin’ to be the only one he’s singin’ to. He lifts his chin at her, makes her think she is.

He forgot what his type was, if he ever had one. He knows the ones he ends up with ain’t it.

When the song cuts out, his head’s throbbin’ as if Kenny bashed it with that Maglite. He slides the guitar off with a wince, shoulder flarin’, and turns to Matt.

“If you’re slippin’, say the word. I’ll take lead second half.”

Matt wipes sweat from his brow. “Slippin’? Bro, I’m killin’ it. You hear that last note? I felt that shit in my chest.”

“Yeah, you felt that?” Andrew humors him, slingin’ an empty bottled water into the trash on his way to the back stairs. “Got fifteen minutes. Go throw it up and chug some water, Matty.”

Nico and Jay agree by the time Andrew hits the back step.

// TRACK CHANGE //

Behind the curtain, in the shadows, a girl's waitin’ on him—crop top, shorts cut high, the heel of her cowgirl boot against the wall. And his gut drops.

Fuck. He pulls a hard left to head back up the stairs to the stage.

“Oh, c’mon. Seriously. Duckin’ me?” she fires, callin’ him out.