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“I might actually kill you.”

“After the performance.”

I stand and pace once across the room.

The problem isn’t playing.

I fucking love playing.

I love the minutes before a show, when everything backstage feels electrically charged. I love the first roar from the crowd and the second of silence before the opening note. I love stepping into the light and feeling a room turn toward me.

Onstage, I know exactly who I am.

The problem is playing here.

Mountain Springs is two miles from the house where I grew up and full of people who knew me before I became Cal Fox. People who know my father. People who remember the first band, the shit gigs, the songs I couldn’t finish.

In LA, I walk onto a stage as the front man of Atlas Falling.

Here, I’m Callum Fox pretending he got away.

“Two songs,” I say.

Luca’s mouth lifts.

“Three.”

“Two, and if they earn an encore, we’ll give them one.”

“Acoustic?”

“Unless you’ve hidden a drum kit in your luggage.”

“I considered it.”

“And I choose the set list.”

He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. “Deal.”

I slap it away.

“You ever do this to me again, I’ll tell the Kappa girls you’re five nine.”

Horror crosses his face. “That is reputational sabotage.”

“Five eight without the hair.”

“Take it back.”

“Get your bass.”

* * *

I still don’t fucking want to be here.

By seven, the Student Center is packed. Folding tables line the walls beneath hand-painted signs for Sam’s fundraiser. There’s a donation bucket by the entrance and a girl with a clipboard who nearly cried when Luca introduced me.

The stage is temporary. Two microphones, borrowed amplifiers and cables taped to the floor badly enough to constitute a health hazard.