BEDLAM (Young Decay #3)

Eight Years Earlier

EIGHT YEARS EARLIER

BONNIE

I close the tailgate of my dad’s pickup and walk around to the front again as I see my mom come out of the trailer home’s front door. Shit, is she already crying?

“Mom. Really?” I ask when I see the paper bag of what I’m assuming is her famous cranberry muffins.

“It’s just a snack,” she insists. “I didn’t want my little girl getting hungry at her new place. You can share them with your roommate—your new roommate who you’ll be spending all of your time with since you won’t be here anymore.”

I purse my lips as tears cloud her eyes. “Mom.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” she says, waving me off.

“It’s just an hour away,” I remind her. “I’ve literally spent two years longer at home than the rest of my class. I think it’s time.”

“Just because you’re leaving home doesn’t mean you stop being my little girl,” she says as she throws her arms around my neck.

I sigh into her embrace, letting her have this moment because I know she’s scared.

“Will you call me tonight, please?” she asks when she lets me go.

I chuckle at her. “I’m going to that concert tonight. Doubt I’ll hear my phone.”

Among other reasons.

“Oh, right. Half the reason you’re leaving for LA. Young Skeleton or whatever,” she says as if it’s nothing.

Young Skeleton. Ha.

“Young Decay, and they’re fucking amazing. These guys are going to do big things. I want to be there at their beginning,” I say about my favorite indie metal band.

“I don’t even know how you heard about them,” she says. “Bon, are you sure you’re okay to leave? I know these last two years have been hard. I don’t want you to do anything that you can’t handle.”

I avoid her gaze as I reply, “Mom, I’m fine.”

It’s a lie I’ve been perfecting, a lie that’s kept me putting one foot in front of the other, the alternative being a reality that I’m not ready to succumb to—even if it’s breathing down my neck.

Because behind my eyes, flashes of incoming headlights, a scream, and fire nearly blind me.

I blink, and suddenly, I’m eighteen and sitting in the driver’s seat of the old Bronco with my best friend, Kelsey, who’s in the seat at my side, her silky black hair billowing sideways toward the open window as she grins my way.

“I think you love me,” she says.

“What?” I laugh nervously. “What are you talking about?”

“I think you love me,” she repeats, straightening up. “I think you looove me,” she goes in a sing-song voice. “You want to touch me—”

“Oh my fucking god, Kels—”

She pokes at me, making me laugh as I switch gears.

“I think you want to keeeeeep me. You want to kisssss me—”

I grab her by the jaw and pull her across the seat, pressing my lips to hers as we cruise the stretch of straight road. Kelsey softens at the embrace, even if it’s only for a couple of seconds, and when I pull back, I hardly bother looking left at the road again.

Because I’m mesmerized by her.

“What if I do?” I ask.

She inhales a jagged breath, a smile flickering on her pink lips. However, just when I think she’s going to answer, her eyes widen at a light that’s creating a halo around her face. I’m too blinded by her eyes, by the realization that maybe she—

“Bonnie. BONNIE!”

I quickly close my eyes, forcing the images out of my mind. I can’t think about Kelsey now. It’s been two years since I…

Since I took her life.

Something like guilt grabs my insides, and I shudder as I try to keep my shit together. I can’t break down. Not now. Not in front of my mom. She’s already so worried. One glimpse into what’s really going through my head and she might think I’m not ready to leave. That I can’t handle being on my own…

I’m fine.

She doesn’t need to know.

I need my water bottle.

Did I pack my water bottle?

It has to be in the front seat.

I clear my throat and force myself to smile, shrugging it off just like I always do.

“I promise I’m okay,” I tell her.

“Livi, leave it,” my dad says as he joins us. He pushes his bag up on his shoulder and claps my shoulder. “You ready, kid?”

“Are you?” I ask him. “We have an hour of grunge ahead of us. I hope you’re ready to step back into the 90s.”

He laughs. “Let me throw in a classic or two, and you have a deal.”

“Bonnie, wait.” Mom’s hand is on my wrist, stopping me from opening the truck door. “Bonnie, are you sure—”

I sigh and place my hands on her shoulders. “I’m an hour away. I’m not moving across the country. I am fine. I will call you tomorrow. I love you.”

Tears line her wide blue eyes— my eyes. She grabs my face and kisses my forehead, giving me a solemn look when she pulls back. “Okay. Okay. I trust you. I do. I really do.” She takes a step away from me and presses her hands to her hips like she knows she has to in order to let me go.

My dad leans over and kisses her temple. “I’ll call when I’m on the way back,” he tells her.

I’m already in the truck, shutting the door behind me when Mom launches at the window for a final goodbye. And by the time we finally get on the road, I’m curling my body into the leather seat, drink bottle between my legs, and tapping on my iPod to get the playlist started.

“You know your mother just wants to make sure you’re okay,” he says, switching hands on the wheel. “Your room will be there anytime you need it. We’ll be there.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” I tell him. I bring my lips to my straw and suck down a large sip of drink. The vodka burns the back of my throat. Still, I shake it off just as the drink shakes my creeping anxiety.

“Okay, are you ready for the best music ever played?”

The bar is loud with conversations and clanking drinks. My friends and roommate are huddled around a table by the back taking shots and flirting with anything that moves. I’m barely listening—too focused on finding any members of Young Decay in the crowded room.

Mira, my roommate, slides a shot glass my way. “Hey, you planning on being here with the rest of us or are we keeping you from something?” she asks.

I shake my head to break out of the trance and give her a smile. “Cheers,” I say, tapping the shot glass against hers. “What are we talking about then?”

“Layla thinks that’s the drummer over there,” she says, jerking her chin to the far end of the bar.

I whip my head around so quickly that I almost knock Simone’s drink over. She says something, though I don’t hear it.

Holy shit.

It’s Rad.

I recognize the drummer from the last show—long, dirty blond hair, dark, uneven scruff along his jaw… His hazel eyes are glazed over with dark circles beneath that appear as if he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s wearing a classic band tee and a plaid shirt over it, tattooed arms resting casually on the bar top as he sinks back another drink.

“—I think she’s wrong. All of his pictures on socials look different,” Mira goes on.

“Yeah, that’s because he uses more glamour filters than I do,” I mutter, having seen his socials. “I’ll be back,” I say as I push off the table.

“Wait, you’re going to talk to him?” Mira asks.

I frown at her. “Yeah. Why?”

Her mouth snaps shut; eyes wide with disbelief. “Ah…”

“I’ll be back,” I repeat.

I turn on my heel before she can say another word. The entire way over, I’m practicing what I should say. Yet even in the midst of my mind working overtime, when I reach him, I completely forget it.

I slide my elbows onto the bar and lean in, signaling the bartender for a drink. “Two shots of vodka,” I tell him when he comes over.

“One of those better be for me,” Rad says, and I glance his way.

“Yeah? Better put it on your tab then,” I reply as the bartender slides the shots toward me.

Rad scoffs and nods at the bartender’s questioning stare, and I shift over a seat. Rad takes the second shot, clanks my glass against his, and together we gulp them back.

“It’s Rad, right?” I ask.

He huffs in an annoyed way. “Right. A groupie. Should have known by the hair,” he says, reaching out for one of the neon green streaks in my blonde waves.

Did he really just touch my fucking hair?

The motion irks me.

“Not hardly, dude. You’re really not my type,” I say, and he takes a sip of his beer in response.

“Right, okay,” he says. “Let me guess… You sing? Hoping to get in on one of the tracks?”

“Wrong again,” I say. “I am a big fan though. The music is awesome. It’s hard to believe you guys haven’t scored a deal yet.”

“You actually like this shit?” he asks, and the sentence makes me squint.

“You don’t like your own music?” I ask.

“You know, I was once in another metal band back in college… Now, that shit. That was fucking music. Not this core crap,” he says.

The fuck.

“Real metalheads don’t shit on other people for their taste in music,” I challenge.

He eyes me. “Real women don’t talk back,” he says.

I almost laugh at how much I already fucking hate this guy.

God, I hope the rest of the band isn’t this shitty.

“Ha. Yeah, okay.” Because a guy like this isn’t worth getting into a fight with right now, even if I want to fucking deck him. “So, why are you here? If you hate Young Decay’s music, why bother?”

Rad takes another sip of his drink and glares across the room. My gaze follows, landing on a guy in a black mask that covers half of his face, and a taller, lanky guy with black hair beside him.

Mads Tourning and Reed Matthews.

Holy fuck.

“You see that tall fucker over there?” he asks.

“Reed? Yeah. What about him?”

“That guy there means guaranteed pussy,” he says.

Oh my god.

This jackass is the worst .

“And being in the band also means guaranteed free drinks,” he goes on.

I stare at him in disgust. “So… free drinks and pussy. That’s your motivation?”

“It sure as fuck isn’t the masked guy’s writing. Prick. He’ll get what’s coming to him,” he says, muttering the last dig against his cup. He takes another sip of his drink and peers me over. “You’d do the same, wouldn’t you? Anything for a line of wet hoes ready to pull their skirts up just to say they fucked a band member.”

Ex-fucking-scuse me?

It’s the predatory smirk on his lips that has my insides curling.

This boy is a stain on the human race.

“So you admit the only reason any girl might give you attention is because you’re in a band with hotter members than you?” I ask.

His jaw ticks. “I’m saying it’s an easier in,” he argues. “Less work.”

“Ha. Less of a chance they’ll say no, you mean,” I counter.

Rad stares at me, chewing on the inside of his mouth as if he’s getting ready for a fight.

I wish he would.

Come on, fucker.

He shifts in his seat and takes another sip of drink. “What are you insinuating?”

“If the shoe fits,” I say.

He visibly grinds his teeth, fingers whitening on the bottle in his hand. The motions make me scoff, and I crack my knuckles to try and keep my hands busy, so they don’t land in Rad’s eye socket.

“Unlike you, I don’t need a drum kit or a stage to get either of the things you’re bragging about,” I say. “Just makes me that much more irresistible.”

The bartender slaps two more shots of vodka onto the stretch in front of us, and I grab both of them this time.

Rad stares as I kick them back.

“Have a good set,” I say before pushing off the bar. “Dick.”

“What was that?”

I don’t bother turning around. He isn’t worth me losing my cool over—at least not tonight.

God, I hope this guy gets what he deserves one day.

I’m on my way out back to smoke a cigarette when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I go ahead and put a cigarette between my lips and push the door open before grabbing my phone and answering.

“Mom. I told you I’d call tomorrow,” I say to her.

“I know you did,” she says, and I can hear the anxiety in her tone. “Your father called to say he was on the way home. I just wanted to check on you.”

I press the phone to my shoulder and awkwardly try to light my cigarette, but someone holds out a light to me before I can drop all of my shit—and I nearly lose it as I see the guy offering.

Zeb Helms, Young Decay’s guitarist.

His hazel-grey eyes linger on me as I inhale, and I mutter a quick, “Thanks,” to him before trying to get my mom off the phone.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, leaning on the railing. “We just got to the venue. The band goes on in thirty, I think.”

Zeb is still standing nearby stretching his arms over the railing, and I swear it feels like he’s listening in on my conversation.

“Hey, look, I have to go,” I tell Mom, pretty desperate to get off the phone and chat with this guy. “I’ll call you tomorrow. You know I will.”

“Okay, okay. I know, Bon. I just wanted to make sure you were safe,” she says. “I worry. What with everything that’s happened—”

My eyelids press tightly together, a fog swelling behind them as I refuse to let the images of fire or the noise of Kelsey’s scream haunt me.

“I said I’m fine,” I nearly snap.

There’s a break on the other line as if my mom realizes what she might have brought up.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “I know.”

“You call if you get in trouble,” she says. “Anything, Bonnie. I know you have that fake ID. Cover your drinks. Don’t take anything from anyone. Please be careful.”

I sigh. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way back to my apartment,” I say. “Would that be better?”

“Yes,” she says. “Okay. I’ll let you go. I know it’s a big night. I’m sorry to keep checking in. I worry—”

“I love you, Mom,” I say, and the words are met with a beat of silence on the other end. “I have to go. I’ll text you.”

“Okay, Bon. I love you. Bye.”

I have to hang up before she starts crying. My palms clench around the rail as a cool breeze sweeps by, and I close my eyes a moment before taking another drag.

“My mom calls me before every show,” Zeb says. “She has a fucking printout on her fridge. I think she thinks it’s the only time I’ll answer.”

I squint his way. “Why does she think you’ll answer before you go on?” I ask.

“Because she talks to me about the latest crime podcast she’s listening to,” he answers. “It’s a whole thing we’ve been doing for a couple of years now. I think she’s realized that trying to figure out who did it helps calm my mind.”

I grin at him. “That’s pretty fucking cute, dude.”

“Tell anyone else, and I’ll have to kill you,” he says.

I chuckle softly and consider him. He’s a fucking stranger, eavesdropping on my conversation, yet somehow making me feel a lot better about leaving home in the thirty seconds we’ve talked.

This guy is so much better than that fucking jackass inside.

“Bonnie,” I say, extending my hand.

“Zeb,” he answers, taking it. He inhales a drag from the joint between his fingers. “You’re here for the show?” he asks.

“Ah… yeah. Yeah. Big fan, actually,” I tell him. “I’ve been following you since that show in Vegas when they dropped Reed during a stage dive—”

“Oh shit,” Zeb laughs. “Man, that was fucking crazy. I haven’t thought about that in a while. He had a bruised cheek and tweaked knee from that for weeks.”

“The video was epic,” I say.

“I might have to remind them of that before the show.” He extends his joint to me, and I gladly take it.

Because there’s no way I’m turning down smoking with Zeb Helms.

“Oh wow,” he says suddenly, his brows narrowed at me, and I realize he’s staring at the tattoos on my arm. “Is that a drumstick with a snake wrapped around it?”

I hold my forearm up so he can better see the tattoo extended along the side of my forearm. “Yeah. Both arms,” I say, showing off the artwork.

“That’s pretty badass,” he says. “You’re a drummer?”

“I dabble,” I say with a shrug.

Zeb huffs, his grin widening. “Yeah fucking right,” he taunts. “Dabbling doesn’t usually warrant tattoos.”

I hand him back his joint, beaming by now. “I mean… I know my way around the kit. Mom always said have a backup plan, though. She supports the arts, but she’s also super realistic.”

“What’s the backup plan?”

“I still have no fucking clue,” I say, and he laughs.

“I never had a backup plan either,” he says. He pushes his palms against the railing and bends like he’s stretching. “Hey, you should stick around after the show. Meet the rest of the band.”

“I already met one of them,” I say as I puff on the cigarette this time.

Zeb’s expression falters like he can hear the annoyance in my tone. “Ah hell. You met Rad?” he asks.

I give him a look, and he blows out a breath, head hanging. And when he straightens slightly a moment later, he holds up his pinky finger.

“Promise the rest of us aren’t like him,” he says.

I eye him. “You know I’m not a groupie, right?” I ask. “Just want to make that clear.”

Zeb chuckles. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I only want you to meet Mads and Reed.”

“Why?” I ask.

He shrugs, though it doesn’t seem like a normal, unbothered kind of shrug.

“You seem cool,” he tells me.

I open my mouth to speak, but someone calls his name from the door.

“Zeb.”

He straightens to look over his shoulder, and I realize how damn tall he is. He’s so tall, he blocks out the side light, casting a shadow over me.

“Yeah?” he asks the man.

“Twenty,” he replies.

“You get that asshat away from the bar yet?” Zeb asks.

The man sighs and gives Zeb a look, and Zeb pushes off the railing. “I’ll handle it.”

The door closes, and Zeb shakes his head, putting out his smoke on the railing. “Fucking jackass,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ll see you out there?” he asks me.

“Hell yeah.” I put my own cigarette out on the railing and nod to the door. “I’m actually heading in, too.”

Zeb opens the entry and allows me to go into the club first, then fist-bumps me before stalking away.

Zeb fucking Helms.

I’m still smiling about it when I reach my friends.

The interrogation about meeting both Rad and Zeb is just what I expected. I leave out most of the details, only telling them to stay far, far, away from Rad and mentioning Zeb giving me a light. Their conversation switches to other bands they’ve met, and I start to tune out their voices as I peer around the room again.

Reed and Mads are still in the corner, now chatting up who looks to be someone with a notepad. Probably a social media journalist from around town. There are a few who report on indie rock bands that I follow—one more reason I found Young Decay.

It’s another ten minutes before I see Reed and Mads head backstage. Even with their disappearance, Rad remains. I’ve hardly heard anything my friends have said the last few minutes, too focused on replaying the conversation back and honestly concerned for the woman chatting with him right now. I can’t see her face, and the bright blue hair braided into space buns atop her head makes me wonder if she’s wearing a wig.

My first instinct is to go over there and steal her from this jackass.

Free drinks and pussy.

What a fucking dickwad.

And he doesn’t like the music? How can you not like the fucking music and still be in the band? I’m sure they could find a better fucking drummer than that asshat.

Mira offers me another shot, and I debate pushing it away. I can tell the drink is beginning to get to me, and I don’t want to be passed out before their set.

I sip it instead of chugging this time.

Another woman approaches the pair and starts yelling at Rad, who argues back. There’s a commotion between the three that’s suddenly blocked by two others stepping up to the bar, and the next thing I see is Rad throwing his hands up like he’s trying to keep his hands away from hitting this person.

I push away from the table, ready to get between them if I need to, but Rad picks up his drink, gulps down the rest of it, and then storms backstage.

“—go get a place up front,” my friend, Simone, says.

Let it go, Bon.

Mira tugs on my arm, and I tuck my drink into my hand before following her and the others to the front of the crowd.

Fifteen minutes go by before the bar owner comes out to introduce them. I whistle and cheer along with the rest of the crowd as Mads, Zeb, and Reed pile onstage, hands up and waving to everyone. Reed has just grabbed the mic when Rad comes up the steps, and as I stare at him, whatever Reed is saying doesn’t register.

Rad looks like shit—more so than he looked a half hour ago.

He’s swaying, his face almost drooping as he staggers onto the seat. I squint at him, noticing the white powder noticeable around one of his nostrils. He brings up his sticks like he’s going to hit them together to count the band down, yet as he does, his eyes roll.

“Oh shit—”

Reed moves out of the way just as part of the kit topples over. There’s a thud, and the entire crowd winces in response.

Rad is passed out on the floor.

“ Fuck .”

Zeb and Reed rush to him, the former almost falling over the crashed cymbal. Reed reaches Rad first and presses two fingers to his neck like he’s looking for a pulse.

“Dude, that’s not the right—Watch out,” Zeb says as he crouches down on the other side.

Mads remains upright, hands resting on his bass. “Guys, I can see him breathing,” he says after a few seconds.

Zeb slaps Rad’s cheek a couple of times like he’s trying to wake him up, and when the drummer doesn’t respond, Zeb hangs his head and curses under his breath.

“ Shit . Fucker’s out,” Zeb declares. He glances at the bartender and nods his chin. “Hey, can you call an ambulance or something? I think he’s OD’d.”

“Motherfucker,” Reed mutters, standing.

Mads says something else, but only Reed hears it. He nods like he’s agreeing, hands on his hips when he looks back down at Rad.

“We’re fucking cooked,” Reed says. “Of course tonight . Of all nights.”

A couple of bouncers push through the crowd, one shoving past me like the news that Rad’s still breathing simply makes the incident an annoyance. And a few seconds later, they’re dragging him off the stage.

“—so fucked,” I hear Mads' muffled voice.

“So fucked,” Zeb agrees. “What do you want to do?”

“We can’t fucking play. Death Tower is here tonight. Without a drummer, there’s no chance,” Mads says.

Death Tower…

Holy shit. They have a deal riding on this?!

“He’s toast when he wakes up,” Zeb mutters. “Done with him this time. Should have been done with him last time.”

“It was just for tonight,” I hear Mads argue.

The crowd is beginning to move, a few already choosing to head toward the exit.

Reed drops his hands, letting them slap his thighs. “What do you want to do? Call it? We can’t play without a drummer,” he says.

Mads lets his bass hang. “ Fuck ,” he snaps, hands swiping over his face. “Yeah. Yeah, I—”

I launch toward the stage and shove the crowd out of the way, already standing at the edge before I even realize I’ve moved.

“I can play,” I blurt out.

The three turn in my direction, and a few onlookers snicker nearby, whispers beginning.

“ Bonnie, what are you doing?! ” I hear Mira ask. “Bon!”

I block them out.

I can do this.

I’m a damn good drummer, and I know their fucking music.

“I can play,” I repeat. I haul myself onto the stage, taking Reed’s hand when he offers it, and when I’m standing in front of them, I feel shorter than I normally do.

“Holy hell, you guys are tall,” I say. “Are you—”

“So, you play drums?” Mads interrupts me.

I try to keep my cool as I reply, “Yeah, I play.”

Zeb is smirking at me, though he’s yet to speak.

“Are you any good?” Mads asks.

“Hell yeah,” I tell him. “Ten times better than the asshat who just OD’d on you. You should have dragged him off the stool after the first album. He’s been getting shittier since the showing in Chicago when he puked in the case.”

“Where the hell did you see that?” Reed asks.

“Social media.”

Zeb’s maniacal laughter rings through the space. “Dudes, this is her,” he says to his bandmates, pointing at me. “I told you.”

“Oh, this is the chick you talked to outside?” Reed asks him. He bends slightly like he’s trying to see the tattoos on my arms. “Oh shit, yeah. Those are awesome tattoos.”

“Thanks.” I look at Zeb. “You were talking about me backstage?”

He shrugs. “I told you. You seemed cool,” he replies.

“So, you know our music?” Mads asks, getting back to business.

“It’s all she plays,” Mira practically shouts from the front of the audience.

I smile her way as the crowd begins to get restless. A few people begin chanting their name, some already booing them. I shove past Zeb and shift some of the kit that the bouncers just stood up instead of putting back in place after Rad fell. Reed quickly puts his microphone in the stand and helps me while Zeb and Mads chat—and I wonder if Zeb is having to convince Mads to take a chance on this.

Once the kit is arranged, I push my bag over my head and grab two sticks from inside, then take a seat on the stool.

The guys look at me like I’ve lost my mind, and I can’t say that I blame them.

“Come on,” I say, adjusting the seat. “What do you have to lose? It’s me or you don’t play at all.”

A smirk licks at Reed’s lips, and he peers between Mads and Zeb as the audience gets louder. “What the hell,” he says.

“I vote yes,” Zeb agrees. He strums a couple notes on his guitar and grins my way. “You’re pretty fucking ballsy jumping onstage with strangers.”

“My balls are bigger than yours, and you’re going to have to get me a better stool with more support after this,” I tell him.

Zeb laughs. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s see what you’re made of first, Bedlam.”

My brow quirks. “Bedlam?”

“Yeah. You come in here, cause a little confusion, a little mayhem. You’re fucking Bedlam walking.” He glances at Mads, and I realize the masked bassist is staring at me with those intense green eyes. Zeb steps up to Reed, who’s ready to announce that they’re starting again. However, Mads keeps watching me.

And I don’t know why I almost stop breathing when he approaches the kit.

“Set list is on your left,” he says. “You need anything?”

Shit. What am I doing? Am I seriously sitting on this stool right now?!

I’m suddenly nervous.

Fuck .

“Shot of vodka because I can’t believe I just jumped on this stage,” I mutter, though the room is already closing in around me.

I hear him chuckle. “Yeah. That makes two of us.” He reaches to the ground and grabs a water bottle, then hands it to me. “Emergency liquid,” he says as I take it from him.

The vodka burns the back of my throat, and I make a face. “Ugh, you have the shit vodka,” I groan.

He chuckles again. “You ready for this?”

I take another drink and let the chills run over my shoulders. A full breath leaves me. I straighten, crack my neck, and feel the sticks between my fingers.

I can do this.

I know their music.

I’ve watched them perform a thousand times online.

You got this.

My eyes meet Mads'. “Let’s fucking go.”

“—we say we try this shit on for size, yeah?” I hear Reed say, a grin licking his lips when he peers back at me. “LA, one more time, we are Young Decay—”

He points back at me as he finishes his sentence. I read the first song title on the setlist, and I realize it’s the same set I already have memorized. I exhale audibly, letting the world turn in slow motion.

1… 2… 3… 4…

I strike the rim of the snare four times to set the beat. Mads strums the first note on the bass, and suddenly, I’m playing onstage with Young fucking Decay.

How is this real?!

The entire show is a whirlwind. I’ve tried to notice their signals and cues on the videos I’ve watched—always fantasizing about one day playing on a stage with a real band who didn’t laugh at me when I said I was a drummer.

I don’t know what it says about these three who didn’t even bat an eye or second-guess my abilities when I jumped up here.

Thank fuck for Zeb being near me. He’s able to cue me in and encourage me throughout the set. With every song, the excitement is a little less foreign, the songs begin to feel like they were written with me in mind, and I even take a few liberties on the beats.

This was my audition, my in with the industry.

And by the time we wrap up the final song, I’m ready to jump, scream, and celebrate from all the adrenaline.

I just played a show with Young Decay.

I follow their lead after the last note—bowing at the front of the stage, touching some fans’ hands, waving. I’d have tossed someone my sticks except they’re fucking disgusting. So, instead, I blow a kiss to my friends and mouth, “ Holy shit! ” to Mira, who replies the same thing.

Reed wraps his arm around my shoulder when he sees me, microphone still in his hand, and says, “Holy fucking hell, LA. This one right here—” He steps back and bows, arms moving up and down like he’s praising me. Zeb joins him, and it’s all I can do to laugh.

Because holy fucking hell.

My mind feels free, unburdened from anxiety, guilt, and every other darkness that’s plagued me over the last two years. Discovering the stage like this…

I’ll chase this high from now on.

“My DUDE, hell yes!” Reed exclaims as we hit the small backstage area. He holds one hand up for me to slap, then hesitates. “Wait, are you okay with me calling you ‘dude?’ Is that cool?”

I grin. “Hell yeah, it is,” I reply, appreciating that he asked.

“Then fuck YES, dude!” He holds both hands up this time, quickly lowering them a little so that I’m able to high-five him. “That was fucking awesome. You smashed it.”

“I can’t even disagree with this guy,” Mads says, approaching me with his hand out. “That was so smooth. And the added embellishments?” He blows out a breath. “Fuck me. Do you write?”

“I dabble,” I say.

“She dabbles. Ha.” Zeb is grinning when he comes up to us. “You also said that about playing, and if that’s fucking dabbling, what the hell do you call something you’re passionate about?” He holds his hand out, and when I take it, he brings me in for a hug as if we’re old friends. “That was epic. I knew you would be great.”

I can’t believe this is real life right now.

I try to keep my cool and not reveal how much I’m losing my shit.

“What gave it away?” I ask, my heart reverberating in my ears.

“I am an excellent judge of character,” he says.

I lift a brow, and he chuckles.

“Vibes,” he says. “Pure fucking vibes.”

“It was the confidence,” Mads says. “No fucking sane person jumps onstage like that, and honestly, we don’t want someone any less crazy than us playing our music.”

“Hey—” someone shouts at them from the stage. “Cases?”

“Fuck. Yeah, we’re coming,” Zeb says, and Reed and Mads head back out to help the crew pack up. Zeb peers my way. “That’s the house kit, so it’s an easy breakdown tonight—at least we don’t have to clean up Rad’s shit. You’re hanging out, right?”

Shit yeah, I’m hanging out.

I’m never leaving.

“As long as that’s cool with you guys,” I say, playing it off. “How can I help?”

Reed is still going on about the set as we pack up like he has to talk it through just to make sure he’s processing all of it without missing any details. I take five seconds to chat with my roommate when I see her standing near the stage, and she brings me a shot of vodka. I kick it back, letting the warmth fill my chest as she squeals excitedly.

“Oh my god, that was— Bonnie! ”

I laugh. “Insane, right? Hey, I’m going to hang out with them. I’ll get a ride back, okay? Don’t wait up for me.”

“Okay, text me!” she says as I straighten.

A few fans come up while we’re packing, and none of them turn down a chance for a picture or autograph. I’m so fucking happy that none of the rest of the band seem as entitled or selfish as Rad had been—to the point that I question how they were ever even friends with him. Still, once they’re packed up in the black van out back, I’m back to wondering how I ended up in this position.

I inhale a drag on my cigarette as we chill outside the back doors, Zeb counting the cash in the back of their van. Reed and Mads are chatting about the next gig and whether they saw the Death Tower exec in the audience.

“—fucker probably left as soon as Rad hit the dirt,” Mads says.

Reed blows out a plume of smoke from his joint. “Maybe not. Maybe he saw this one jump on the stage and was like, ‘Oh shit, female drummer? I need to see this,’” he says, grinning at me.

Zeb taps on the table, and Reed leans into the van to grab his payout.

“I still can’t get over that you just let a random stranger onto the stage with you without even knowing if they were full of shit or not,” I say.

“ —full of sugar, honey —”

Reed begins to sing the lyrics of a song by another rock band that I immediately recognize, and I beam when he slaps the stack of cash on his palm, then hands it to me with a wide grin.

“You fucking earned this,” he tells me. “Seriously.”

It isn’t a lot of cash but it’s more than I ever expected to earn playing a drum kit.

“You earned the hell out of that,” Mads agrees.

“Tempted to give you my share,” Zeb says. “But I really need weed,” he says with a wink.

“Hey—” Reed smacks Mads in the stomach. “Where are we rehearsing tomorrow?”

“Ah, fuck,” Mads groans, hand scratching the back of his neck. “Have to find a new place now that we’re officially done with Rad.”

The three of them look my way as if they’re waiting for an answer.

“What?” I ask.

A smirk curls on Reed’s lips. “We’re asking if you want to be our drummer.”

I wobble on my feet, quickly catch myself, and try to stay calm; however, I’m sure the shock on my face is giving me away.

“What?” I repeat. “What about Rad?”

“Fuck that guy,” Zeb says, spitting on the ground.

“It was his last night in the band,” Mads says. “Only had him here so Death Tower would hear our music. Of course, I’m sure they exited the moment they saw him pass out.”

“No one wants to sign an already fucked up band,” Zeb mumbles. He glances my way. “Not you. You were amazing.”

The back door opens then, and the owner of the bar, Terry, comes out, a wide grin on his face.

“Ah, there you fuckers are,” he says, bounding down the steps. “Not that I had to search. This is the usual spot my bands hang out. Hey, you guys had someone really important wanting to chat.”

“Police?” Mads asks.

Terry brushes him off. “No. Although, someone did call and wanted to let you know Rad’s stable at the hospital. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you about.”

“What’s up, Terry? You’re keeping us in suspense here,” Zeb says.

He pulls a business card from his pocket and hands it to Mads with a smirk on his lips.

“He was here. And he fucking loved you,” Terry says.

“Holy shit,” Reed exclaims, leaning over Mads’ shoulder. “Holy shit!”

“ Fuckkkkkk —” Zeb’s eyes widen upon reading the name on the card, and he pulls back just enough to high-five Reed with both hands. “Holy fucking—Are you kidding me?” he asks, rattling Mads.

Mads’ lashes lift toward the bar owner. “Are you fucking with us?”

Terry grins. “Hell no. I don’t joke about Death Tower Records or Avie Levin,” he says. “He had to cut out early, but wanted me to give you his card.”

The three guys scream, jump up and down, and begin shoving one another. I laugh at them over to the side, my heart pounding, emotions burning in my eyes because I can’t fucking believe I’m here for this.

Zeb comes over to me, still yelling, and picks me up into his own bear hug. “Ah, this is your fucking victory, too,” he says when he sits me down. “All you!”

I chuckle. “Nah, you guys fucking earned that. I just filled in.”

Reed scoffs as the three look between each other, card hitting his palm. “Dude, you’re in this,” he says, beaming. “This deal will have your name on it, too. If you want.”

Oh shit, they were for real.

My stomach bottoms out. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, you’re kind of stuck with us,” Zeb says. “We might go as far as begging if you try to leave.”

“Having you on that stage was like the final piece clicked,” Reed says. “The energy was everything.”

“Listen, I’m about to ask you the most pivotal question you’ll ever be asked,” Mads says, seriousness lacing his tone. I straighten and clear my throat, peering between Reed and Zeb for some kind of reassurance.

“Fucking terrifying coming from you, but okay,” I say.

His pale green eyes squint like he’s smiling beneath that mask. “You think you can handle becoming a rockstar?”

Relief sweeps over me, and I laugh again. “Motherfucker, I was born to be a rockstar.”

“Yeah, you were!” Reed lunges my way and picks me up off the ground, the sound of my new nickname chanting from their lips. It’s all I can do to hang onto his shoulders as we all jump and laugh and scream together.

And for the first time in two years, I allow myself to wholly feel the moment, the absolute elation pouring over my body and coating me in laughter and purpose. I want to remember this.

Because this is the only joyful core memory I have. I’m desperate to keep it.

And I can’t wait to get home so I can call my mom.