Chapter 9 #3
The riff tears out bright and sharp, Eli’s drums snapping like a whip underneath.
My bass rumbles through, not just holding the spine but daring anyone listening to move with it.
It’s raw, reckless, built for sweat and chaos, the kind of track that belongs in a basement packed wall to wall with kids thrashing in borrowed leather jackets.
Mile’s guitar hooks scream over the top, and my vocals ride the edge—half melody, half snarl.
By the time it ends, the kitchen feels smaller, like we’re all trying to pretend we don’t have goose bumps.
“Good,” Miles says, too casual, which means it’s better than that.
Next is the heavy one. It starts slower, drums pounding in like thunder rolling off a cliff.
The guitar tone is darker here, Miles grinding it low and mean.
My bass hums deep enough to shake the cheap coffee mugs on the table, and when the vocals come in, they’re dirtier, ragged.
It’s anger in a track—fists clenched, teeth bared.
The kind of song that leaves your throat raw even if you weren’t singing.
I glance at Drew. He’s nodding, a grin tugging at his mouth like he’s already imagining the crowd headbanging in unison.
“Fuck yeah,” he mutters.
And then the last one—the dirge. Miles lowers the volume instinctively, like even the room needs to brace.
It starts with just guitar, slow and mournful, until the bass swells under it, heavy as a heartbeat in grief.
When the drums slide in, they don’t rush.
They drag, each strike deliberate, a weight pulling you down.
My voice cracks more here, less controlled, more confession than performance.
The lyrics bruise as they land, and by the chorus, it’s not just a song—it’s a goddamn ache.
The silence afterward is brutal.
Nobody speaks for a long beat. Then Eli exhales, long and shaky. “That one…,” he says, and then doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
Miles leans back, scrubbing a hand down his face. “All right. That’s the one that’ll crush.”
We sit together, the four of us, letting it sink in as Miles plays it again.
Hope tangles with dread, and beneath all of it is the itch in my skin that no amount of coffee or music can burn out.
Because as good as this feels, as much as I want the world to hear us, I know there’s something else fueling me.
Ollie. Always Ollie.
I don’t say it, of course. I just drain the rest of my mug, bitter dregs clinging to my tongue, and nod along like the only thing on my mind is the demo.
Miles clears his throat and drags his laptop closer, fingers poised over the trackpad. “All right. You’ve all heard it. Twice. Unless someone’s about to object, I’m sending this now.”
Nobody says a word. Drew drums his knuckles against the table, Eli scratches absently at the stubble on his chin, and I just stare at the empty coffee mug in my hands, like the stains at the bottom might tell me if we’re about to make it or crash and burn.
Miles doesn’t wait any longer. He clicks, types something, then clicks again. The whoosh of the email client fills the silence, small and unassuming for something that feels like it should’ve come with a drumroll.
“Done,” he says, leaning back and pushing his headphones off entirely. “That’s it. Out of our hands now.”
The tension breaks like a string snapping.
Drew whoops and throws his juice-bowl concoction into the sink, splattering sticky orange across the counter.
Eli mutters a curse and wipes his hoodie sleeve across the mess, which just makes it worse.
Miles is already closing programs, shoulders slumping like someone just peeled fifty pounds off him.
Me? My chest is still tight, but it’s a different kind of tight. The demo’s gone, flying off to be judged by whoever the hell is on the other end, but I can’t stop thinking about tonight. About Ollie.
Drew flops onto the couch, grabbing his controller again. “We’re gonna hit different this year. New Year’s, new demo, maybe a crowd that actually sings back instead of just nursing beers in the corner. This is fucking it. I feel it. The Lantern’s going to give us a shot and open the world for us.”
“Yeah,” Eli says, dragging a chair around backward to straddle it. “If we don’t get kicked off the stage for being too loud.”
“Too loud is the point,” I remind him. “If they wanted background music, they’d hire a DJ.”
Miles smirks without looking up from his screen. “You say that now, but if the sound guy kills your mic mid-set, don’t come crying to me.”
Their bickering fades in my ears, replaced by the picture I can’t shake: Ollie at that party tonight, surrounded by teammates, captain’s mask firmly in place.
The same mask I’ve seen slip multiple times now—once when his cheeks went crimson in the hallway, another when his lips pressed to mine in the dark.
I tell myself I don’t care which Ollie shows up tonight, but that’s a lie.
I want the real one. The one who texts me after midnight, careful words lit by his glowing screen.
“Rafe.” Drew’s voice yanks me back. He’s staring at me, eyebrow cocked. “You gonna brood all day, or you actually hyped about The Lantern?”
I toss a bottle cap at him. “I’m hyped. Just saving my energy.”
He snorts. “Sure. That’s what you’re saving.”
I ignore the jab, though my fingers twitch toward my phone in my pocket. I haven’t checked it since last night, but I can feel it waiting. Waiting for me.
The demo is gone. The Lantern’s coming—maybe. Hopefully. Possibly.
But tonight…
Tonight is Ollie.