Track No. 12 Desperado
EAGLES
// FLIP THE VINYL TO SIDE B //
Everyone had their Vice story, their moment.
Andrew’s never really ended.
The first time his sneakers hit concrete, the place felt alive.
Music pulsing, walls sweatin’, lights strobing, skin slidin’ against skin.
The kind of place that made you forget time, forget bills, forget your fuckin’ name if you let it.
And Andrew—twenty years old that first time, Jersey bones crossin’ the Lincoln line like it’s a toll he’ll never stop payin’ just to play someplace bigger than parties, livin’ rooms, garages, and backyards—stood there a beat too long, takin’ it all in.
Vice held shit in its soul. The stage had warped from the anthems stomped into it.
You could feel the ghosts it left behind—the stories, the hookups, the fights, the highs.
Like the night Joan Jett cracked her white ‘65 Gibson Melody Maker over some asshole’s back mid-set and kept playin’ with blood drippin' off the strings like nothin’ happened, the stain still in the grout.
By twenty-four, givin’ pleasure was like any other setlist—hands, moans, orgasms, then lights out. He played it in order, hit every cue, got the applause, walked off stage before they realized it never meant anything.
They wanted Andrew Harding.
And once they got him?
He always delivered.
He’d try to dip out and avoid it if he could—duck, dodge, always have an exit strategy. But once they cornered him, he caved. He never had it in him to tell ‘em no. The word always felt violent. So when the inevitable came, he nailed the role so hard people thought it was real.
Hell, even he forgot who he was half the time.
Vice nights always kicked off in that alley, where it reeked of wet cigarettes and city rain, steam risin’ off the grates, cab horns bleedin’ in from the street, walls drippin’ black brick.
At the end was Kenny—big bastard, coulda been a cop in Union City with the way he swung that Maglite.
Always bustin’ Andrew’s balls before he hit the first step.
Then a staircase lured you under, like a concrete, come-hither finger.
The second he hit the bottom platform and that black door swung open?
He disappeared into the music...
The bass always hit first, vulgar in his chest before Vice devours him…
Purple haze spills off the bar and paints his arms.
The floor hums under his soles, wet tile grabbin’ at his sneakers.
Tonight, Vice is crammed, body to body.
By the third song, he's already drippin' sweat, his shirt clingin' to his spine like it can't inhale. He stopped hearin' himself somewhere in the chorus, the guitar screamin' into his eardrums.
All night he’s been breathin’ in secondhand lust. He don’t even know if the air in his lungs is his or Miss Mini Skirt’s at his feet. She’s too fuckin’ close, and he can’t focus. His eyes are everywhere and nowhere.
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.
He stops, shuts his eyes, breathin’ out the guilt. Then he turns, palms up, givin’ her a tired shrug. “You’re right,” he mutters. “That’s on me. Been on my feet eighteen hours, sweetheart. I’m cooked.”
Her foot slips from the wall.
“Lemme guess. I’m just a face you’ll forget in ten minutes.”
“Nah.” The word crawls, sweat burnin’ his eyes. “If I forget anyone tonight, it’s myself. I’m runnin’ on fumes.”
She snags his hand before he can move.
Then it’s too late to pull away without her feelin’ rejected.
“C’mon.” Her smile’s lopsided. “You need five, right? Let’s go… there’s an old couch in the storage room. No one ever checks it. I’ll sit with you. Make sure you don’t pass out for too long.”
Girl’s out here, tryin’, but what breaks Andrew’s heart is the way she curls into herself, fidgetin’ with her top, her shorts, how her voice shakes from nerves.
She’s probably been psychin’ herself up for this all night—the signs are all there—and he ain’t cruel enough to tear his hand back, ain’t the guy to put her on blast.
But Christ, he don’t got it in him tonight.
He wants five minutes with his eyes shut, a little peace and quiet.
“You really don’t gotta—”
Her grip tightens, not wantin’ to let go, so he can’t.
Pushin’ her off would take more fight than he’s got left.
She leads him into a dark storage room, where he’s surrounded by crates, amps, cables, and an old, saggin’ couch that smells like it’s been soakin’ in sweat since ‘98. He doesn’t tell her he’s been back here many times before, with many different girls.
She tugs the chain overhead, and Andrew collapses on the couch, legs shoved out. “Got fifteen minutes. Still half a set to go,” he mutters, throwin’ an arm over his eyes to shield 'em from the glare that's splittin' his head open. “This is the part where I fake a burst of energy.”
She doesn’t sit beside him or on the floor or crate. She doesn’t sit anywhere that makes sense. Nah, she climbs into his lap, straddlin’ him.
His laugh jumps out, surprised at the forwardness.
“Damn,” he says, a ghost of a smile tuggin’. “Outta all the options, you went straight for the guy half-dead, huh?” His words hover in the air, all open-ended, nothin’ for her to lean into, but enough slack for her to think twice and step off him without feelin’ shoved.
She don’t, though. She’s bettin’ on the same thing they all bet on—that he’s got a dick, and he’s only after one thing. Show a little skin, and he’ll fold. Because he’s a guy, right? And no guy in history turns down pussy when it’s dropped in his lap.
But she ain’t still sittin’ in his lap ‘cause his dick’s hard for it.
She’s still sittin’ there ‘cause he can’t bring himself to push her away.
That’s the line nobody sees.
“Took every ounce of guts I had just to talk to you,” she says, thinkin’ that ‘cause she was brave enough to go for it, she could have it. Her arms drape heavy across his sore shoulders. “Don’t care what kinda shape you’re in.”
He’s gotta tell himself that she doesn’t mean it that way. It ain’t her fault it hit a nerve, but damn, that line stung worse than her fingers diggin’ into his pulled muscle.
That is, ‘til she swings back, tuggin’ on that shoulder.
Pain spikes hot, and he catches her wrist, guides it behind his neck.
She only leans in more, pressin’ a kiss against his throat.
His head snaps sideways on reflex, needin’ her mouth off him.
His throat’s off-limits, always has been.