Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Creed
We’ve been trying to jam for the past hour, taking over the whole living room, but nothing’s clicking.
It’s the kind of day where you can feel the intensity of the music pressing down on you, but you can’t get it to lift. It’s stuck under a heavy weight.
The beats fall flat, the notes feel wrong, and the room is filled with a strange tension that none of us can shake off.
Roman’s out there, belting his lungs out, but even his voice feels strained.
He’s pushing it past the natural cadence of his throat. He’s not hitting the notes the way he should, and every time he tries to push harder, the music recoils.
Ezra’s bass isn’t helping either. It’s got that thrum to it, sure, but it’s off—he’s fighting the rhythm rather than flowing with it. The sound isn’t a foundation anymore; it’s a wall, trying to stop the song from breathing.
And me? I’m back here, behind the drums, hammering away at the kit, but the harder I hit the snare, the more I feel I’m just adding noise to the mess.
It’s not music. It’s a desperate attempt to force something that isn’t there.
I’m glad no one can hear us.
Unless Sloane’s listening in from her room, I guess.
“Stop. Again,” Roman growls, dropping the mic stand with a sharp clatter that cuts through the stagnant air.
There’s a frustration in his voice, the kind that comes when you know the magic is just out of reach, but it doesn’t stop you from clawing for it.
I can’t blame him. Hell, I’m feeling it too. This band, this music, has been hanging by a thread, and every time we try to piece it together, it unravels even further.
We all know what’s been eating at us for a long time now.
The thing that’s been slowly suffocating us since Elliot Simmons wormed his way into the band’s soul. We tried to push through it, to ignore the pressure of him pulling strings behind the scenes, but now that we’re here, on the edge, the taste of what went wrong is sharper than ever.
I look over at Ezra, who’s sitting on the couch with his bass across his lap, fingers resting on the strings but not playing.
His posture is always so casual, he’s one step away from zoning out completely. But I can see the frustration in his eyes. He’s not far behind us in that sinking feeling.
“It’s merely… misfiring,” he mutters, eyes flicking between Roman and me. “We’re forcing it, man. We need something to spark it.”
Roman’s face hardens. “Yeah, well,” he snarls, rubbing the back of his neck, “maybe I need to hear something that feels real again, instead of this… this bullshit we’ve been cranking out for the last year.”
His words hit hard. I don’t flinch, but they land, and I can feel the truth of them like a kick in the gut.
The pressure, the expectations, the constant chasing of something that wasn’t really us anymore… it all feels so off. And every time we try to grasp at a realness, we slip further into the haze of what we should sound like instead of what we could.
The room grows heavier, the silence pressing down, almost suffocating.
“Maybe that’s why we keep hitting walls,” I finally speak up. I’m trying to bring some clarity, but hell, I don’t even know if I’ve got the right words anymore. “Maybe we’re still trying to chase the wrong thing.”
Roman’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. Ezra rubs his hand through his messy hair, his gaze distant, searching for something in the air, as if the answer is hovering there. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s always been just beyond our reach.
“We’re stuck,” Roman admits after a long pause.
“I don’t know where we went wrong, but I can’t do this anymore.
I can’t keep playing this fake shit and pretending we’re a real band again.
” He looks at me, and for once, there’s no bravado, no cockiness, just raw honesty. “I need something that feels real.”
I stand there, watching him, feeling the same pull deep in my chest. “Maybe we don’t need to play the perfect show,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
“Maybe what we need is to remember why we started in the first place. We were messy and we didn’t care about anything except playing music and feeling alive. ”
Ezra’s eyes snap over to me, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “What are you thinking?”
I hesitate, the idea swirling in my head as a spark that’s finally found its flame.
“What if we go to The Hollow? Just for the open mic night. We don’t need to perform, just get back in the groove, play for us again.
No pressure. Just us and the music. Didn’t you say Arlo wants us to play there, Ezra? ”
Roman shakes his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You want our first gig in years to be an open mic? That’s your big idea? After everything?”
I know he’s right. It’s risky. It’s not glamorous. But that’s why it could work. It’s the antithesis of everything we’ve tried so hard to be. It’s real.
Ezra leans forward, his fingers tapping the strings of his bass absentmindedly.
His face is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes. Akin to… intrigue. “I did say that. And we could strip it all down. Go back to the raw essence of it.”
“Exactly,” I reply, the thought gaining weight as it settles in my chest. “Let’s stop chasing perfection. Let’s play. If we suck, we suck. If we kill it, we kill it. But at least it’ll be us.”
Roman scoffs, running a hand through his platinum hair. “And you think that’s going to fix all this? Just because we play a few songs in some bar?”
Ezra cuts him off, speaking up in a way that’s got a bit of fire behind it. “We’ve been playing for the wrong reasons, chasing empty echoes. What we need is to unearth what truly makes us want to play again.”
Roman stares at us both, the skepticism clear in his eyes. But the idea starts to sink in, and even he can’t ignore it.
He exhales heavily, running his hands down his face in that dramatic way he always does when he’s trying to process something.
Finally, he nods. “Fine. But I’m telling you right now, if I get up there and I’m playing for a bunch of drunk assholes, I’m walking out.”
I grin, relieved that he’s on board, even if it’s begrudgingly. “Deal. We’ll keep it low-key. Let’s go. Open night is tonight, so let’s get ready.”
Ezra’s already grabbing his bass from the corner, strapping it over his shoulder with that effortless grace of his. He’s quiet, but I can tell he’s been waiting for this moment.
His fingers twitch at the neck of the instrument, eager for something to happen. He’s been restless, and I can feel it.
I nod to him as we head out the door, the crunch of gravel beneath our boots breaking the silence. The truck’s parked just out front, a faded blue beast of a thing that’s seen better days. But hell, it gets us where we need to go.
We start loading our gear into the truck bed, the sound of metal and wood clanking together as we work quickly. There’s a little bit of that old familiar rhythm between us.
Ezra tosses me a snare drum, and I catch it with ease, securing it with a few quick motions. The band’s been dormant for too long, and now the small motions feel almost too comfortable.
As I finish securing my drums in the back, I glance up to see Roman appear at the door, his platinum hair shining under the dim porch light.
And trailing behind him… Sloane.
I freeze for a second, my stomach flipping. I didn’t know we were going to invite the chef.
Sloane’s got that quiet confidence about her, like she’s not quite sure what to expect but is ready to take it in stride.
She gives me a curt nod, and I force myself to nod back, feeling a strange mix of awkwardness and uncertainty settle in my chest.
I don’t know how we’re going to get over this.
Roman’s looking between the two of us, clearly reading the tension in the air. “What, are we just gonna stand here all night, or are we gonna get this show on the road?”