Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Eric
? Night Owl – Galimatias ?
Tyler’s fever broke just as I was seriously starting to worry and watching her suffer through three full days with a high fever stressed me the fuck out.
I spent those days with her in her bed or her hotel room when we got to Nashville, making sure she ate, had plenty of fluids, and rested as much as possible, only pulling myself away from her for one radio interview, sound check, and the first of our two shows at Bridgestone Arena.
She’d been upset about missing the first night, but I assured her that by the end of this tour she’d be so sick of seeing the show, she’d be taking breaks on purpose.
She vehemently disagreed.
As I walk through the hotel lobby with the guys a little after midnight, I fight the urge to send her a text to see if she’s still awake.
She wasn’t feeling one hundred percent yet, and she should be sleeping, but I’m still so amped up from the show, the only thing I want to do to unwind is hang out with her.
It’s become my new normal, and I already miss her presence as I start to come down.
The door to my suite clicks shut behind me, and I’m surrounded by silence.
There are no sounds from the city or the bar in the lobby.
No pounding bass, snap of a snare, or cheers from the crowd.
Just a quiet, almost oppressive stillness that, especially after the last few weeks, feels wrong.
The adrenaline rush is subsiding, the sweat drying on my skin, and everything feels both too loud and too quiet at the same time.
I drop my bag by the door in the bedroom, the weight of it pulling on my shoulder as I try to shake off the last vestiges of the performance.
The highs are finally slipping away, and there's a sense of loss in that, as if I'm walking away from something precious. But I’ve grown familiar with this limbo—the space between the stage and the next show.
The personal detachment from the performance I just gave. The return to myself.
There are many things I could do right now to unwind, but since I’m in a hotel, I head straight for the shower.
It’s not that I’m not appreciative of the space on the RV, but I always enjoy a few nights in a hotel room, mainly to soak up these little moments of luxury like taking showers for as long as I want.
The water hits me like a soft drumbeat, steady and constant, and the heat soothes my aching muscles, immediately loosening the tension in my back, arms, and shoulders. I’m not as young as I used to be, and I feel every beat long after it’s over.
I let the steam rise around me, closing my eyes for a second and feeling the heaviness of the night dissolve. I focus on the silence and slowly, the noise in my head starts to quiet.
I step out of the shower, dry off, and stand in front of the bathroom mirror where I brush my teeth and pull on my sweats before collapsing into bed.
The clock on the nightstand beside the bed tells me it’s now after one in the morning, but I’m not even close to tired yet, my mind still not ready to shut down, so I decide to check my social media apps.
I’ve always felt like technology is both a blessing and a curse.
I remember the days before everything was at your fingertips, and most of the time, I long for those days.
The days where you could walk away from the constant barrage of information and people’s unsolicited opinions.
However, one of the things I promised myself when I joined the band was that I would always take time for the fans.
They are, of course, the reason I am where I am, and I never want to take any of it—any of them—for granted.
I love searching for posts from the night—seeing what they experienced and what their favorite moments were.
I like a few, comment on a few others, and share my favorites to my stories.
I check the time again. A full hour has passed, but I still feel restless. Sometimes, when the quiet is too much, I end up pacing, and tonight feels like one of those nights.
Just as my feet hit the floor, I feel the faint buzz of my phone in my pocket, and my heart squeezes in my chest when I see the message from Ty.
Ty: How did it go tonight?
Eric: Good. Crowd was rowdy as hell.
Ty: You still all wound up?
Eric: I love that you know me this well already.
Ty: Need me to come over?
Yes, I think to myself. I do need you to come over. And then never, ever leave.
My eyes immediately drift to the bed next to me, flashing back to the last time I had Tyler in my hotel room alone. I groan as the rest of my body catches up to my mind and type out my reply.
Eric: Thanks, but I’ll be alright. You, on the other hand, need to
rest.
Eric: You should already be asleep.
Ty: Needed to check in with you first.
Warmth spreads through my heart as I read her words, and I rub at the tattoo on my chest and smile knowing she wanted to stay up until she talked to me.
Eric: I appreciate that, but you need to rest.
Ty: OK dad ??
Resisting the urge to reply and play off the “dad” comment by telling her that I have no problem coming to her room and punishing her if she refuses to listen, I tell her goodnight and when I place my phone on the nightstand, I realize my mind is quiet, and I can feel the heaviness of sleep pulling at me.
I’m not sure when it happened—if it was hearing from Ty or something else—but the restless energy has finally dissipated.
I close my eyes and am not at all surprised that she is the first thing I see when I finally fall asleep.
****
“Okay, so where were we?” Ty asks, sipping her coffee as she looks over her notes. Our final Nashville show was last night, and we’re now en route to Atlanta. It’s a quick four-hour drive, so we all got to enjoy one more glorious night in the hotel before climbing back onto the RVs this morning.
“Right,” she says, finding her place. “So, you got your kit and swore to make Andrea Smith regret the day she kissed you on a dare and not on purpose.”
“Do you regret kissing me on purpose?” I ask, and her eyes dart to mine.
“Technically, you kissed me on purpose,” she counters.
“Alright,” I say, chuckling. “Do you regret letting me kiss you on purpose?”
“No,” she says, without hesitation. I must not have been able to hide the shock on my face when she doesn’t dodge the question and gives me an answer, because she shrugs before saying, “You’re a good kisser.”
“Anything else you think I’m good at, Sunshine?” I wag my eyebrows at her and smile before hiding it behind my cup of coffee.
“Anyway,” she says, drawing out the word and leaning forward to press record on her Voice Memos app. “Tell me how you succeeded in making Andrea Smith rue the day.”
****
I sat in the parking lot, engine idling, staring at the nondescript building where the live audition would take place.
I’d been sent three of Velvet Shadows’ tracks and already sent my video audition, and they had been interested enough to invite me to audition live.
I couldn’t explain it, but I already had a feeling that I was exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment.
The sun was already starting to dip behind the horizon, painting the sky in shades of violet and orange.
It had been a long day already, but I couldn’t think about that right now.
I was about to walk through another door that could either open to something great or slam shut in my face.
I was used to rejection—every musician is—but it never seemed to get easier.
I glanced down into the seat next to me at my worn-out drumsticks, the wood slightly splintered from too many rehearsals, too many hours spent hammering out rhythms in dimly lit rooms.
Velvet Shadows.
I had heard the name thrown around a couple of times by friends and fellow musicians.
They were a local band with an edgy vibe, blending alternative rock with something a little darker, a little more raw.
Rumor had it that their previous drummer, Josh, decided to step out from behind his kit and replace the lead singer, and with him as their new frontman, they were projected to hit it big.
I switched off the engine and took a deep breath, my chest tight with anticipation. I grabbed my sticks, running my fingers over the worn wood, trying to center myself. To bring my focus back to where it needed to be. I was here for one reason: to do what I did best and nail this fucking audition.
Stepping out of the car, I adjusted the leather jacket I threw on over my old Nirvana t-shirt—just the right amount of grunge without trying too hard—and made my way to the door. It was cracked open, the dim light spilling out into the parking lot.
I pushed the door open slowly, taking a moment to let the energy of the room wash over me, the faint sound of instruments spilling out and into the night. A couple of heads turned my way as I stepped in, but no one said anything right away.
There were three of them: Max, the guitarist, tall with dark brown hair touching just above his shoulders and a leather jacket that looked like it had been worn to hell and back.
Josh, the ex-drummer-turned-singer, was sitting on a chair near the mic stand, his eyes almost fully hidden behind a curtain of curly, dark brown hair.
And Kevin, the bassist, had black wavy hair that was long on the top and faded on the sides.
He had the kind of presence that told you he could throw down on stage when it mattered.
“Hey,” Josh called, breaking the silence, his voice rough but welcoming. “You the drummer?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound confident, but I could hear the nervousness creeping through in my voice. “I’m Eric.”
He stood and extended his hand, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the tension in the air dissipated. “Josh,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you. You ready to get right into it?”
“Sounds good,” I replied, my heart kicking into gear as I walked toward the kit. It wasn’t anything special—a basic five-piece with a few cymbals, but it would do. I didn’t need anything flashy; I just needed to let my ability speak for itself.
I settled in behind the drums, adjusting the throne to get comfortable.
My sticks were ready in my hands, the feeling that this moment was more important than the others even stronger now that I was here.
There was something in the way they were watching me.
It wasn’t just about the beats, the fills, or the technical stuff—it was about something deeper.
They were looking for a spark, and I had to show them that I could ignite it.
I nodded at Max, who gave me a signal to start.
The first song was fast—a chaotic burst of energy.
It was easy enough, a simple 4/4 rock beat with a couple of fills thrown in for flavor, but what set it apart was the way the band played it.
Josh’s voice came in strong and commanding, but with a fragility that was almost eerie.
Max’s guitar rang out, and the pulse that kept everything together came to life.
I could feel the tension, the release, and the emotion as I hit the snare, the toms, the cymbals, and riding the groove with everything I had.
We wrapped up the first song, and there was a moment of silence where no one said anything right away. I wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead, trying to steady my breathing, my heart racing behind my ribs.
“Not bad,” Josh said, his voice still rough but with a hint of something else. “I love your energy. Let’s see what you do with this next one.”
The second song was slower—a heavy, moody ballad with an almost haunting undertone.
The drumming here had to be subtle, almost a whisper beneath the other instruments.
I had to hold back a little, let the space between the notes breathe, but I could still feel the thrum of the beat in my bones.
This was all about restraint, knowing when to pull back and when to let go.
As I played, I stole a glance at Josh. His eyes were closed, his head swaying slightly as he sang, his voice a smoky presence that wrapped around the music.
We finished the song, and this time, there was no silence. There was a hum of approval from the band. They didn’t need to say anything, I could tell by the way their postures had relaxed, by the slight nods they gave each other, that I’d passed some sort of unspoken test.
The third song was my favorite of the ones I’d been sent.
It was an absolute blast to play—a fast-paced, punchy track with off-kilter rhythms and a driving intensity that demanded energy.
This was where I felt at home. The beat wasn’t just a foundation; it was an instrument in itself, carving through the space like a hammer driving nails into wood.
I attacked the drums with everything I had, riding the crash cymbals and floor toms, feeding off the energy from the rest of the band.
Josh’s voice soared in the chorus, raw and defiant, while Max’s guitar riff tore through the air like a chain saw.
It was wild, frenetic, and completely in-your-face.
When the song ended, I could feel the adrenaline coursing through me. My hands were sore, my chest heaving, but the rush was undeniable.
Max put his guitar down and leaned against the amp, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve got fire,” he said. “I like that.”
I didn’t know if it was the compliment or something else, but for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a place. A seat at the table.
“Alright,” Josh said, sitting back in the chair he was in when I arrived. “We’ll talk and let you know soon.”
I grabbed my sticks and stood up, feeling that familiar knot in my stomach. The waiting game was about to commence. It was all part of the process, and the part I hated most, because it never got easier.
“Thanks for coming down,” Kevin said.
“Thanks for having me,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady, though I could feel the tension of uncertainty mounting.
As I turned to leave, I couldn’t help but wonder if they would call me back, or if this would just be another audition to chalk up as a “close, but not quite” moment.
My insecurity gnawed at me, but deep down, I felt like something had shifted.
Whether it was the energy, the chemistry, or just the fact that I was finally playing with a band that seemed to get it, I didn’t know.
But I did know one thing—I wasn’t completely surrendering to the self-doubt just yet.