Chapter 2
brO HYMN
I’m quitting Anti-Ponk.
If there were any doubts before, they’re gone now.
Jeff can’t hold his liquor—he’s slurring his words and barely able to stand during the performance.
Blake, our guitarist, craves attention to the point of distraction, and Stevie, our drummer, is texting in the middle of our final song, his sticks forgotten.
The entire set feels like it’s spiraling. No one is focused on the music.
This band won’t go anywhere. Nothing will change. I’m tempted to toss my bass into the crowd and quit. As I scan the audience, my eyes catch the redhead who’s stared at me all night. He’s tiny, tiptoeing to see over shoulders, but his determined energy stands out.
Like it was his one mission in life to end up exactly where he is, and he succeeded.
I admire it.
Someday, I’ll have that same look about me.
This guy I’ve been hanging out with lately, Michael Miller, says he and his childhood friends are trying to get serious about music.
They need a bassist. While I’m not the best musician, I know my instrument well enough.
If I land the audition and we can get the ball rolling, I might even get to sleep in a real bed soon.
Couch-surfing between Stevie's and Jeff’s houses is getting old.
Plus, Michael’s hot. That man could convince me the sky is green.
I could go to my ma’s place, but I’d rather sleep under a bench than face the storm of poor decisions and untreated depression.
She can’t help it, and I know that, but I’m twenty-five.
I can’t watch her unravel anymore. If Michael’s serious and Dreadful works out, leaving Anti-Ponk is the best option.
If I make myself invaluable, history won’t repeat.
I play bass, but my real passion is mixing.
And with a metal band? Fuck. I’m sporting a half chub just thinking about all the possibilities for tweaking sound.
Pulled out of my musing when Jeff trips over nothing and faceplants into the stage, I mute my bass. One of his red liberty spikes bends, and blood dribbles from his nose.
Yup. I’m quitting.
I unplug from my amp, sling my bass around my back, and storm off the stage. I’ve got a pretty face waiting for me and an audition to prepare for.
The crowd erupts, throwing objects at my former band and shouting for Jeff to pull himself together.
I ignore the chaos, head for the equipment van that doubles as Stevie’s dad’s work vehicle, and quickly stow my gear.
After everything is packed, I grab a beer from the cooler.
Mid-chug, I spot the redhead from earlier approaching with determined steps.
“Devon?” he asks, and I nod in greeting. Throwing his shoulders back and lifting his chin, he catches me off guard completely. “I’d like to offer my services to Anti-Ponk.”
With wide eyes, I slowly pull the bottle from my lips. “What services?”
He spouts off about our lack of social media presence, limited content on YouTube, and lackluster sound on the few EPs we’ve managed to record.
I mean, the guy seems to know what he’s talking about, but I’m hardly listening as he rips apart my former band in the nicest way possible.
No, I’m focused on how attractive his confidence is, how tight his jeans are, and the almost unnatural plump of his lips.
“I’m quitting,” I finally say, cutting him off.
“You’re…you’re quitting?” The air is siphoned from his sails as he physically deflates before me.
“Yup. As of ten minutes ago.”
“W-why?” God, he’s pouting. It completely morphs his face from bold businessman to something far more innocent.
“How old are you, man?” I ask, feeling my hackles rise.
Without missing a beat, he says, “Twenty-one. But why are you quitting?”
I sigh and rub a hand over my face. “Because they aren’t going anywhere. We aren’t going anywhere. And as you’ve so thoroughly pointed out, everything about us fucking sucks. I’m done being held back.”
He’s quiet for a long time. “Understandable.”
“So, I’m sorry, but your pitch was wasted.”
A shy smile forms on his lips before he shakes his head, sending those thick, wavy auburn locks in every direction. “No, it wasn’t. I…well. I mainly wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?” My eyebrow hitches. Remembering my earlier intentions for him. “Well, I’ve got nowhere else to be. Do you want a beer?” I point at the ice chest.
“Sure,” he says and steps closer. “I’m Lewis, by the way, but everyone calls me Lex.”
“Lex,” I repeat the name, applying it to the person before me. “It fits.”
He smiles up at me, and suddenly, all the bullshit in my life takes the back burner. I’ll deal with the consequences tomorrow because Lex has my undivided attention.