I barely made it through the next day, alternately shivering and sweating; cursing the hour I was born (and my parents for giving me life). My bros drifted in and out, checking on me in shifts. When Clive brought me breakfast from the hotel buffet—rubbery instant eggs, gloopy hashbrowns, and meat-of-unknown-origin sausages, I chucked the full plate into the garbage can beside the bed.

“Soylent Green is people!” I whisper screamed. “People!”

Of course he didn’t get my Charlie Heston B-grade sci-fi flick ref—I’d have had better luck landing the joke if Lash had brought me my meal instead. Lash was my fellow classic-film lover and faithful watch-party buddy. If we didn’t find a movie appealing, we’d end up peeling off each other’s clothes, but if we were into it, our garments usually stayed on until the credits. I felt a pang, recognized it for what it was, and disregarded it. Getting over my hangover was much more pressing business than getting over my years-long situationship with a friend I liked to fuck. There would be a time to grieve in a post-tour bottle.

“No,” I moaned. “I’m never drinking again.”

"Give it another six hours" was Clive's parting shot as he left to join the morning rehearsal without me.

When five o’clock rolled around, I’d already snoozed most of the day away; I still hadn’t eaten more than a bag of Fritos from the vending machine, but I’d chugged half my body weight in water, so I was mostly alive. After showering, I texted Cade, the person I thought least likely to verbally excoriate me.

R u guys at the venue?

no we’re powwowing in Brayden’s room

Brayden’s room? Now that was unusual. Rim Shot’s manager was the master of disguise (or more like, the master of disappearing acts); the fact that my bros and Brayden were together—in his room, no less—tipped me off to foul play. Yep, I was in deep doo-doo, and they were probably having a meeting about giving me the boot … it seemed I’d finally drawn the short straw.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” I sang in a pitch that sounded like a cross between Godzilla and a hormonal adolescent boy. Wow. Time to splurge on the throat coat. A true dilemma: did I have the willpower to visit the three-blocks-walk CVS? Or would I rather just fill my lungs with CO and his toxic friends and pray the audience would appreciate the scratchy, worn-leather quality of my abused vocals?

Sweeping shit under the rug was my specialty: five minutes later, I found myself on the roof again, wondering if Rem would lecture me before or after the show if I skipped sound check (highly tempting). Blowing out a burst of smoke, I wiped a sheen of sweat from my upper lip and checked my phone. No messages.

“Is anyone going to make sure I’m still breathing?” I mumbled.

“Unless the dead can talk, you look alright to me.”

Whipping my head around, I saw a random spider-legged dude with algae-green bedhead lurking in the corner near the stairwell door. Holy heart attack!

“What the fuck?” I yawped.

He grinned at me like Jack Skellington and raised a hand to shade his sleep-deprived eyes. “Got another one of those?” Pointing to the cancer stick, he reasoned, “We’re all gonna die.”

I gaped. “What horror movie did I just walk into and where is the exit?”

“You could jump off the roof,” he suggested, “but leave the cigarettes.” An afterthought: “And the lighter.”

It seemed like a reasonable enough idea at the time, but when I was halfway down, I started to have second thoughts.

“Get up!” Cade was shaking both my shoulders. “Sound check’s in five minutes!”

Bleary-eyed, I tumbled into consciousness and reached for my phone, wanting to confirm my suspicion that I’d passed out after reading Cade’s we’re-all-talking-you text. Snatching away my mobile device, he yanked the sheets off me with his free hand. “If you don’t get up now, Rem will fire you.”

“Fire me?” I scoffed, hunting for my pants. “He’s not my boss.”

“Yeah, but he’s our leader.” Cade tossed a pair of stained black jeans at me. “And he’s had enough of your clowning around.” He lobbed an aqua tank at my head.

Dubious about Cade’s choice of clothing, I sniffed the denim—yep. These babies had been with me since the beginning of the tou; and I hadn’t done a load of laundry since the Panhandle. That was … a week ago? More? At least the shirt seemed clean—probably because it wasn’t mine.

“Aw,” I simpered. “You’re letting me borrow your third-favorite wife-beater.” Shooting him a coy lash-bat, I raised the pitch of my voice. “Does this mean we’re going steady?”

“Come on,” Cade growled. “I’m not getting in trouble again because of you.”

“Again?” After pulling on Cade’s tank, I laced up my boots with trembling fingers. “Enlighten me about this repeated event.”

“Guys?” Ashley’s voice hissed from the other side of the door. “Get your tushies in gear. The van leaves ten minutes ago.”

Cade slitted his eyes at me. “Now’s not the time to talk about it.”

“Oh, I see.” Jerking my head toward Lash’s muffled catwalk-ish stompaway, I said, “BFF wouldn’t approve of our conversating.”

“We’re about to miss the fucking bus!” he barked.

“Van,” I corrected, which apparently exasperated him so much he felt the need to pound his fist into the wall.

“Why are you so—”

“Devastatingly attractive?” I supplied, flashing my Crest-strip-whitened teeth. “Irresistibly madcap? Irreverently charming?”

“Irrevocably obstinate,” he said through gritted teeth.

My jaw dropped. “Touché! I didn’t even realize you knew what those two words meant, let alone could correctly pronounce and pair them in a meaningful way.”

Cade grabbed my hand. “Let’s go, wise ass.”

I let him lead me to the elevator, ignoring the roller suitcase bumping into my Achilles tendons as I struggled to match his long-legged stride. Although the handholding wasn’t remotely romantic, I did feel a tingle when our wrists brushed; I wondered if he felt it too. When we got to the elevator, he dropped his grip on me to push the button.

On the way down, Cade faced me. “Promise you’ll do a better job tonight. We really need money—especially you.”

“Aw! You care!” Reaching up, I ruffled his hair. “That’s so PG.”

The elevator dinged. When the doors opened, we were treated to the sight of a busty Black woman, draped in a pure white tunic, bending over to retrieve her dropped keys. The view was, to put it delicately, angelic.

“I think this is a sign,” I said in a hushed voice. “The veil has parted: the goddesses have descended from Mount Olympus to bless our show.” I gestured to the immortal beauty, who took no notice of me. “Here’s the proof.”

Cade guffawed. “You’re the biggest dork I’ve ever met.”

But he was smiling.

***

The show went surprisingly well, considering I was still nursing a full-body hangover the size of Homer Simpson’s beer gut. My voice was borderline weak, but it strengthened after I swigged about eight ounces of water before the second song (“Paradise in Hell,” a Clive-penned, moderate-tempo headbanger that never failed to get the crowd riled up). As I alternated between crooning and screaming, I practically fellated the mic.

Hellbent to steal a kiss

Paradise is on your lips

I blew the audience a wet smacker, and they lapped it up, especially when I did that thing with my tongue that got the gals weak in the knees and reminded the guys that a mouth was a mouth on your dick in the dark.

Then came Cade’s bass solo. He sidled up to Clive, which was unusual, since they rarely interacted on stage, and they played back-to-back, their butts touching. I wasn’t jealous per say, but I did sing a little louder, belting from the diaphragm in a vain attempt to drown out their instrumentals (this fruitless quest had the bonus effect of stretching out my vocal cords without straining them, much like finger-fucking before hole-in-one sex).

Then Lash took the lead—his guitar solo left the bros’ minor fanservice in the dust as I was left wondering how long it would take my former FWB to cool off and let me plunder his booty again. The boy was a boss on stage, and a tyrant in bed; his nimble fingers stroking the strings only served to remind me of this crotch-tightening fact.

Sexual frustration was apparently an impetus for improved performance: my singing only improved as the show went on. In between songs, Rem flashed me a grin and a thumbs-up. Clive gave me a slight nod that indicated his grudging respect. I was regaining my status; things were looking sunnier. Maybe Miami was my comeback city ...

After the gig, however, I seemed to have donned an invisibility cloak. The dudes avoided me in the dressing room, as had become their custom since my fanservice fiasco with Cade a few shows back. Swigging a fresh bottle of water, I caught sight of Brayden. Damn, he’s ubiquitous these days.

Nudging Cade, I muttered, “The hell’s he doing here?”

He sighed. “Brace yourself, Effie.”

Normally his Mrs. Doubtfire ref would’ve made me chuckle, but there was little amusement to be had at my own expense when I suspected Brayden would soon inform me tomorrow night's show at my cousin's release party would be my Rim Shot swan song.

If I was going down, I’d be vocal till the end. “Walking the plank, am I?”

“You’re in peril,” Rem stated.

I groaned. “Can you not talk like a bit-part player from Bridgerton?”

Brayden wagged a finger at me. “Disrespect isn’t sexy.”

“Oh, right!” I snorted. “That’s my role—'the sexy one.’ How dare I go against type.”

“You’re not sexy when you’re puking up your guts,” Clive butted in.

“Or pissing yourself,” Cade contributed.

“Or snaking into my best friend’s bed,” Lash seethed.

“Edan, despite your budding alcoholism, you are otherwise a very sexy man.” Rem stroked his chin. “According to the TikTok engagement stats—”

“Fuck!” I yelled, fed up with my stint as their punching bag. “Just say it: you want me out.”

Their silence was unendurable. Noisily I packed up my shit and heel-toed it to the exit. Before I yanked open the door, Rem laid a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “This isn’t how I wanted it to go.”

“I know how I want you to say goodbye,” I said, unintentionally quoting the Andrew Lloyd Weber lyrics I’d been forced to memorize during sophomore year’s musical catastrophe A Night on Broadway.

“Take me to a zoo that’s got chimpanzees,” Ashley and Cade quietly chorused.

“Tell me on a Sunday, please,” Clive finished.

After glowering at them for another second, I burst into giggles. “Rockifying that song was probably the band’s most cringe creative choice to date.”

Rem beamed. “But the audience adored it. They gifted us a standing O.”

And I’d gifted Lash a standing Big O in the auditorium sound booth after the audience had left. As if reading my thoughts, Ashley glanced at me. We shared a smirk.

“Edan.” Rem took hold of my forearms. “Let’s converse alone.”

My heart stuttered, but I kept my tone cool. “If you’re gonna kick me out, just do it now. Rip off the Band-Aid.” 

“I’m—I’m not prepared to make that call yet. And if that dreadful day should come, I won’t be the sole decision maker in your ousting.” Rem's attention flicked to Brayden.

“Consider this strike two point five.” Brayden crossed his arms. “Get your shit together, singer. You’re good, but you’re not the best. You’re replaceable just like the rest.”

“That rhymed.” I pushed my forehead into Rem’s. “Now I know I where you get your derpy cadence from,” I whispered.

“Or maybe he gets it from me,” Rem whispered back. He dropped a paternal peck on my cheekbone. “You and I are going to spend some quality time together tonight.”

“Are you propositioning me? Because I’m not so sure I’m in the mood to put out,” I joked.

“The only thing you’ll be putting out is that self-destructive fire you started,” he said. “Unless, of course, you want to be incinerated.”

“And If I do?” I cocked my head. “You won’t stop me?”

“If that’s what you decide,” he said, holding me at arm’s length, “None of us can stop you.”

As if an act of God—or Lucifer—the fire alarm sounded.

“You really are a warlock,” Clive shouted over the shrill blast.

“Shh.” Placing a finger to my lips, I mouthed, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”