To call the gig a shitshow would be euphemistic at best. Foolishly, I thought I could pull off performing under the influence, as I had many other times, but that hair of the dog morphed into a Ziggy Stardust; before I knew it, another half pint was in my belly. Even though I spent most of the afternoon sleeping it off, when I woke up at five (to an empty room, no less—if Cade had returned while I was sleeping, there was zero evidence of such an event), my head throbbed so rhythmically my vision metronomed with my pulse.

After taking four extra-strength Tylenol, I impulsively washed down a double-dose of Tramadol (filched from my mom’s leftover stash from her knee surgery last year) with the last two shots of (seventy-five percent saliva) Southern Comfort collected from several nearly drained bottles. So yeah, I was jacked—sadly not off, but up.

I made it through sound check by the skin of my teeth, but about ten minutes before taking the stage, I started to feel like I was swimming on dry land. If the bros noticed my disorientation, they didn’t say anything, though I caught Rem eyeing me like a concerned dad and Clive grimming me like we were from rival gangs.

“Hey, Biggie,” I taunted him, “what’s your beef?”

He didn’t answer, but I saw his shoulders stiffen as he continued walking across the stage.

Ball's in my court, I thought, and mimed shooting a basket. Swish.

The crowd was particularly restless tonight—maybe because we weren’t the headliners, but the opening act. They had come to see Fuego Diego, not Rim Shot; probably most of them had never heard of us. Though we’d opened for main acts before, there was an added level of discomfort because the venue was sweltering and smelled like the monkey cage at the zoo before the poop patrol did their magic.

“The AC’s busted,” Cade muttered, adjusting his bandana.

“We won’t even notice once we start playing,” Lash reasoned. “By the way, have you seen how many cute girls are here tonight? You’ll have your pick of post-show companions, stud.” He pulled a sour face at me. “Assuming your roomie doesn’t ruin it for you.”

“I would never,” I enunciated. “Cade deserves all the pussy he can handle.”

“One at a time is fine by me.” Cracking his neck, Cade scouted out the crowd. “You’re right, Lash. This is a fucking candy shop.”

Lash licked his lips. “Just make sure your lollipop’s of age.” 

“And hopefully your suckers are also over eighteen.” When I went to put my hands on my hips, I fisted empty air instead. I tried to play it off like I’d meant to do that, but Lash’s eyes were pinned to my every move; the dude didn’t miss a trick. To throw him off balance, I said, “Ever fucked a minor, Lash?”

That was a low blow, even for me.

“Yeah—when I was one.” With that, he strutted onstage, tossing his blond mane, earning cheers from the hair-metal rockers and flamboyantly femme fans.

The first song went okay, but after Clive strummed the chorus to the second and Lash wailed the lead guitar solo, I was so disoriented by the lights-camera-action that I forgot the lyrics to “Runway Groove.” Staring blankly, I squinted against the pulsating strobes that blinded my vision. Maybe my mouth hung open, maybe I closed my eyes—I don’t remember. The next thing I knew, someone pelted me with something that felt like a knee sock full of wet sand. Stumbling, I had a precarious brush with danger when I pinwheeled near the edge of the stage. At the last moment before plunging into the mosh pit, I crashed onto my side. When I landed in an awkward Ariel-chilling-on-a-rock pose near Clive’s wide-stance loafers, the forgotten words came to me. Although the chorus was almost a third of the way completed, I overcompensated by putting my mouth too close to the mic and belting out the lyrics.

Runway groove

Suave and smooth

Stompin’ like a—

Eardrum-injuring feedback shrieked from the mic. I yelped and hot-potaoed in the air, wincing at the high-pitched whine. Someone booed. I kept singing, some of the lyrics improved since I’d forgotten the words again.

Lord, my pencil

Wants to stencil you in

Cauldron of love

Pocket of sin

Not bad, I thought, the Tramadol-alcohol pairing's aiding to my delulu state. I should write that down. *future sober self cringes*

I heard it then: the low hum of disapproval. At first, I thought it was Cade’s bassline; then I connected the dots. The sound was in front of me, the din growing louder and more collective. When another thing that felt like a sand-filled sock smacked me in the cheek, the lightbulb clicked: the audience was throwing shit. Not literal shit, thank the sweet Baby J, but the cloth equivalent of a rotten tomato. I couldn’t figure out what it was since the lighting was so uneven. In some moments the stage was lit like a ring of tiki torches, at others, my bros and I were plunged into a state of near-total darkness with only our glowstick jewelry (Rem’s bright idea) to illuminate us.

Another of these mysterious projectiles thwacked me in the chin; I heard a jarring discordant screech from Lash’s guitar. Still mumble-singing nonsensical lyrics, I peeled myself off the stage floor and risked a backward glance. Lash was rapidly shaking his head like a damp dog drying off. The boos grew louder, and then the heckling started.

“Your singing sucks my aunt’s hairy sphincter!” someone who sounded like Ronald McDonald bellowed.

Raucous laughter overpowered my bros’ instrumentals. On the downbeat of the next phrase, an audience member made a loud farting noise. The crowd’s laughter spread like early-day COVID; the boos became riotous, solidarized. Shit, I thought, abandoning my performance, they hate us.

My brothers kept playing for a few bars before Rem said over his mic in a squeaky voice, “Thanks so much for having us. We love you, Miami!”

I could vaguely make out the shape of him standing up and walking offstage. The rest of the bros quickly followed, leaving me to my fate. Stunned, I stared into the mob of malcontents, then crab-walked toward stage left, mic jouncing on the floor, producing feedback with each staggering motion.

“Fuck boy!” a female voice screamed, and then the chant grew roots and bloomed. “Fuck boy, fuck boy, fuck boy!”

Someone yanked me under the armpits and dragged me the rest of the way offstage.

There was a flurry of activity and emotions—I think Lash was crying, but it was hard to tell for sure, given my altered state of mind—and then somehow, we all ended up in the dressing room. It was then I noticed the sticky-looking brownish stains saturating my bros’ clothes and skin. I looked down at arms and noticed I was similarly marked.

“What is it?” I muttered.

“They made missiles out of our tour shirts,” Cade said from somewhere behind me. “They must’ve soaked them in soda first.” I heard a sniffing noise. “Liquor too.”

“What a waste of booze,” I commented before the ginormity of my gaffe could sink in.

The ensuing silence could have cut glass. I could feel the murder coming from Lash’s eyes, and I didn’t even know exactly where he was standing. His gaze burned into me like a sniper’s red dot. I winced, waiting for him—for anyone—to pull the trigger. Instead, the bros packed up their gear without speaking. Rem broke the silence when he warned us not to be surprised if we didn’t get paid.

“Where’s Brayden?” Clive wanted to know. “He’s supposed to fight for us.”

“Probably hiding in embarrassment,” Lash snipped.

“I wouldn’t blame him,” Cade said.

“He should be texting me any minute,” Rem stated. “I asked him what the protocol for this situation is, so I expect him to reply soon.”

“Why isn’t he back here?” Clive gripping. “He’s leaving us sitting ducks for when the management arrives to flay us alive.”

On cue, there was a brisk knock at the door.

“Come in,” Rem called, his voice cracking on the last word.

A woman with horn-rimmed glasses, duck lips, and drag-queen-esque makeup darted inside. “Hi, I’m Laffy Bowers, assistant to Mr. Renaldi.”

“Mr. Renaldi’s the manager,” Rem told us. To Laffy he said, “Speaking of managers, have you spoken with ours?”

“Not yet.” Laffy tucked a blond ombre strand of hair behind her heavily pierced ear. “But I need to. Where is he?”

“Should be here any minute,” Clive lied, his air of assurance lending credibility to his fragrant bullshit.

Laffy simpered. “Good. We can put the pause on our conversation until he arrives.”

“I can bring him up to speed, if necessary.” Rem flashed her a cutesy smile. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Officer,” Clive added.

“Well, I think you know.” Laffy’s honey-brown eyes widened behind her nerdy specs. “The audience made their displeasure with your performance crystal clear.”

“Their poor behavior is a direct reflection of them,” Rem said, “not us.”

“Well, there is the matter of your singer.” She shot me a contemptuous look. “He’s obviously under the influence.”

Of the many comebacks I could have thrown at her, the only one I could muster was nonverbal: instead, I puked on her ugly-ass fluoride-white Keds. There is some justice in the world.

Thankfully we made it out of the venue alive, though in retrospect, I probably should have gone to the ER to receive proper treatment for my suspected alcohol poisoning. I didn’t have much memory of the events, since I was piss-drunk, but I did know that Brayden showed up at some point and got into a carsalesman-style standoff with Laffy to determine who could out-sleaze the other (Laffy won, though I suspected that had more to do with her hysterical display of martyrdom after I’d upchucked on her shoes than her actual persuasive speech skills). Bottom line: we didn’t get paid.

Brayden yelled at me once we’d left the venue, but I tuned him out in favor of vomiting again—this time on a bus bench.

“Ede,” Rem was saying a fuzzy hour later, “what did you take?”

We were back in the hotel room, though I wasn’t sure if we were in Cade’s or the trio’s or maybe even Brayden’s. My vision was so warped I couldn’t make out my hand in front of my face.

“Take it to the limit … one more time,” I warbled.

“If I were Moses, I’d leave him off the ark,” someone—probably Clive—snarked. “What say you, leader?”

“Now’s not the time to make life-altering decisions,” hissed Rem.

I hiccupped, then let out a bilic burp. “Yuck. I’m never eating at Luck Dragon again.”

Cade touched my wrist. “You haven’t eaten since last night?”

“Nope. Liquid diet only—oops!” Clapping my hands over my mouth, I said in a muffled tone, “Cat’s out of the bag!”

“So you drank it all,” he stated in a flat voice.

“You didn’t conceal the leftovers very well.” I stuck my index finger in the approximate location of his nose. “I could teach you a thing or two about finding better hiding spots.”

“Did you fucking drink. It. All?!” Suddenly he was in my face, right up in my Kool-Aid; I shrank back into the pillow, heart record-scratching behind my ribcage.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Maybe? Don’t remember.”

“Go check,” Rem told Cade. Then: “Lash, will you stay with Ede? I want to talk to Clive alone.”

“Why?” Lash demanded.

“I’ll tell you later,” he whispered. Then a weight lifted off the bed.

“No see—secrets,” I slurred. “That’s cheating.”

Slumping onto the pillow, I rejected the harsh hand that gripped me by the hair. “Ow!”

“Drink this water unless you want your stomach pumped,” Lash ordered, placing a cup to my lips. “Don’t stop guzzling till I say so.”

“You’re mean,” I sulked, but I did what I was told—or rather, overdid—I drank so much water I threw up again. At least this time, I got it in the wastebasket.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Lash groaned. “Why did you do this to yourself?”

“To piss you off,” I retorted, wiping my mouth. “But technically, you’re the one who made me hurl this time around.”

“Cry about it.” He repositioned the cup against my mouth. “Just take sips instead of gulps.”

“Now you tell me.” Coughing, I choked down a couple of swallows before pushing it away. “Stop helping me.”

“Who else is going to do it?”

“I’ll help myself.” I stuck out my lower lip. “You’re probably enjoying this.”

“I’m enjoying losing money on gigs and cleaning up your vomit?” His voice rose. “I’m enjoying watching the fallout of my friendship with the person I thought I was in love with?”

“Jesus! Lower your voice.” Weakly I brought the pillow to my right ear and smashed it against my head, hoping to muffle his caterwauling. “Some of the hotel guests are traveling with children.”

Yanking the pillow away from my head, Lash barked, “You’re the biggest baby here!”

“What’s going on?” Rem rushed back in, Clive and Cade following behind him. “Why are you yelling?”

“If you don’t shut up, you’ll get us kicked out,” Clive warned.

“It’s because of him!” Lash’s voice got louder instead of quieter. “He’s exactly what the crowd called him—a fuck boy!”

“Lash,” Cade said in a low voice, “Let’s get some air.”

“I don’t need air,” Lash seethed. “I need to kick his ass.”

“C’mon, bro.” Out of the corner of my bloodshot eye I espied Cade’s veiny forearm resting against Lash’s leaner yet equally muscular one. “You’ll feel better after you eat. I brought those cookies you like—the Danish butter ones.”

“Royal Dansk?” Lash said in a hopeful tone. I could practically hear him salivating. “The ones that come in the fancy tin?”

“Correct.” Reaching over, Cade patted my knee. “Keep sipping the water. By the way, Rem—Ede drank all the booze.” He pulled Lash to his feet and led him away from the bed. “Let us know if you decide to take him to the ER.”

The last thing I heard Lash say to Cade before the two of them left the room was, “My cavalier.”

Moaning, I writhed back and forth, trying to find a comfortable position.

“What pills did you take?” Rem prodded me again. “I really don’t want to have to take you to the hospital, but if you’re in danger, I will.”

“Tramadol,” I said. “Just a couple. And Tylenol. That’s it, I swear.”

He sighed in what sounded like relief. “That’s not as bad as I thought.”

“Do you want me stay with him while you get changed?” Clive offered, his voice coming from somewhere near the window.

“I’ll take the first shift,” Rem offered. “We can’t leave him alone in case he loses his cookies in his sleep.”

I let out a hoarse laugh. “Are you trying to be funny?”

No one answered. For a minute I thought Clive and Rem had left to join the cookie thumpers on the roof. Then felt a nudge and the sensation of someone propping a pillow behind my back.

“Choking on your puke would be a stupid way to die,” said Clive.

“Yeah, and it would rob you of the creative kill you have planned for me,” I mumbled, already falling asleep.

Someone might have been rubbing my scalp like my mom used to do when I pretended to be sick, playing hooky from school just to spend more time with her, but that could have been wishful thinking. At any rate, I wandered into the territory of unconsciousness and didn’t awaken until the cold-sweat shock of morning.