Page 1 of Deliverance

1 Zander

“Ashby fell off the wagon again,”Ian, my manager, who occasionally takes on the duties of my common sense, says on the phone.

“Thunderstorm?” I clarify, cracking the divider to tell my driver to go around to the back.

The sun hangs fleetingly low above the crooked horizon, casting the city in a rich golden glow, and the neon street lights are tempting me to jump out of the limo and bathe in the invisible power of this megapolis. But there’s a knot of people in The Deviant T-shirts crowding the front entrance and I don’t have any desire to pose for photos.

Jet lag is like a mean little sister who takes all the excitement away from things that are supposed to bring joy.

Crossing continents, in general, is more of a mixed bag now that it’s not to play shows. Entertaining but emptier with each passing day. Although, in a way, I’m glad to be back in L.A. Glad to be thrust into the creative juices of the perpetual dream factory. Literally. Since I landed less than three hours ago and am about to witness the artistic genius of my best friend’s wife.

“Yes, the one and only Paul “Thunderstorm” Ashby,” Ian confirms.

My curiosity is piqued, but I’m confused as to why this information is relevant. “And?”

“Bleeding Faith reached out.”

“Really?” I’m not sure I fit in with Leo’s crew. They’re talented. No question about it. But our paths hardly crossed in the past except for a few festivals back in The Deviant’s early days. “Why?”

“Have you been online lately?”

I dodge Ian’s question. People who make the headlines don’t read them. He knows that. He just likes to egg me on once in a while. “You were saying.”

The limo crawls through the gridlock around the block, and I glance out the window at the sea of cameras swarming the sidewalk where the press flanks the red carpet area. The view seems so foreign after four months in Bali.

“No specifics yet. Just got word from McCully that the boys want to meet.”

“Didn’t Thunderstorm just get out of rehab last fall or something?” I sift through my memories. Paul Ashby has been battling his addictions for as long as I can remember. Truth is, I’m not quite sure how he’s still able to play drums.

A flicker of guilt rises up from the back of my mind and I snuff it out immediately.

“Yeah, spent three months at Passages,” Ian says.

“Why the hell do they want me?” I wrack my brain for a second. I can play pretty much anything, but screamo is an entirely different beast. A dwindling one at that. Kids stopped dying their hair black by the millions ten years ago.

“My guess is damage control. They could use a fresh face.”

“You mean a sober face.” I chuckle, but deep inside, I don’t think it’s funny.

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

Ah, yes, Zander Shaw is always happy to save the day. He’s the nicest dude in rock’n’roll.“I don’t know, man.”

“You can always refuse before hearing the offer and go back to doing nothing, or you can meet up with the boys and see what’s up.”

I entertain the idea. It’s been a long time since I recorded anything or stepped foot in front of an arena full of people, and the thought gives me goosebumps. My last guest appearance was on a friend’s single right before I took off for South America for the second time. Problem is, Bleeding Faith is a fucking sinking ship. Not that we were any better. We killed one of our own, but I like to think that we got our shit together. Cruz and Justice married well. And Tyler finally settled down and is dating some wrestler gal from Brazil.

As for me…Well, I’m enjoying my single time.

Or am I?

No, fuck that.

We’re good. We’re solid.

Leo’s band, on the other hand, is a carton box full of bricks held together with scotch tape, and I’m not certain my addition will make any difference.

“All I’m saying is think about it, Zander.” Ian doesn’t sound happy, but that’s exactly what he’s being paid for—to worry about shit while I’m spending my hard-earned money.

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