Page 7 of Omega Rock

I hop out of bed and get into the shower. I spend the next forty-five minutes convincing my body that we are not dead, or hungover, and that we must function. I pull on some black skinny jeans, a light gray top without any band logos, and throw on a black vest over it all. Then, finally, I take my heat suppressants for what good they’ll do me with all the alcohol from last night.

I’m applying eyeliner when Sable calls me. “Sorry, girl. I’m rushing out the door today.”

Sable’s smile wavers a little on the video call. I’ve got her stuck to my mirror with a suction cup phone holder. “All good—well,iseverything all good?”

I shrug. “I think so? Wes has got some gig for me I’m not allowed to turn down. So I’m heading down to Carnation Studio in about ten minutes.”

Sable’s eyes widen in surprise. “Sounds dire. You look not ready.”

She doesn’t mean the make-up. “I’m fine. Socials onslaught was a bit much, but I’m fine. It’s about the music, right?”

Sable’s smile completely melts until her lips are pressed together into a thin line. “Mia, it’s okay to not be okay with that shit. People are fucked.”

I nod, but am determined not to cry. Not after putting all this make-up on. “It’s okay. I’m excited for whatever Wes has in store.”

She watches me for a moment as I finish up the eyeliner. Then she nods as if she’s decided something, although I have no idea what. “Okay, just be careful. Drive safe. And call me on the way back so you can tell me what happens.”

I flash her a grin. “I will. Wes promises it’ll help my career, so…” I shrug. “I’ve got to listen to him, right?”

“Right. Drive safe, Mia!”

I finish getting ready, grab my guitar, and make myself a huge thermos of coffee before flying out of my apartment and down into my car. Driving safe isn’t the issue. It’s nursing this fucking pounding headache until it’s gone, preferably within the next hour, that is.

I listen to Wes’s full advice and grab fast food on my way out of town.

ChapterFour

NOAH

The call came earlythis morning. I was lucky enough to already be awake for once, working on some new material with nowhere to showcase it. More than once I’ve considered joining the ranks of those posting videos of themselves performing online, or going out to a train station and performing live. But that’s just not me.

Instead, I peddle sales for whatever company decides to keep me and lament the paths that could’ve been while occasionally booking smaller local gigs playing bass for anyone who needs it. Because as it turns out, when you get kicked out of Juilliard, a lot of music venues really don’t want you around except the small bars and clubs needing openers.

So yeah. Thornside’s call surprised the shit out of me.

I pull up outside Carnation Studio and spot a rather tall man with red graying hair and a seriously long red beard that makes me wonder if I’ve pulled up to a Viking exhibit instead of a music studio. But he waves me over when our gazes meet, so I park fast and head over with my bass guitar stowed in its case.

I’ll admit one thing: Wes Thornside’s call was fairly out of the blue, but he’d done his research and promised that Aiden Paltier was involved, which anyone would be stupid to turn down outright.

But Designation Outsider kicked him out last night. Or, the news had broken last night and it’d happened a while back. Like anyone with a good ear, I’d been a fan for years. It just seemed really wild that Aiden was already looking for another gig.

Wonder what happened between them all?

Bands break apart all the time, though. It could’ve been anything.

Wes wears a wide smile just visible beneath his graying red beard. He extends a hand. “Thank you for coming on short notice today, Noah. I appreciate it.”

I shake his hand. “Of course. Happy to hear out whatever this is.”

“I promise it’s good.” His eyes light up, and he’s got the tone of a salesman I’ve had to perfect over the years. I recognize it instantly—his excitement is genuine, but he’s nervous. Like someone trying to sell a really good but risky deal.

“Let’s hear it then,” I say.

Wes nods toward the entrance to Carnation Studio. It’s a little one-floor studio with a residence above, tucked between two other brick buildings in the center of town. I’ve been here a few times since leaving Juilliard with my tail between my legs, but only to do bass work for other bands or artists. It’s how Wes must have heard my name and got my number.

“Let’s head inside,” Wes says, then throws another look toward the street and sighs. “Everyone else is mostly here.”

I clock his concern. “Sure thing, lead the way.”

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