Page 38 of One Last Encore

"Yeah, just do it right or don’t do it at all," Rodney shot back, crossing his arms.

Beck tightened his grip on his drumsticks, forcing himself to take a slow breath. This wasn’t new. Rodney’s relentless nitpicking, his constant need to dictate every detail, had become routine. An exhausting, migraine-inducing routine.

Finn’s face was turning an alarming shade of red. Beck knew they were one snide remark away from an actual fight.

Finn wasn’t the type to lose his temper. Normally, Finnley O’Conor floated through life with the kind of charm that made teachers forgive late assignments and caused free drinks to materialize in his hand at parties. Stress was a foreign concept,urgency was optional, and waking up before noon was, in his opinion, a violation of his basic human rights. Responsibilities were simply not his problem.

But Rodney had a special talent for dragging out the worst in all of them. And right now, Finn looked about five seconds away from decking him into next week.

Across the room, Reef finally looked up from where he was sprawled on the couch. Beck couldn’t tell if it was genuine interest or just the slow-motion processing speed of someone who was, once again, impressively stoned. Not that Beck blamed him. Dealing with Rodney pretty much required it.

Reef wasn’t his real name. It was Seabastian Cadwell. His mom had picked it because it sounded distinguished, like he belonged in some fancy yacht club. In reality, they were poor as dirt, and the closest thing he had ever been on to a yacht was an inflatable raft from Walmart.

Still, the nickname fit. He surfed through life with no job, no worries, and no real plans, completely unbothered as always.

"Cool it, Rodney," Beck said, his voice clipped, his last thread of patience fraying fast. "Unless you want this practice to end with Finn beating you to death with his bass."

Rodney turned, eyes narrowing like he was considering whether or not to take that as a challenge. Something was off. More than usual. He'd been on edge for days, his usual sharp tongue escalating to full-on hostility, like he was itching for a fight just to prove a point. Beck had tried to write it off as a bad week, but at this rate, Rodney was going to push until something cracked.

Rodney scoffed, shoving off the wall.

"Whatever," he muttered, voice dripping with disdain. Without another word, he stormed toward the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the walls trembled. Silence followed, thick and charged.

Finn ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Well, that was productive."

Reef blinked, slow as hell, then stretched. "So… break time?"

Beck remained seated, gripping his drumsticks like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground. His gaze stayed locked on the now-closed door, frustration simmering beneath his skin. This wasn’t just about music anymore. Rodney’s temper was bleeding into everything–practice, their friendships, his entire life. And as always, Beck knew it would fall to him to pick up the pieces, to smooth things over before Rodney’s anger sent them all careening off the rails.

"This is ridiculous. I know he's your brother, but being around him is impossible. Forget trying to work with him," Finn said, his voice sharp with frustration as he slammed his bass onto the couch.

"Believe me, I know. I'm sorry," Beck replied, dragging a hand through his hair as he stood up from behind the drum set. His voice carried a weariness that was starting to feel permanent.

"Don't apologize," Finn shot back, shaking his head. "We all knew the risk of bringing him into the band. We grew up with the guy. But he's only getting worse. The partying, the acting out, it’s out of control. Ever since he moved here, it’s like he’s on a mission of self-destruction, and we’re just getting caught in the fallout."

Beck’s jaw tightened. He did not need the reminder. He lived with Rodney’s destruction every day. Moving to New York was supposed to be a fresh start, but somehow, the city had only amplified Rodney’s worst impulses.

They had all grown up together on the outskirts of Philadelphia, bonded by a love of music and the kind of rebellious streak that made authority figures sweat. Beck, Finn, and Reef knew when to pull back most of the time. Rodney neverdid. For him, a wild party wasn’t enough unless it exploded into an all-night bender, a fight, or both.

Reef and Finn, meanwhile, were all about good vibes, questionable choices, and a rock-solid belief that "the universe has, like, a plan, bro."

Beck had met them as kids, back when they were just a bunch of troublemakers tearing through a trailer park, figuring out life one dumb decision at a time. While Reef and Finn had perfected the art of not caring, Beck had never quite gotten the hang of it.

It was not that Reef and Finn were lazy. They just had different priorities, like hunting down the best gas station burrito in town, debating the best way to sneak into the community pool after hours, or testing whether a skateboard could make it down a drainage ditch without a trip to the ER.

Beck was happy for them, but he wasn’t wired the same way. While Reef and Finn floated through life like they had all the time in the world, Beck was always thinking ahead. He worried about money, the future, and whether he would ever escape being broke. Sometimes he envied them, the way they let everything go. But at the end of the day, someone had to be the responsible one.

Not that Reef and Finn would ever admit they needed one.

When Beck left for Juilliard, Finn and Reef followed him to New York, determined to keep the band alive. For a while, it worked. They found their footing and even brought on a promising lead singer from the local music scene. But stability never lasted. The singer bailed after a few months, leaving them scrambling for a replacement.

Rodney had been a gamble from the start, and they all knew it. But when Beck suggested him, desperate to keep the band afloat, they had reluctantly agreed. Rodney could sing, and they needed a frontman, especially since gigs were their main source of income. No shows meant no rent, no food.

Now that gamble was looking more and more like a mistake.

"He’s not just risking the band," Finn muttered, his voice quieter but heavier. "He’s dragging us down with him. We can’t keep covering for him. At some point, something’s got to give."

Beck let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He knew Finn was right, but acknowledging it only made the guilt in his chest tighten like a noose. Rodney wasn’t just a bandmate; he was his brother. And that bond had always pulled Beck into Rodney’s orbit, no matter how destructive he became.

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