Page 8 of Never Say Die
But Shay’s name conjured a storm. He faced the snack table again, pretending to browse an array of mozzarella skewers and chopped fruit. Airy discomfort pushed on his lungs, shortening his breath. Not anxiety, exactly. Worse. More potent. Paranoia, and grief, and the terrible, no-good satisfaction lurking underneath. Aiden had sold a soul for the opportunity to walk on stage and take Shay’s place. An opportunity Shay had stolen. An opportunity he wouldn’t get again. He swallowed, glanced over his shoulder, saw that Georgia was busy with her phone, and snatched another beer. He’d drown Shay if he had to. Build a graveyard between coronary arteries and bury him there. Live ahaunted life. But he wouldlive, regardless. He would seize the dream he’d been denied, and after a while, Shay would calcify in his chest. He’d become an old, sore wound—self-inflicted and survivable. Like any ex-almost. Like any goddamn ghost.
Aiden tipped the can against his mouth.You did this,he thought, and balled his free hand into a fist.I did this.
CHAPTER FOUR
The opener didn’t suck.
Which fuckingsucked.
At least if the opener would’ve tanked, Knight’s Blood could’ve gone on stage and tricked the crowd into thinking they were half-decent. But no. Jungle Rot got the crowd pumped, played a solid, forty-minute set, and left the arena howling for the headliner.
Aiden snorted coke off the back of his hand. The lights in the stadium dimmed and the crowd roared. Anticipation pushed his heart into his mouth. He swallowed hard. Nodded at Georgia as she wiped her nose and rubbed white residue on her gums. Dylan took another shot. Thomas gurgled lemon water and spit into a plastic cup. Their cue started, broadcasted through the arena: eerie, whistling wind and galloping hooves, a voice echoing,a sword-day, a red day, here the sun rises,and an army screaming—death!
Georgia nodded. One palm landed on Aiden’s shoulder, the other on Dylan’s. She leaned in, huddling the four band members together. “This is what we do,” she shouted over thedin of cheers and applause. “This is who we are. Let’s give ‘em a fucking show, yeah?Yeah?!”
Aiden’s pulse doubled, then tripled. “This is it. This is our shot. Let’s do this,” he said, and grabbed the cordless microphone from a stagehand, passing it to Thomas.
Dylan knocked his forehead against Aiden’s temple, grabbed his bass, and walked onto the dark stage. Georgia followed, holding her drumsticks in the air. Aiden hit the strings on his guitar, bending the sound as he walked out, taking his place near the left wing. Thomas followed, and the cheering grew, vibrating the stage. Phone screens peppered the darkness. Aiden focused on the strings under his fingers, on the timing—holding, holding,there—and played the opening notes of Rise, the first song off their first album. Neon basked the stage, illuminating Knight’s Blood. Yellow, white, and violet spotlights shot back and forth. The smoke machines started, but Aiden ignored the fog coiling around his ankles andplayed. Mouthed along as Thomas growled through lyrics Shay had written, paced along the stage like a caged animal, and held his arms out to the crowd. Aiden wore dark jeans, combat boots and his bomber jacket, baring his upper half to this gigantic, shifting mass. This huge, monumental beast of a crowd. He’d put his petal-pink sickle-shaped scars on display before, but this time felt different. Eyes were ravenous upon him. The second song started, then the third, and finally, Aiden braved a glance at the arena.
Shay looked back at him. His pretty blue eyes glinted from the group pressed against the gate. Gazed at him from the second row, shined on the first tier, and stared from the nosebleeds. Aiden remembered being on rickety stages with Shay at his side. Watching Shay move, watching him sing. He closed his eyes and kept playing.
This is mine.
Somehow, Knight’s Blood sounded phenomenal. They weremessy, and real, and powerful, and the audience knew their songs. Shouted the lyrics. Bounced along to Georgia’s drums, and Dylan’s bass, and Aiden’s guitar, and Thomas’s voice. Aiden smiled, because this washis, finally. By the end of their set, the arena hummed like a living organism. Aiden couldn’t hear Thomas or himself. It was Glory, shouted by the people, echoing through the venue.
Yeah, he thought.This is fucking mine.
The last notes of Glory lingered. They stood sweat-sheened and vindicated as the overhead lights illuminated the raging crowd. The arena turned oceanic, roaring and thundering, and he saw Shay tipping backward again. Off the cliff, into the sea. Aiden tossed guitar picks, searching for gleaming blue eyes, until Thomas hauled him off the stage. Dazed, he handed his guitar to one of the crew. Thomas smacked a kiss on his temple, and Aiden didn’t know if he’d taken a breath or not. If he was wading through a dream, still passed out in his bathroom. If this was the beginning or the end. All he knew was,yes, andI did this, and strangely enough,I miss him.
Jacob greeted them backstage. He nodded, smothering a smile. “Congratulations, dipshits. You booked your second gig. House of Blues, San Diego, three days. I’m working out the details for the next seven shows.”
“Seven?” Georgia gaped, unscrewing the lid on a water bottle.
Thomas pumped his fist in the air and whooped. Dylan flashed a toothy grin.
“Stay tuned, all right? I’m waiting for confirmation on your opener, but anticipate e-mails, interview requests, handouts—the works. Say nothing. Nada. Nilch. Get through House of Blues. After that, we’ll regroup for a press release. Got it?” Jacob narrowed his eyes, but his mouth curved upward. “We’re goin’ somewhere. Don’t know where yet, but it’s better than yesterday. Don’t fuck it up.”
“Yeah, yeah, we hear you Jake,” Dylan said, still grinning.
“Nicely done,” Jacob said, which might’ve been the single nicest thing he’d ever said to any of them. Besides, once, when he’d squeezed Aiden’s biceps and said, begrudgingly,that dude juice is workin’, kid.He adjusted his laptop case under one arm and made for the exit, waving over his shoulder as he went. “Go do what rockstars do best. No needles, no hospitals. Don’t get anyone pregnant.”
Adrenaline seeped into Aiden’s bones. He arched a brow, heart still revving, body still floating through a post-performance high. “This is it,” he said, then again on a laugh, “this isit.”
Georgia threw her arms around Aiden’s neck, and squealed, “You bet your ass it is!”
They popped champagne in the dressing room. Georgia tipped the bottle over Aiden’s mouth, and Dylan snatched it to take a long pull. The band laughed together, trading their sweat-soaked stage outfits for street clothes. Dylan cut the last of his coke into lines on the makeup station, and everyone took turns snorting through a green bill. Once the champagne was gone, they walked to a nearby dive-bar and crowded into a booth. Drained beer after beer, tossed back shots of fireball whiskey, drank and cackled until the bartender shoutedlast hour, last call. Georgia hailed a Lyft, Dylan scored on Tinder, and when they were both gone, Aiden tucked his mouth against Thomas’s ear.
“Sorry about earlier,” Aiden said. He licked around his mouth, chasing cinnamon. Being drunk and high and sad andalonewith Shay lurking in the back of his mind would’ve resulted in a seriously gross replay of last night. Getting underneath Thomas wasn’t exactlysmart,breaking one of his own rules didn’t sit right, but at least he’d feel something else. Anything else. Someoneelse.
Thomas turned. Their noses bumped. His black brows knitted. “I deserved it, remember?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“You’re drunk, Aiden.”
“And?”
Thomas watched him, rightfully skeptical. His makeup bled, turning him racoonish. Still handsome, though. Fuckable, at least. “I’m not gay,” he said, matter-of-factly. His eyes betrayed him, wandering from Aiden’s face to his chest, lower, lingering on his thighs.
