Page 18 of Never Say Die
“We all get messy, but you get white girl messy. Let’s save that shit for festival gigs, yeah?” Georgia said, casting her gaze around the table. “We can party on off nights, but we keep it classy for the big shows. Deal?”
“Deal,” Shay said. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands, scanning Aiden’s face. “Think you can manage?”
Aiden snorted. “I played a killer set at Staples. I’ll do the same for the rest of the tour.”
Dylan heaved a sigh. “Whatever you say.”
It’s not like he’d set out to be a mess. Usually, he wasn’t. Buthe couldn’t blame Georgia and Dylan for being cautious. The post-Shay-betrayal months hadn’t been pretty. Too much booze, too many unfamiliar beds, forgotten nights, and hospital stays. He wasn’t exactlyproudof how he’d acted, but he knew, just like they did, that shit could’ve been worse. And shitgotworse. Ritual sacrificeworse, Shay coming back from the deadworse, Aiden committing, witnessing, instigating an atrocityworse. Georgia and Dylan knew the surface level bullshit, but they didn’t know—could never know—what Aiden Moore was actually capable of.
A server dropped their food at the table. The bandmates huddled close, ignoring cameras and curious fans. Aiden chased his burger and fries with sips from his margarita and shielded his eyes with black sunglasses once they left. Rumors fluttered from occupied tables.Shay Bennett. Chain Reaction. Yeah, he used to be in—No, I know. You don’t think. . . ? Oh my god, I bet. . .He followed Dylan through a door outside the restaurant and exhaled once they were backstage, scooting past stage crew and sound techs. Shay fell into stride beside him, staring straight ahead, hands tucked into his pockets.
“Nothing from Thomas?” Shay asked, innocently enough.
Aiden’s heart skipped, anxiety surging in his chest. “No, nothing. Stop worrying.”
“A little hard not to worry, Aiden.”
“Shay,” he warned.
He leaned closer, voice lowering as they slowed behind Georgia and Dylan. “Is Camila still running the botanica? Like, is she still doin’ the bruja thing, because?—”
“You’re kidding, right?” Aiden rolled his eyes.
“She might be able to help.”
“My sister has no part in this. Literally,zero. We are not involving her,” Aiden snapped. “Do you hear me? We’ll handle this on our own.”
“Right, because we’ve been handling everything perfectly, right?” Shay hissed, lips grazing Aiden’s ear. Aiden shoved him away, but Shay jolted into his space again. Their shoulders knocked. “What happens when I gethungryagain, huh? What do we do?—”
Aiden spun around, hands flat on Shay’s chest, and crowded him against the wall, shushing him. “We arenotdoing this right now. One, I don’t care if you call a rabbi or a motherfuckin’ shaman, but stay the hell away from my sister, two, get yourself together, keep your mouth shut, and get us through this show. Do you hear me?”
Shay snapped his teeth at Aiden’s nose.
“Do you hear me, Shay?” Aiden snarled, flinching away from his fangs.
“Yes, I hear you. Doyouhearme?”
“Yes. We’ll find someone—notCamila—who can help us figure out your dietary issues. But first we have a show to play, so let’s go.”
An annoyed growl bloomed in Shay’s throat. He shoved Aiden away, turned on his heels, and trudged toward the dressing room, swinging around the doorframe. Aiden followed close behind, smacking Shay’s calf with the toe of his boot. The last thing they needed was Shay going off the deep endoreating someone. Aiden could handle paranoia and Shay’s lion-sized ego—he could even handle being bitten, maybe, possibly—but he couldn’t backtrack their way out of a breakdown. If Shay cracked, he’d have to knife him again, and Aiden didn’t know if he had the strength to kill him twice.
The cosmetologists were already there. Makeup kits, open. Hair product lined on the vanities. Four studio chairs sat in front of designated mirrors and the Knight’s Blood stage outfits hung on a silver rolling rack. Aiden immediately grabbed a beer out of the mini-fridge. The bandmates primped and plucked, put onjewelry and tightened belts. Aiden was halfway through getting dressed behind a fold-out privacy screen when Jacob flew through the door.
“White Chapel just finished their set, Hail the Haunted is on in thirty minutes, and I need you deadbeats photo-ready in fifteen,” Jacob bellowed. “I’ve got an article prepped for launch, but social media’s key to making this clusterfuck seem normal. Chop-chop!”
“Hail the Haunted,” Shay said, testing each word. “Who?”
Jacob sighed. “Your opener. Goth-metal four-piece from Denver. They’re cheap. Entertaining. Got that King Diamond vibe. Anyway, they’ll be following you ‘til Colorado, so make ‘em feel welcome—notthatwelcome,” he said, pointing accusingly at Aiden. “Handshakes not handjobs, Moore.”
“Ay dios mio,” Aiden howled, popping his head around the screen. “Can everyone let me live for, like,oneday. Just one.”
“No,” filled the dressing room like an off-key choir.
Aiden stepped out from behind the screen and helped Georgia glue her individual spider-leg lashes to her eyelids. Dylan thanked the hair and makeup team before they left, and Shay grabbed his weather-beaten leather jacket from the back of his studio chair. Silver spikes lined the red collar and Knight’s Blood’s original logo—an armored skull with glowing golden eyes—stretched across the back. Enamel pins and buttons littered the front, memorabilia from past gigs.
Aiden tapped a QUEER IS PUNK button. “Desert Fest,” he said, fondly. He remembered that dusty, dirt bike-infested festival, and the rickety homemade stage they’d jammed on. “You got this from the van people who camped next to us, huh?”
“Yeah. Long time coming from there to here,” Shay said.
