Page 5 of Never Say Die
“Call me a bitch again,” Aiden said, snapping like a dog.
“Can wenot?” Georgia shouted.
“Hehitme!” Thomas dabbed his nose, checked for blood, dabbed again.
“You deserved it,” she said. “Shut the fuck up about Shay, Thomas. Aiden, this isn’t a fucking boxing ring. Say you’re sorry—both of you.”
“You just said he deserved it,” Aiden said. Anger ached under his knuckles. He flexed his hand, shooting a barbed glance at Thomas. “Sorry,” he barked.
“Fuck you,” Thomas barked back, but he met Aiden’s eyes on a childish huff, and added, “Sorry.”
“There, good, fine, it’s done. Obviously, we’re grateful for the opportunity and Thomasisright, Shay handed us a bomb ass gig. However,comma, he’s also a flaming piece of garbage and Thomas has absolutely no fucking stake in how we feelortalk about him. Okay? Okay. Done. Conversation closed.” Georgia slammed on the brakes. Everyone jerked forward. Aiden’s face smacked the back of the driver’s seat. Orange cinders rained from Thomas’s cigarette. Dylan caught himself on the glove compartment. She narrowed her eyes in the rearview mirror as everyone moaned and cursed. “And put your seatbelts on.”
Aiden wanted to shout,he’s dead, he’s fucking dead,but he wouldn’t—couldn’t. He inhaled deeply and kicked the back of Georgia’s seat. Usually, he’d doom-scroll after arguments. Get lost in whatever new pseudo-woke bullshit Twitter was fighting about. Flip between the Knight’s Blood Instagram and hispersonal account. But Shay’s face might’ve lit the screen. A new post. One of his ten thousand selfies. And then Aiden would hit Thomas again, or he’d start crying like a spineless princess, or he’d puke on the floormat, and he seriously didn’t have the energy to deal with a sore hand, or puffy eyes, or Georgia docking his cut to cover a carwash.
He stared out the window, watching the stadium grow closer.
Georgia flicked the blinker as they idled at a light.Tick-tock, tick-tock.A pop-punk song ended, and the radio host took over. She tipped her head, curious. Furrowed her brow, swatted the volume dial, and hushed Dylan before he could protest.
The host spoke excitedly: “Can you believe it? David Crystal, yes,theDavid Crystal, has checked himself into a secluded, lakeside treatment facility overnight. You heard it here first, folks. Chain Reaction’s world-famous guitarist willnotbe taking the stage tonight.”
Aiden’s heart leapt into his throat. Dylan straightened in the passenger’s seat, and Thomas pitched himself closer to the center console. Georgia whispered, “What the. . . shit,” and turned the dial again.
“The night before their sixth stop on a North American stadium tour. Can you believe it? Well, it’s a damn good thing Chain Reaction booked one of L.A.’s grittiest metal bands to carry the show. That’s right! Knight’s Blood will be playing an extended set at Staples Center. Doors open at six, headbangers. Until then, here’s Glory off Knight’s Blood original EP!”
The car behind them honked. Georgia hit the gas, sped through the intersection, and pulled into the nearest parking lot. Tires skidded, rolled over a curb, and bounced on the asphalt as the van screeched to a halt. For the first time ever—like,ever—the opening notes of Glory played on a major radio station. They listened. Blinked. Waited. Sat silent and still until Dylan started to laugh.
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up,” Georgia said, panicked, and dug her phone out of her bra. She glanced at the name on the screen. Jacob Hill. Their manager. Her eyes flew around the van before she hit the speaker key. “Hello. . . ?”
“Where the hell are you?” Jacob asked, winded.
“About ten minutes out. Hey, so, we just heard some shit on KROQ and?—”
“You better get ready to play the show of your worthless, dead-beat lives. You hear me?”
Georgia met Aiden’s eyes. Her chest caved, breath coming in starts and stops. “Jake, what the hell is happening?”
“You’re headlining,” he said, and erupted into laughter. “You motherfuckers are headlining!”
Quiet ghosted through the van. They all leaned over the center console, staring at Georgia’s chunky black phone. Glory played in the background, and Georgia’s dark-painted lips split into a surprised smile, and like a gunshot, Dylan banged his fist on the roof. Everything exploded. They screamed, and laughed, and shook the van. Aiden knocked his fist against Dylan’s knuckles, accepted a one-armed hug from Thomas, and squeezed Georgia’s shaking hand.
First, he thought,it worked, it fucking worked.
Second, he thought,Shay, and the excitement rising inside him began to rot.
CHAPTER THREE
All hell broke loose the moment Knight’s Blood arrived.
Jacob paced outside their dressing room, shouting at his phone. He was a wolfish, round man with a hard mouth, dressed in cheap jeans and a knock-off designer shirt. Gray streaked his short beard and Cobain-era hair.
Makeup artists and roadies jilted between rooms, and Kingston, Chain Reaction’s drummer, clipped Aiden’s shoulder as he stormed by, talking hurriedly to his AirPods. “I don’t know where the fuck Shay is. Yes, I’m serious. He’s gone, dude.Gone. Both of them! Mickey’s cancelling the rest of the tour. We’ll regroup once we find replacements.”
Anxiety closed around Aiden like a beartrap. When Georgia said, “Aiden,” it was Shay from last night, saying his name with a knife in his gut. Aiden’s back smacked the wall, lungs heaving.Focus. Georgia snapped at him, “Keep it together,” and Jacob pointed at the door, “Get inside, get,get,” and Dylan swatted him on the shoulder, “You good, man?” All their voices blended, turned, became the recently deceased.
“Yeah, I’m. . .” Aiden forced a smile. “I’m fine—good, I’m great.”
In the dressing room, Thomas threw himself into the nearest chair. “Can you believe this? We’re playing a sold-out arena,” he said, cackling.
