Page 34 of Filthy Rock Stars

“Oh! Oh!” Case sits up straight.

Star laughs. “I think Case has an idea.”

“The Old East Tavern!” he says. “It’s been a couple years.”

Mare’s eyes light up. “The Old East Tavern!” she agrees. “That’s a great idea.” She turns to me, her guitar slung around her shoulder. “It’s a small pub, the place we got our start. They love it when we stop by for a surprise show. What do you say?”

My pulse jumps. “Wait. Right now?”

Case spins a drumstick in his hand. “Best way to get over the stage jitters,” he agrees.

“Unless you’re not up for it,” Mare jumps in. “We’re all just here to have fun, so no pressure.”

That’s an easy out, but after only a second of thought, I know that I’m not going to take it. Playing music together is uniquely bonding, and I really, really want them to like me. I’m not going to let my nerves get in the way.

“Sure,” I finally answer and suck in a deep breath. “Why not?”

Packing up the instruments and driving across town gives us a little time to talk. They’re all curious about the Natural History Museum and archiving, and Mare especially has a deep scientific knowledge I didn’t necessarily expect from a rock star. I also gather some more details about them individually—Case collects old comic books, and Star was set to become a pro basketball player before abandoning it all for music.

We walk into the tiny pub just after dark. There aren’t more than thirty people in the space. The second we enter, all eyes are on us. The bartender rushes over, greeting the band like old friends, and a couple of people emerge to set up our instruments without a word.

Star clasps my shoulder. “This is the good stuff,” she says, gesturing to the audience, who are clearly psyched as news spreads of our arrival. “Make sure to enjoy it.”

“I will,” I agree, but blood is pumping in my ears.

I’m about to play live music with Kissing Dirt. Holy shit.

I wish Solo were here to see it. I think he’d be so impressed.

The bartender makes a quick announcement, and next thing I know, we’re on the stage. The light is in my eyes, and my hands go clammy, but the band keeps joking around, tuning up like we’re still secluded in the studio.

I take a deep breath to summon my confidence. I remember the joy of playing with the band, the wind blowing through my hair earlier as I rode on the back of Solo’s motorcycle, and the thrill of bringing him to the roof.

Yeah, I got this. With a smile to Mare, I drag my fingers across the keys, summoning the melody from earlier with a few notes.

“Bullshit!” a man’s voice bellows from the back of the pub. “What is this crap?”

I draw my hands back and shoot a nervous glance to the band. Is it me? Does this guy see the dorky, anxious, skinny guy behind the keyboards and just know I’m not a real rock musician?

Star rolls her eyes. “Ignore him,” she mouths to me, but the man yells again.

“Kissing Dirt sucks ass! Forbidden Destiny rules!”

A few people groan in the audience, and I see that the bartender is rushing over to deal with the heckler.

“Destiny! Destiny!” he yells, belligerent and clearly drunk. “Kissing Dirt is for losers!”

I feel the blood drain from my face, my soul leaving my body.

The band, however, isn’t bothered. Mare grins and pulls the mic to her mouth.

“That’s fine,” she says sweetly. “You just be on your way, hon. Because you know what?” She turns to the band and gives them aone, two, three. Then they all start playing and singing to the tune of “He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

“Ohhh, we don’t play our music for assholes. We don’t play our music for assholes. We don’t play our music for aaaa-aaassss-hoooles!” They drag out the last word, banging out noisy chords while they sing.

Mare leans forward, grinning at the crowd, who laughs along, and she finishes out the tune. “And you Forbidden Destiny fans are really acting like assholes lately,” she purrs into the mic.

The small crowd goes wild, laughing and cheering while the heckler gets led out. Usually, public heckling would ruin me, but the band’s positive energy overpowers everything else.

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