Page 43 of Sustain

twenty-eight

. . .

Traumatized

Ian

I find Brad, Emmett, and Stefan of Chaos Fuel out smoking behind the loading dock, no doubt hiding from the fresh hell now erupting with Frankie’s speedy departure. Their expectant faces drop as they see my grave expression.

“So, I assume you are all aware that Frankie skipped town?”

A fresh wave of groans and grievances ensue at my confirmation. I let the venting run its course, weathering the rising tension headache.

Emmett crushes his cigarette under a boot. “That fucking asshole had no sense of humor. Couldn’t take any jokes without acting all offended and shit.”

Stefan shakes his head. “Dude, you shoved snow down his pants in front of everyone. I’d bounce too if you humiliated me like that just for laughs.”

“Oh, come off it, we were all mostly drunk during the blackout,” Emmett fumes, though guilt flashes across his features before his defiance returns. “And it’s not my fault he never wanted to cut loose with us.”

Brad sighs, intervening. “Yeah, but that wasn’t his first hazing. You were on him all week with other bullshit.”

The drummer throws his hands up theatrically. “It’s boring messing only with you fuckheads. I swear none of you appreciate quality jokes anymore.” Despite attempting to sound indifferent, remorse creeps into his tone.

“Well, too bad you probably can’t play bass and take his place instead, since you can’t drum for shit either,” Stefan grumbles.

“Dude, that’s harsh.” Emmett seems truly hurt by the jab.

I loudly clear my throat before resentments boil over again. “Look, what’s done is done, pointing fingers won’t bring him back. Let’s talk options going forward.”

Emmett kicks out at a nearby snowbank in frustration. “It’s not fucking fair! We finally get a huge festival gig, and that flakey jackass ghosts it sideways.”

“So, what now?” Stefan asks, uncharacteristically solemn as he takes a long drag of his cigarette. “Does the label bail on us now?”

All eyes turn to me, the newcomer manager expected to work miracles, apparently. I force an assured tone that I don’t entirely feel. “Now, we uphold our contract to avoid further complications. I have an idea, but it’s...unorthodox.”

I hesitate before divulging my nuclear contingency to salvage this trainwreck. No sense delaying the blast though.

“How opposed would you lads be to me filling in on bass for the festival?”

Three voices say in surprised unison, “Whoa…”

I adjustthe unfamiliar bass across my shoulder, trying to shake out sporadic tremors from stale nerve damage as we finish mapping out the setlist. We focus the rehearsals on older ChaosFuel tracks that use common chord progressions to simplify the transitions. The idea is to minimize any elaborate technical solos to not test fate...or the physical therapy that I definitely ended prematurely all those years ago.

As we launch into‘Bone Crush,’what starts as lingering stiffness progresses to searing agony by the bridge. I clench my jaw against betraying any visible winces. I’m determined to power through. But as we restart the anthemic‘Devil’s Chariot,’a heaviness settles across my knuckles worse than the ill-fitted guitar. By the second verse, my fingers freeze up, preventing any fretwork whatsoever.

I’m forced to stop playing with a growled curse. Three sets of eyes swing in my direction as our notes die off in a chaotic mess.

“Sorry guys, maybe I’m not up for this after all.” I force a weak smile through the waves of pain now coursing up my forearm. So much for smooth sailing on my triumphant return to the stage. Though to be fair, it’s probably for the best. I’ve got enough to deal with.

But now, that leaves us right and truly fucked. All of us.

A tense silence falls over us as the band exchanges uneasy looks, my maimed hand calling our bluff for this harebrained save attempt. I really should have known better. Known my limitations. I can’t fucking do everything, even though I want to. Hell, I can’t even keep this band together, so maybe I can’t do anything at all.

Just as eruptions recommence over our narrowed options, a knock at the door of our practice space interrupts us. We all stiffen seeing Logan, Murderous Crows’ renowned bassist, hovering at the threshold holding a six-pack as an awkward peace offering.

“Hey, just wanted to check in on that bass loaner.” His amiable tone dies reading the mood. “But uh...seems you guys have bigger issues so I’ll just...”

He places the six-pack on a nearby table and moves to duck out when inspiration strikes me dead on.

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