Without hesitation, I turn around and punch him in the mouth, making him drop to his knees and scrape his guitar. Mitch and Zed pull me away before I can hit him again, and Kas helps Tech to his feet.
“You’re fucking done,” I snarl. “Get the fuck out of my band.”
“You can’t do that!” he shouts.
That’s where he’s wrong. Lana’s Mischief is my band, and I have say on who stays and who goes. I had it put in our contract right after Vic died because I had a feeling whoever they brought on would clash with us.
Me, Vic, Kas, and Mitch met when I moved to California after my dad got custody of me when shit went down with my mom and Perry. We lived on the same street and started a band in my garage. After a few sessions, we knew we’d work well together. Losing Vic fucked us all up, but we’d already had tracks for most of our debut album recorded and had no desire to break up.
Tech doesn’t fit. He’ll never fucking fit. Now he’s fucking done.
He looks over at Zed who sighs, but nods. “You’re out, Tech. This is Ryder’s band.”
Snatching off his guitar, Tech raises it over his head and smashes it on the ground.
I smirk, continuing to play chords on my guitar. “That’ll come out of your last check, bitch. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue your ass.”
“Fuck you, you fucking coked out motherfucker!” he yells, and all heads turn to him. I’m glad the crowd can’t hear. The press would have a fucking field day. “This isn’t over.”
I shrug and tell Zed, “Make sure security gets him the fuck out of here.”
“Don’t bother,” Tech says, pushing Zed away. “I’m fucking leaving.” He storms down the hall, shooting a glare at me before he disappears from view.
Zed sighs. “That wasn’t smart,” he says. “Consider giving him another chance.”
I don’t answer, just incline my head to Mitch and Kas and we head back on stage.
The crowd cheers, and the spotlight shines down on me. They seem extra bright in my drug-induced haze, almost singeing my retinas. I lower my head and shake it off and saunter to the microphone.
Without preamble, we jump into our next song, in perfect sync, even though we’re down a member. But the three of us make magic like we always have. We don’t fucking need Tech.
“Alright,” I say, speaking into the mic when the show winds down. “We have time for one more song. How about you all tell me what you wanna hear, huh?”
Shouts and requests are hurled at us, and I grin over at my bassist and drummer as they follow me on our outro track.
“What you think we should play, Mitch?” I look back at him with a grin.
“Prayers For Me,” he replies. I know why he chose that one. It has a long-ass drum solo.
I chuckle but shake my head. He shrugs and spins his drumsticks around his fingers before going back to playing our track.
“Kas?”
He riffs on his guitar, playing a few chords before he leans into his mic. “Let’s play Road to Hell.”
“Good choice. Road?—”
Before I can finish my sentence, a loud, strong voice yells, “Play ‘In the Stars’.”
The air whooshes out of my lungs as cheers and applause light up the stadium for the request of our first hit single.
A song I haven’t sang in close to ten years.
I remember the words—every single word—and what they mean.
Who they’re for.
I clear my throat. “Nah, Road to Hell is?—”
