"Are you serious?" I blurt out.
"We'll bring him back just enough to play," Angelo says.
"No way." I grab Angelo's arm. "More drugs? That's what got him here in the first place!"
"You want to flush everything we've worked for down the toilet?" Angelo yanks his arm free. "He has to get through the set, or these people are going to destroy the entire field." He’s waving his index finger in the direction of the door as he speaks.
"Cruz, we don’t have a choice," Zander says solemnly, and the finality in his voice twists my insides.
Deep down, I understand what a hundred thousand drunk, disorderly fans can do to a venue if they aren’t given what they came for. It isn’t only about the destruction of property. It’s about people ending up hurt, with broken bones and concussions. But I also don’t want to see my friend falling further into the void.
"Cruz," Justice whispers from across the room, where he’s standing with his arms folded on his chest. "We have to play, and we have no time to look for his replacement. Even if we can get someone who’s just as good on a guitar, what are the chances they know our songs? Having someone fuck up the entire set would be worse than giving him what he’s already taking." Justice jerks his chin toward Chance still splayed out on the couch. "And what about all the women in the audience when things get wild?"
I clench my fists, my heart hammering against my ribs. This is wrong, so fucking wrong. But I can hear the crowd chanting our name, the energy electric and dark even from back here.
"Fuck," I breathe out.
"Let's get this over with before it's too late," Angelo instructs.
Zander leaves the dressing room, grabbing one of the security guards who’s standing just outside to go with him.
He returns a few minutes later and presses a small baggie into Angelo's palm.
I can’t watch it. Can’t watch how they shoot my friend up. I turn around and stare at the wall, waiting for them to be done.
"Come on, buddy," I can hear Angelo murmuring. "Just a little taste to get you back on your feet."
Then there’s a sharp inhale. I turn around, bile rising in my throat, and see Chance's eyelids flutter. Angelo sits him up and slaps his cheeks lightly.
"There we go, champ. You've got this."
Chance sways, his eyes glassy and unfocused at first. I step forward and grip his shoulder. "You okay, man?"
"You think you can play?" Zander asks quietly, raking his hand through Chance’s hair to push it off his forehead.
Chance grins at us and slurs out, "S'all good, m’dudes. M'ready to rock…" His pupils are now big and black and scary. The drugs are working.
I step aside and move to stand next to Justice as Angelo and Zander help Chance get up from the couch.
"This is fucked, man," I whisper at our lead singer. "He needs rehab, not another fix."
"Don’t need a lecture from you right now. You know we have no option but to play."
On the other side of the room, Angelo claps Chance on the back, shooting us a triumphant look. "See? He's fine. Now get your shit together. We've got a show to do."
I watch them stumble out into the corridor as my stomach churns with fear.
I take a deep breath and follow, praying that we make it through the night unscathed. But deep down, I know we're just postponing the inevitable crash.
And when it comes, it's going to be ugly as hell.
The stage plungesinto darkness. and the roar of the crowd behind the wall of props is an ominous echo that demands attention. When the lights flicker teasingly, I'm pacing restlessly in the corner, observing Di fussing over Chance. He's somehow on his feet, looking all fidgety. The paint somewhat covers the dark circles that ring his eyes, but his hands tremble as he reaches for a bottle of whiskey.
I turn away, unable to watch him poison himself further. The chaos of the pre-show prep—techs rushing by, groupies with smeared lipstick and hungry eyes standing around, management screaming orders—all seems so familiar, yet tonight, it feels sinister. Like we're wobbling on the brink of something terrible.
And it’s not because we’re running behind.
I'm rooted in place before the gear stand, my arms rigid at my sides. My tech is securing my bass guitar against me when, suddenly, a blazing flash of orange explodes in the crowd of guests gathered backstage.
