2CRUZ
"Ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops,"Angelo, our manager, says to the crew from German rock ’n’ roll magazineUber Rock. "Busy schedule for the boys today." He glances at his watch and gestures for the makeup artist to move out of the frame.
The press tent smells like stale coffee, spilled beer, cheap pizza, and anxiety. The air is filled with the hum of generators and the distant thrum of drums bleeding through the canvas walls.Someone’s in soundcheck, I note to myself, slouching on a worn leather couch, my boots propped up on the edge of the scarred wooden table in front of me.
"They look fine, Di." Samantha, the PR girl traveling with us on this tour, snaps her fingers impatiently, wanting to get this show on the road. Our public relations team thinks we should continue to do all on-camera press in makeup. Sometimes, I feel like they have something against showing our real faces to the crowd. And then I remember that’s the whole shtick of our band. Hiding behind stage personas.
It creates mystery.
"Come on." Angelo claps his hands. "Time’s money."
We flew in last night, still jet-lagged and disoriented, but that’s nothing new when you’re constantly touring. Weeks turn into months, and one day, you wake up a year older and a couple of mil richer.
Works for me.
So I do what I’m told. I’m just a backdrop anyway. Most bass players are.
The interviewer fromUber Rockadjusts her mic, her red lipstick smudged just enough to make her look like she’s been up all night. She’s got that wide-eyed fan-girl vibe, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze too, like she’s looking for cracks in the facade. I don’t blame her. We’re all cracked here. Some of us just hide it better.
Justice, our lead singer, sits to my left, his elbow brushing mine as he leans forward, already owning the room without saying a word. His black hair catches the dim overhead light, framing his sharp jawline like a goddamn rock deity. Or rock royalty. Everyone knows who his uncle is. We just avoid discussing it. Angelo forbids it.
Our drummer, Zander, is sprawled out on my right, all golden-boy charm in his vintage band tee and ripped jeans, drumsticks twirling between his fingers. Chance is perched on the armrest next to Justice, his guitar pick flicking against his thigh like a nervous tic. He’s the one with the anxiety issues, and it’s coming off him in waves. I don’t know why he’s so nervous. Asshole has always been a natural in front of the camera.
"Alright, boys," the interviewer starts. "Since time is limited, let’s dive in. Your new album,Saints & Sinners, it’s been called your most raw and personal work yet. What’s the story behind it?"
Justice doesn’t hesitate. "The album is about losing your old self to find your new self." His voice is smooth and low, like he’s sharing a secret with the world. "It’s about the chaos, the highs,the lows—the moments when you’re so far gone, you don’t know if you’ll ever come back." He flashes that trademark smirk, the one that makes everyone in the crowd lose their minds. "But, hey, we always come back."
Chance chuckles, his fingers still tapping out some invisible rhythm. "Yeah, and sometimes you come back with a killer riff or two."
Zander snorts, tossing one of his drumsticks into the air and catching it effortlessly. "Or a killer hangover."
The room laughs, but it’s Justice’s laugh that fills the space the most. I stay quiet, my fingers tracing the edge of my bass strap where it rests against my thigh. My mind drifts, not to the album or the crowds or the fame, but to the streets I came from—the cracked pavement, the graffiti-tagged walls, the sound of sirens cutting through the night. I remember the first time I picked up a bass, how it felt like I was holding on to something real in a world that kept trying to knock me down. I was eleven years old.
"Cruz," the interviewer says, snapping me back to the present. "You’ve got this incredible presence on stage, but you’re also kind of the quiet one in the band. What’s your take onSaints & Sinners?"
I glance up, meeting her eyes for a second before shrugging. "It’s honest. That’s what matters. We didn’t hold back."
Justice claps me on the shoulder, his hand heavy and warm. "That’s our Cruz. A man of few words, but when he speaks, you listen."
Zander grins, punching my arm lightly. "And when he plays, you feel it. Dude’s got the soul of a beast in those fingers."
I shake my head. "Yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep you guys in line."
The room erupts in laughter again, but I can feel Justice’s gaze on me, steady and assessing. There’s always this unspokenthing between us, this tension that never quite resolves itself. He’s the frontman, the face, the voice. I’m the backbone, the one who keeps it all grounded. We need each other, but it’s not always easy.
The interviewer moves on, asking about the tour, the fans, the stories behind the songs. Justice takes the lead, spinning tales with that effortless charm of his while the rest of us chime in with jokes and anecdotes. I stay mostly silent, my thoughts drifting again, caught between the world I left behind and the one I’m living in now. The tent feels smaller somehow, the air heavier, like it’s pressing down on me.
But I don’t let it show.
I never do.
Because I don’t fit in here. Not really. My boots are scuffed, my jeans are frayed at the knees, and my hair’s a mess, half tied back, half falling into my face. Even with all this money coming in, I’m used to simple. My bandmates… They’re polished, effortless, born into this world like they were meant for it. Me? I clawed my way in, blood and sweat and grit under my nails. That’s not something you forget, no matter how big the stage gets.
Justice laughs again at something the interviewer says, his voice drawing the room’s attention like a magnet. "Yeah, man. We were in the studio for months, pulling all-nighters, chasing that perfect sound. But when it clicks, you know…it’s like lightning hitting the ground."
Zander grins. "Lightning, huh? More like a damn hurricane. Cruz here nearly broke his bass during the solo on ‘Blackout Nights.’ Dude was possessed."
I glance up, catching Zander’s eye. He’s always doing this, trying to pull me into the conversation, but I’m not built for the spotlight.
