I shrug. "It’s what it needed," I supply.
Chance kicks my boot lightly with his Converse sneaker. "That’s my man. All vibe, no bullshit."
The interviewer chuckles, her pen poised over her notepad. "So how do you guys feel about the album’s reception so far?"
"It’s…real," Chance says. "People connect with that. They want something that hits them in the gut, you know?"
Justice nods. "Exactly. That’s what we’re going for. No filters, no apologies."
I lean back, letting the conversation flow around me, a river I’m content to watch from the shore. Zander cracks a joke about trashing a hotel room in Berlin last year, and Chance chimes in with a story about a fan who tried to climb onstage in Barcelona.
The interviewer moves on to the next question, and the next, and the next. And then it finally comes.
She looks directly at Justice and asks with a poker face, "So how much of your Uncle’s success?—"
Angelo steps into the frame immediately. "Let’s keep it about the music, darling." His tone is firm, almost unkind. He’s got that menacing look that means one wrong word from the interviewer will cut the interview short, and the magazine will never get a chance to speak to the band again.
She hesitates, her smile faltering for a split second before she nods, flipping to a new page in her notebook.
I catch the flicker of annoyance in Justice’s eyes, but he covers it with a grin.
After a few generic questions about some of the songs on the album, the interview shifts, and suddenly, the spotlight’s on me. "Cruz," the girl starts, her voice soft but probing. "So you were the last one to join the band. How did it feel to be teaming up with three guys who were high-school friends?"
I feel the weight of the question, heavy and loaded, like a stone dropped into still water.
What’s a kid like you, from the poorest part of LA, doing with these guys, who grew up with everything their privilege gave them?
I decide that making it into a joke is the best course of action here. "Not sure how these guys picked me, honestly."
"Man, you slapped that bass like nobody’s business," Zander says. "We needed you."
The others laugh, the tension breaking like glass, and I let myself smile a little.
Because—let’s be honest—occasional uneasy band dynamics or not, this is still me living a dream. It’s just that no one promised it would be easy.
When the interview wraps up,the guys scatter—Chance heading for the bar, Zander disappearing into the crowd, and Justice being escorted out by the throng of security to who knows where. Maybe another Victoria’s Secret model is visiting him. The guy is the biggest fucking playboy of the decade.
"Here." Di shoves me some makeup remover on a napkin while we’re packing up behind the press tent.
"Thanks."
"I can do it," she offers.
"It’s fine. I’m going to walk for a bit. Jet lag is kicking my ass."
I know if I fall asleep now, I’ll be fucked up the entire weekend, and we have a busy one ahead of us. Need to be in top shape for both shows.
"Don’t forget about the dinner, Cruz," Angelo reminds me as I head for the entrance.
Some European company to schmooze. I don’t even remember what they make. Was it clothes or drumsticks? "I’ll be there," I reply automatically. Part of the job.
"Good. Later."
I swipe the napkin across my cheek, feeling the gritty residue of paint stubbornly clinging to my skin as I step out of the tent. The open air wraps around me like a familiar embrace—wild and untamed, smelling faintly of trampled grass mixed with smoke—the quintessential concert scent.
Legend has it that the idea of the band was born when our lead singer messed with his sister’s makeup one reckless night. Whether he was tipsy or stone-cold sober during that stroke of genius remains our little mystery. And thus, The Deviant emerged—a wicked reimagining of what Kiss immortalized back in the seventies but with our own twisted flair.
And I knew it when I auditioned.
