I knew I had to wear this war paint on my face night after night whenever we took the stage. I thought it was some poser shit, but I needed a steady gig badly. And musically, these three had it together.
"Yo, Velez!" someone calls from behind, pulling me out of my head.
I turn, squinting into the setting sun, and spot two familiar faces—Tommy and Dex, my buddies from the days before The Deviant. I know Dex has a band of his own now. Not signed, but they get booked locally a lot. Tommy’s always wanted to be on the road, doing lights. I’m actually surprised to see them here. Back in LA years ago, we were all just scrappy kids trying to claw our way into this industry.
Tommy’s got a red bandana tied around his head, and Dex is holding a coil of cables.
Tommy jogs up. "What’s up, man?" He grins, slapping my shoulder. "Long time no see. You’re running with the big dogs now." He jerks his chin in the direction of my face.
"Yeah, something like that," I say, rubbing the napkin a little harder over my cheek and jaw, wondering if I look like a clown. "What about you guys? Still hustling?"
"Hell yeah." Dex’s voice is sandpaper raspy—from too many cigarettes, no doubt. I remember him smoking two packs a day even back then. "We’re with Black Haze now. Tommy does lights for pretty much half their bands, and I work for Atlas."
"Houser?" I ask.
"Yeah," Dex replies, the pride in his voice evident. "Taking care of all his guitars."
"Dude hauls at least a dozen when he’s on tour," Tommy chimes in. "You should see his trailer."
"Not bad." I nod my approval. A young guy like Dex getting a gig with someone as big as Atlas Houser is a rare occurrence in this industry. People sometimes work their way up for decades before a major band hires them to tech directly for their stars.
"Label’s got us working double shifts, if you know what I mean." Tommy laughs. "But, hey, it’s a paycheck."
"True that."
"Remember when we waited tables at that Mexican diner not far from your grandma’s place?" Dex asks.
"Fuck, it’s embarrassing to even remember," I admit. I lasted two weeks at that joint. It was the first and the last time I worked in customer service.
"We’ve all gone through that shit," Dex says philosophically. "You think you’re born a fucking rockstar?"
"Except for your singer," Tommy adds knowingly.
I shut down that topic for discussion immediately. "Black Haze, huh?" Everyone knows what happens when your bandmate has a famous relative. They all want a piece of you sothey can have a piece of him as a direct line to the superstar. "Solid label. I’m happy for you."
"Thanks, man," Tommy says, his grin widening. "But seriously, Cruz, you’re killing it yourself. Saw you on stage last month in Canada. That bassline on ‘Broken Chains’? Fucking unreal, bro."
"Just doing my job."
We exchange a few more words, the kind of small talk that usually happens when you haven’t seen someone you used to be tight with for years. Then I’m moving again. Their voices fade behind me, swallowed by the hum of the fairgrounds.
I don’t look back.
There are no answers in the past, only more questions.
Up ahead, I spot Ramsey leaning against Sonic Trash’s bus, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He goes by Ramses. His long hair is tied back, and his dark eyes catch the light like polished onyx. There’s something about him—quiet, intense. Unlike the rest of his band, he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t need to say much to make an impression.
He nods as I approach, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls into the late afternoon air.
"Velez," he says. "How’s the grind?"
"Ah, same shit, different day," I reply, leaning against the bus beside him. "You?"
Ramses takes a drag, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Can’t complain. Just keeping the rhythm alive."
"You think you’ll ever get sick of it?"
Ramses turns to look at me like I just sprouted a pair of wings or something. "You’re already tired of being rich, Velez? Cuz if you are, I’m ready to take your place."
