"What now?" Coop asked, nervously twirling a drumstick between his fingers. "It's only ten after six. We got time. Should we run through a song or two? Just to make sure?"
Jake considered it, scratching his chin with the edge of his guitar pick. "Not the worst idea. Let's hit Descent again. It's the newest one. Wouldn't hurt to tighten it up."
Darren and Coop both nodded, already shifting toward their instruments. But Matt—the band's founder and unofficial final word—didn't budge. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh and waved a dismissive hand.
"Fuck that," he said. "We've rehearsed Descent a hundred fuckin' times these last two weeks. The whole set, what, twenty times minimum? We're dialed in. We're locked. We rock."
He looked at them all, daring them to disagree.
"And if we screw it up tonight, we screw it up. But playing it again right now? That's just asking for slop. You dig?"
Jake didn't fully dig. A quick run-through might've killed some of the nerves crawling under his skin. But he knew better than to push when Matt had that tone.
"We dig," he said, slipping into easy agreement. "Wanna go grab a smoke before doors open?"
With that, they powered everything down—guitars, mics, amps, soundboard—careful not to so much as bump a knob out of place. Instruments were set gently down, necks upright, cords coiled and stashed. Then the five of them headed backstage.
They weren't alone.
Waiting for them near the greenroom was Chuck O'Donnell, looking freshly energized and suspiciously cheerful. With him were two men in their late twenties—and every member of The Saints recognized them instantly.
Seth Michaels and Brad Hathaway.
The singer and lead guitarist of The Boozehounds.
Chuck grinned with the brightness of a man riding a serious cocaine wave. "Hey, guys," he greeted. "Heard the sound check."
"Yeah," Hathaway said, sneering. "Heard it over and over and over again."
The man looked like someone had dragged him out of a swamp and handed him a guitar. His black T-shirt clung to a bloated gut that threatened to escape at any moment, and his hair was a tangled, greasy disaster that hadn't seen shampoo in a month.
"Bit unsure of yourselves, huh?" he added.
"Give 'em a break," Chuck said, chuckling like a man trying to keep things civil. "First gig. Just want to make sure everything's perfect."
"Perfect?" Michaels echoed, raising a manicured brow.
Where Hathaway looked like roadkill, Michaels was the other extreme—stick-thin, skin-tight rhinestone shirt, leather pants that could cut circulation, and jet-black curls clearly styled for hours. His eyes slid toward Darren, sizing up the tallest and most built of the group.
"It's cute," he added. "Like they think anyone gives a shit what an opener sounds like."
Chuck laughed nervously. "Don't be a dick, Mikey. You remember your first gig, don't you?"
"Vaguely," Michaels said. "Pretty sure it wasn't in a pisshole like this. Heritage—what is this place, anyway? The asshole of California? A hemorrhoid on the state's rectum?"
Matt stepped forward calmly, arms crossed. "Could be. But there's still gonna be a crowd out there. Musicians should always want to sound their best. Or is that an outdated concept for you?"
Michaels blinked.
"Performing," he snorted. "That's a laugh. You're just time-fillers, man. Nobody's here for you. You think this audience gives a rat's ass about the opener?"
Jake tensed. He glanced at Matt, waiting for the explosion. Matt wasn't the kind of guy to take insults lightly—especially not when they came wrapped in rhinestones.
But Matt stayed cool.
"You're right," he said evenly. "They're here to see you. Tonight. But that'll change, my mediocre friend. That'll change."
It took Michaels a few seconds to realize he'd just been insulted.
When it clicked, his face went red. "Just finish your goddamn set on time," he snapped, jabbing a finger toward Matt's chest. "You've got fifteen minutes to clear your shit after your last song. Fifteen. Understand?"
"Crystal," Matt replied. "Unless, of course… they ask for an encore. Not really up to us, right?"
That got a reaction.
Michaels and Hathaway both burst into laughter. Even Chuck joined in, eyes wide with amusement.
"Encore," Michaels wheezed. "That's funny. That's really funny."
He clapped Matt on the shoulder like they were old drinking buddies. "If the crowd begs for it, I guess we can cut you some slack, right Hath?"
"Oh, totally," Hathaway said. "Encore it up, baby."
"We'll keep that in mind," Matt said with a tight smile.
The Boozehounds and Chuck turned and wandered off toward the bar, still chuckling and cracking jokes. They thought Matt had been kidding.
Jake knew better.
Matt hadn't been kidding at all.
Ten minutes later, D Street West was about three-quarters full.
Jake and Matt sat near the edge of the backstage door, peeking out past the curtain. Matt smoked a cigarette, tapping the ash into an empty soda can. Jake rolled a pick across his knuckles, eyes fixed on Matt's cigarette like it was salvation. He needed one. Badly. But his throat couldn't afford it. Not before a set.
The crowd wasn't there for them. That much was obvious.
No illusions. No fantasies.
Everyone knew that if you wanted a good spot for The Boozehounds, you had to show up early and stake your claim. That's all this was—people locking down tables and seats.
Still, the air was electric. Bodies packed tight, voices buzzing. People were ready for something. Even if they didn't know what.
"You know what I'm looking forward to the most?" Matt asked, flicking ash again.
Jake didn't look up. "We've got one gig, Matt."
"We'll get more," Matt said, full of that unshakable confidence that made him both inspiring and infuriating. "I've told you a hundred times. We fuckin' rock, dude."
Jake nodded, lips pressed tight. He believed in the music. Believed in the band. But believing wasn't the same as knowing. And Jake knew this industry wasn't fair. Talent didn't guarantee anything. Not when the game was rigged from the start.
Still, now wasn't the time to argue.
"What are you looking forward to?" he asked instead.