We were sitting outside the studio, parked on the curb like two background characters who got cut from someone else’s coming-of-age story.
The sun was already low enough to stain the sidewalk orange, and David was late.
Adam had flopped down next to me like a sleep-deprived deity in detention: too many limbs, too many piercings, and a deeply committed scowl.
He was looking off into the distance like he was pondering the great mysteries of life.
Or contemplating the morality of kicking a pigeon.
Then I noticed it.
A tiny bit of lint on his uniform sleeve.
I reached over and plucked it off without thinking.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t swat my hand away, didn’t growl, didn’t raise an eyebrow.
Just watched my hand, then looked at me like I was the weird one.
“You missed a spot,” he said solemnly.
“Where?” I asked, squinting.
He pointed at his face.
“Right here. A huge spot. Real nuisance.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I deadpanned. “You want me to lint-roll your personality next?”
He smirked. “Hope you brought a flamethrower.”
I gave him the look.
The You have no idea who you’re messing with look.
“You’re awfully confident for someone who thinks mosh pit etiquette counts as personality.”
“Says the girl who brought a literal spreadsheet to band-practice.”
“It has color-coding! You’re welcome!”
“Color-coded passive aggression,” he muttered.
“It’s called being organized! You can’t survive on angst and caffeine, bass goblin.”
Adam leaned in, eyes dark with mock gravity.
“I am fueled by angst and caffeine. I thrive on it. I ferment in it like fine emotional vinegar.”
Then he sniffed the air, smirked, and added, “You smell like printer ink and control issues.”
He leaned back on his hands, the angle making his smirk even more irritating. And unfairly attractive.
I opened my mouth to fire back…
And that’s when David pulled up in his van, stepped out, and blinked at us like we were alien wildlife.
“Why are you two sitting outside?” he asked.
Adam answered, deadpan: “Waiting for you to open up.”
David stared.
“You have a key, Adam.”
Silence.
Long, awkward silence.
I turned my entire body toward Adam.
Slow. Dramatic. Incredulous.
“You what.”
Adam blinked. “I… wait… shit.”
David, clearly loving every second, tossed him a look.
“You keep it on your chain. Right next to the thing that looks like a bottle opener but isn’t.”
Adam pulled out his keychain like he was realizing he’d just failed a pop quiz on his own life.
And there it was.
The key.
Stolen story; please report.
The key he’d had the entire time.
I gasped. Loudly. Offended. “You mean I sat for forty minutes next to your dramatic ass for no reason?!”
Adam looked up, sheepish. “The sun was nice?...”
David walked past us, laughing under his breath.
I stood, brushing nonexistent dirt from my skirt with theatrical rage.
“Oh, Bass Boy. You better believe I’m bringing this up at your wedding.”
“Who said I’m getting married?”
“Exactly. Because I’m going to be too busy giving a speech about this day.”
“I’ll back up that story.” David helped, holding the door.
Adam groaned. “Dear Satan, Please.”
“Too late. Your legacy is secured. You are now: Adam ‘Error 404: Key Not Found’ Schwartz.”
He groaned again.
I beamed.
Today?
Today is my win.
***
Satan, take the wheel | David’s POV
By the end of the fifth run-through, my ears were ringing, my stomach was eating itself, and my fingers had developed a deeply personal grudge against me.
Still, Nickie and Adam were arguing like it was the first take of the day and they’d just discovered the concept of being insufferable.
“No, you dragged the tempo,” Nickie snapped, wiping sweat off her forehead.
“I was following your snare hits,” Adam shot back. “Don’t look at me like I ghosted the beat! Your downstroke landed on a completely different planet.”
“Excuse me, my downstroke is divine.”
“Divinely off-grid maybe.”
I checked my phone, more out of muscle memory than hope, and there it was.
Finally, Alonzo’s name.
One line.
My heart did a double kick.
The Cage.
We weren’t supposed to get this far, not this fast.
Straight off the grid, no label, no manager, just a handful of amps, raw talent, and too much trauma per capita.
And now?
We were opening for Fonfobia for the second time this month.
In a venue people might or might not lick some shoes to get into, and still have to wait for months.
For a second, I just stared at the message.
Like if I blinked too hard, it would disappear.
Like if I breathed too loud, the universe would change its mind.
But it didn’t.
We were in.
I looked up, about to share the news.
“Hey, guys…”
They didn’t hear me. Obviously.
Nickie was already halfway into a rant about polyrhythms and Adam was mocking her hand gestures with exaggerated flourishes like some sad, melodic magician.
“Guys,” I said louder, but they just upped the volume like I’d challenged them to a duel in vocal stamina.
‘Dear Satan,’ I thought, ‘Where do they get the energy for this?’
They’d been yelling at each other about BPMs and nonexistent mistakes for ten minutes, and somehow it only seemed to be fueling them.
I could barely feel my legs.
Meanwhile, Adam looked like he was ready to start round six, and Nickie still had that feral gremlin spark in her eye.
I tried again. “Hey. Hello? Cage. Alonzo. Text. Gig.”
Nothing.
So I gave up on dignity, walked right between them, and waved my arms in giant, chaotic windmill motions like an overcaffeinated inflatable tube man.
And I didn’t care how many windmill-arm freakouts it took…
I was getting those two loud little disasters to hear me.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
“Jesus, David,” Nickie said, clutching her chest. “You tryin’ to audition for a horror movie jump scare?”
“Yes,” I deadpanned. “Also: Alonzo got us the Cage. Saturday night.”
That shut them up.
For a moment.
Then Nickie screamed. Adam screamed back.
This time it was joy, not murder.
Nickie launched herself at Adam in a full-body jump-hug like a feral koala, and he caught her with a grunt and spun her once before nearly falling over.
They were both laughing like they'd inhaled fireworks.
“I’m bringing handcuffs,” Nickie gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “Not for anything practical… I just want the aesthetic.”
Adam beamed, borderline manic. “We need a taxidermy crow.”
Nickie nodded, deadly serious. “Grease. Like, actual axle grease. Smear it under our eyes. Maybe some ash.”
“Yeah,” Adam said, eyes gleaming. “Like we just crawled out of an engine block.”
“Covered in amp dust and bad decisions.”
Adam looked off, inspired. “We should reek of feedback and swamp rot.”
“No clean clothes allowed. Stage scent should be beer, sweat, and existential dread.”
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and watched them.
Nickie was hanging off Adam like a backpack full of chaos while they shouted about strobes and setlists and whether or not we could open with Ash in My Lungs or Maggot Hymn while Old gas masks or respirators hung from the ceiling.
I didn’t even try to interrupt this time.
I just smiled.
Let them yell.
They’d earned it.