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something.
    Or someone.
    “Yeah,” Colt said, moving back to his drums. “Fuck Drez, we'll play without him for now.”
    My smile was weak, but it was there. Hearing their casual rebuking of their leader made things feel less professional. It reminded me of playing with smaller bands, of being around guys who didn't have the pressure of a giant tour over their heads.
    When we played the song a second time, my fingers didn't trip once.
    It was obvious they were pleased. They became actually impressed when I made it through the second piece. By the third, perfect performance, there was a quiet unease stretching between us all.
    Setting his bass down, Porter came my way at a frightening speed. Giant arms coiled around, crushing me and nearly my guitar in a hug. “Holy shit! Were you fucking with Drezden?”
    “No. Of course not,” I said. Slipping free, I adjusted my shirt. Porter could break ribs if he wanted to.
    “Then why were you so much better this time?” Colt asked, chugging some water. He was gleaming from working the drums over.
    My mouth opened, yet I shut it quickly. How do I explain it? Can I even explain it? I was spared the attempt when Drez shoved his way back inside.
    Glancing at me, setting my neck and cheeks on fire, he crossed his arms. The scent of cigarettes was heavier than usual on him. Sharply, he said, “I could hear everything.” Amazingly, I felt a flicker of guilt. Drez stared me down, his eyes hard with... something. Distrust? Pride? “Nerves or not,” he said, “You were playing much better.”
    My heart swelled. “Thank you.” I didn't know what else to say.
    He cocked his head, looking from me to the other band members. “Let's give it one more go.”
    There was some uneasy shuffling. Some of it was on my part. “You sure? Maybe we should all take a break,” Porter mumbled.
    Drez already had the mic in hand, fingers curling around it solidly. “One more song. Then we'll break.”
    “Easy for you,” Porter said softly, “You already took a smoke break.”
    Settling on the bench, I waited on the razor's edge that was my nerves. Was I going to fuck up again? Or could I reel in whatever part of me was turning to mush when Drez sang so close by?
    There was little time to wonder.
    “No More Stars,” Drez demanded, eyes raking over the three of us. In response, Colt tapped his sticks, and Porter hit a belly-grinding low note on his bass.
    I was slick with sweat when I strummed. Even the air conditioning couldn't solve the issue of the heat inside of me. But I wasn't fumbling, not yet. Even with Drez staring me down, expecting—was he expecting it?—my failure, I was controlling myself.
    I could handle this.
    My guts wriggled like snakes as Drezden licked his lips. His first whisper slid into my ribs, tangling up and choking my heart. “In the black, you walk with me. In the black, you never see...”
    That whisper went lower, brushing my core until my inner thighs were hot and sticky. The air in my lungs fled. I was glad I wasn't the one who had to sing.
    My mouth was somehow dry and liquid at once. Pushing my tongue on the back of my teeth, I went one step further and bit down. The pain gave me focus, though I wasn't proud of the method.
    It hit too close to home, too near a memory of my rough teenage years where inflicting pain solved every problem.
    It's solving this one, I realized. Honing in on the sharp taste of copper, I listened in wonder to my own music. Against the forefront of Drezden's lyrics, I was shaping a background that was flawless.
    The air in the room was heavy. Glancing up, I saw how Drez was eating me with his eyes. He didn't blink, like watching me was all he ever wanted to do. All he could do.
    Flushing hotly, I dug my teeth into my tongue.
    “No more stars!” Drez screamed, shattering the hanging note. We all scraped down on our instruments, creating a tune that was wild, ambitious.
    This was the sound of Four and a Half Headstones. A sound I was now