Leave him alone! Devin thought, grinding his teeth, as if Cody could hear him. The last thing we need is to make him more nervous!
Before Cody could fire away with any more laser-beam glances, Devin nodded at Cheryl and they launched into “If It Doesn’t Kill You,” Cody’s song. It was a trick he and Cheryl used on Cody. Whenever he got out of line they’d hold up something bright and shiny to distract him. Sometimes Cheryl would flirt with Cody playfully; sometimes they’d go into a song. Devin and Cheryl were good together that way. In a lot of other ways, too.
Devin’s chords blasted through the amp, rolling between A and F-sharp minor with a fast, easy rhythm. The crowd started up again, clapping to Cheryl’s beat. Cody forgot Karston and went at the vocal with major passion.
For some incomprehensible reason, the incident made Devin relax a little, like it made everything seem more real. He even started enjoying himself during the last of Torn’s three-number tryout set, “Flush with Your Foot.” It was an early effort, stupid fun, written a year ago, when Devin was sixteen. Cody really let loose on that one, vamping up and down the stage, and in the end adding an outrageous, unexpected solo.
Which was not good. Unexpected things, that is. Not with Karston at the bass. He’d been doing better since his “Face” screw-up, but now lost it completely, hitting the wrong notes, off tempo. He sounded like an elephant with bad gas farting into a mike. Cody caught the mistakes just as he was going down on his knees in a dramatic stage move. Devin watched as Cody, in the middle of finishing his lick, tried twisting his head to give Karston another nasty look.
It wasn’t pretty. The usually graceful frontman went off-balance, catching his bare shoulder on a jagged metal clip on the corner of his amp. Blood, looking black in the blue light, flowed freely down his long arm, spotting his shirt. It was a moment that could’ve spelled disaster. But it didn’t.
The pain didn’t stop or surprise Cody. It set him on fire. He went on with his solo for another eight bars, then finished as the crowd cheered wildly, not one of them caring about or remembering Karston’s mistakes. They were all too busy watching Cody finally proving to himself and the world that he was the real thing.
Allen Bates beamed at them, his large hands again slapping together, this time loud enough to be heard over the crowd.
“Torn!” Bates screamed again. The band headed for the storage area behind the stage that passed for a dressing room. Devin knew—they all knew—from Bates’s face they’d be invited back. They’d done it. Now all they needed were enough songs to fill a twenty-minute set.
Once the door was closed, Cheryl flew into Devin’s arms. Borrowing her enthusiasm, he swung her around, feeling the heat of her body against his.
“Yes, yes, yes!” she screamed. “It’s like I’m dreaming and I don’t want to wake up!”
She kissed him hard, finally giving him the buzz he’d craved from the crowd. He’d have to be dead not to react to her. Devin had never thought he’d have a chance with a girl as beautiful as Cheryl, and now they’d been seeing each other for three months. At first he used to get jealous when he saw how other guys looked at her, even Cody, but tonight he figured she was all his.
He stopped kissing her long enough to say, “Tomorrow!”
His parents had gone away for the weekend, and after Torn came over for some recording, he and Cheryl had a big night planned. Usually when they wanted to be alone, they had to head to an abandoned housing development near his home and park. Even the roomy seats of his Dad’s SUV could be awkward in that situation, but tomorrow they’d have a whole big, empty house, at least from nine, when rehearsal ended, until Cheryl’s midnight curfew.
Cody strutted into the center of the room like a prize bull, ignoring them. He stretched his Les Paul high over his head and made a sound that could only rightly be described as a roar. Ben, also known as One Word Ben, since he seldom spoke, applauded. Even Karston grinned sheepishly.
“We are so damn cool!” Cody cried.
“Not that it’s going to our head or anything,” Devin said, still holding Cheryl aloft. She was so light, he felt like he could carry her forever.
Cody laughed. “Whatever. I am so damn cool! The rest of you suck!”
Everyone took it as a joke, until Cody glanced over at Karston and the gleam in his eyes shifted from glazed megalomania to something more predatory. Cody snarled and moved as if he were going to attack. Karston visibly shriveled.
Tensing, Devin reluctantly let Cheryl slide off his body, in case he had to pry Cody away from the smaller, thinner teen. Cody could be brilliant and exciting, but so could lightning. The singer had a penchant for explosive, demanding, infantile, and downright psychotic behavior. Devin looked around for another shiny object to distract him, to break the tension, when he noticed the blood still dripping down the side of Cody’s arm.
“Going to do anything about that cut?” Devin asked, pointing.
Cody howled wildly, twisted his head, and licked the fresh blood off with his long tongue. “Yum!” he said, pleased with himself.
“Disgusting,” Cheryl said, but she looked a little tickled.
“How would you know? You haven’t tasted me yet,” Cody answered. He wiped the cut with his broad, long-fingered hand, looked at it a moment and slapped Karston on the back.
A silence followed, during which Devin held his breath, but then Cody just said, “Come on, let’s get some free food before the next band plays.”
“Yeah!” said One Word Ben.
As they moved out, Cody pulled Devin back by the shoulder. “Hang back a minute.”
Devin had his arm around Cheryl’s waist and didn’t want to let go. “Can it wait?”
“No.”
Cheryl rolled her eyes and slipped out. Devin felt the warmth depart. The back room was cool and the sweat from the lights and the performance was drying on his skin. He got ready to launch into his usual speech about how hard Karston was trying, how he’d worked all summer saving every penny to buy that bass and amp, even if it was only a four-string knock-off, how he practiced for hours every day, and how hard it was to find a bassist in Macy, but Cody didn’t let him. He just said:
“Karston’s out and you have to tell him.”
“What?”
“He’s holding us back.”
“Holding us back? We played one night here. It’s not like we have a recording contract, or even more than three songs.” Devin laughed.
Cody was dead serious. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. We’ve only got three songs because that’s all he can play. Do you know how much we can’t do because of him? I had a solo worked out for a cover of ‘Hey Bulldog’ that would’ve kicked major ass, but he can’t even handle the opening riff. He can’t even play a stupid run from a third to a fifth to a seventh without thinking about it for twenty minutes.”
There was a flat tone to Cody’s voice that told Devin he’d already made up his mind, but Devin had to give it a shot anyway.
“He’s trying, Cody, he’s really trying.”
“So what? He’s not succeeding.” He held the Les Paul out toward Devin. Its surface shone, even in the dim light. “Like the new axe? Nice, huh? I risked a lot for this guitar because I know we can make it. You heard them out there. If we could make a decent recording of ‘Face,’ we’d be getting local radio time, but we can’t because Karston sucks.”
Devin tried for something bright and shiny. “How did you pay for the axe?”
Cody would not be moved. “You don’t want to know, and don’t change the subject. You know I’m right. The only question is, when are you going to tell him?”