“Yeah, and while you’re in there, get rid of that ghetto-ass shirt.” Mo examined the holes, shreds, and grass stains in Clay’s tee, before tearing off his own shirt, which was black and clean. In the purple light, Clay witnessed the myriad of tattoos covering Mo’s shoulders and chest. Crucifixes, Stars of David, Wheels of Dharma—even the Islamic crescent and Hindu lotus flower. With only a few women, nude and smoking, to confuse the tapestry.
“I didn’t know you were so spiritual.”
Mo started to explain his circuitous road to redemption when they heard Spider, conversing with a middle-aged drum tech about how to signal for a towel, water, or a new drum in the event he busted a skin, and Clay ducked into the bathroom, pulling the door open to block Spider as he appeared, then shut as Spider walked past.
It was dark inside, but Clay didn’t bother with the lights. He Brailled his way to the throne and sat hard on the lid. The fear was on him again. That now-familiar reaction to taking the stage—only this time it was caught up in something more primal. Don’t go where you don’t belong. Don’t bite off more than you can chew. Don’t do something that would likely get you killed. To go out there, Clay would have to violate his deepest instincts to survive. Where will I be an hour from now? he wondered, and more disconcertingly: What if the audience is full of The Man’s followers? An entire audience of Essies and Karneys and Annie Straffords. What if they swarm the stage and rip me to pieces?
Clay Harper. Drawn and quartered on stage.
His head spun. The scratches on his back prickled. His stomach lurched and he pitched forward in the dark and vomited on the unseen floor.
That is, he would have if anything had come up. His gut wretched painfully, but uselessly. He hadn’t eaten in more than a day, and there wasn’t even bile in his stomach. “Nothing to lose anymore,” he told himself.
But was there any shame in slinking back outside? Escaping into the night? Letting the others go off to their chosen fortune and fame and eventual doom? He could let the Hailmaker win and just go back to living the drab life he’d always known—
No! No. I’d rather be dead. And in that simple thought, Clay found the full measure of his resolve.
Outside, the house music transitioned from “Edge of Seventeen” to Public Enemy’s “She Watch Channel Zero?!” (likely the first time those two songs had ever been heard back to back). The bass shook the walls. Good vibrations.
Finally, the music cut out and a staggering roar rose from the audience. There really were four thousand people in the building. And they sounded ravenous, out of control. A blood-lusting arena awaiting gladiatorial combat. Live from San Quentin. A second wave of screaming followed this, and Clay realized the house lights had probably gone out too. He imagined his band getting into position on stage.
His band. That was right. As rightfully his as any of theirs. They’d made a critical decision without his consent, then tossed him out because an empty suit had told them to. Ego, Clay imagined Boyle telling him. Do it.
Clay used the ruins of his shirt to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face. He tossed it away and threw on Mo’s—which smelled of cigarette smoke and spearmint.
Savy’s guitar blasted to life with “Disaffected,” making the toilet under Clay shiver. And it was now or never. Do it! Boyle yelled at him. Show them!
It was never or now.
He forced himself up the purple steps. Bodies were jamming the stage wings—men with magazine haircuts, trendily dressed women, no one familiar, so he was able to stand anonymously among them, as he had on his own street while the Generator burned. Mo was nowhere to be found; he had gone out to be with his girl or found some dark, discreet corner to trip. And Priest—a squatter, less imposing man than he’d conveyed in his limo—was standing in the opposite wing, incessantly checking his phone, entirely disinterested in Ghost’s opening number.
Nevertheless, the power flowing from the stage was as palpable as standing beside a jet engine. And Clay was magnetically drawn to Ghost’s new singer. Killer guitar playing, killer voice, killer presence, killer bod, bright eyes, bright necklace flashing at her throat. Despite her betrayal, he was still so in love with her. Helpless. And on the heels of his fluttering heart came the old, familiar doubt. What if Ghost was better with Savy fronting them? What if the crowd preferred her over him?
In the end, maybe they’d never needed him at all.
Ego! Boyle chorused in his head. A closer relative of confidence than doubt. He couldn’t go out there like some shoe-gazing emo geek and take this show over. Only a truly arrogant fuck would have balls enough to do what he was about to do. Someone born to own a stage. Is that you? Is that you?Does that sound like you?
“Goddamn right,” Clay said, his voice lost in the wall of sound. But at that moment, Priest glanced up from his texting and spotted Clay across the way. He witnessed the conviction in Clay’s face and fumbled his phone onto the stage.
Now or never. Never or now. Show them. Show them!
Along the back wall was a touring crate lined with guitars. All jet-black Gibson SGs, Clay noticed. Savy’s guitar de choix, right down to her three-pickup configuration. She’d gone from having one baby to seven overnight. Clay was pulling one loose when the guitar tech, a long-haired surfer not much older than Clay, confronted him. “Can’t finger the tools, man.”
Given the tech’s expression, he recognized Clay—so Clay didn’t beat around the bush. “That’s my band out there. You can’t expect me to take the stage without something to play.”
“I—can’t let you
