“I wish Sionn hadn’t told you that. It would have been better coming from me.” Rafe grabbed his beer bottle, then walked to the railing, leaned his elbows on the thick plank, and looked out onto the Morgans’ backyard. Damien followed him, shoulders stiff with resentment as he took a sip of his purloined bottle. “Seriously, I should have been the one to—”
“Better this way. Because I would have told you fucking hell no to your face and walked away,” Damien admitted. “Instead I got to climb all over Sionn, spit at Sinjun when he walked away, then got my ass handed to me by Quinn when I went up to the roof to pick a fight with Sinjun.”
“Yeah, that’s going to make you love me.” Turning, Rafe faced the guitarist, studying him. The years had layered a polish on Damien Mitchell.
His age shone in the crisp, wintery blue of his eyes, and the self-assured swagger of his walk no longer seemed to need a dash of bravado and challenge in it. Instead, he carried himself more like a man who’d seen it all, done it all, and come back stronger for it. His death, while greatly exaggerated, had been a good one, and the world clamored to find out what Damien had up his sleeve to herald his resurrection.
It surprised Rafe on how badly he wanted to be one of those to help roll back the stone.
“I fucked up. No two ways about it.” Rafe watched Miki’s dog tear around the yard below, chasing a bouncing purple tennis ball. “There’s a lot of shit I can’t take back. I know that. But I can’t let it bury me. Do you know what it’s like to need to play, and there’s nothing there but yourself?”
The look Damien shot him was all the response Rafe needed.
“I’m not asking for anything you wouldn’t give anyone else—”
“You’re asking for a fuck ton more than anyone else.” Damie rounded on him. “You’re asking me to risk Sinjun, because I’m dragging him back into the studio… back on stage, and I’d be trusting you to not screw it up. You’re putting Sionn on the fucking line, because if you fuck me up, you mess me and him up. You think about that? So yeah, Andrade, you’re asking me to fuck up everything I have with the two people I love more than goddamn music, and you think you’re not asking me to give you anything?”
Damien’s hand clenched on the beer bottle, and for a brief moment Rafe feared the glass would crack in his hand.
“I’m good,” he ventured. Rafe heard the thread of begging in his voice. Hell, it was more tapestry than thread, but he didn’t care. If ever there was a time to beg, it was now. “I’m better than any other damned bassist out there. You know that. Or you wouldn’t be up here. Even if Sionn asked you.”
“And what about that other shit?” Damien’s lip curled. “I’m not having you smear me like you smeared Collins. Yeah, so you’re good. Maybe as good as Johnny was, but that’s not enough, Andrade. You’ve got to fit. You’ve got to be willing to haul your own shit, set up your own gear. We’re not going to be doing this in stadiums. It’s been too long… we’ve been gone too long. We’re starting from the bottom again.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Yeah, we do.”
Rafe chuffed out a breath. “You ever going to let me finish a fucking sentence?”
“Maybe.” Damien briefly lifted his shoulders in a half-assed apology. “Probably not. We’re going into this just like we did the last time. We need to. Forest needs to be a part of this band’s beginning. We’re going to book clubs and play the shit out of our crap until our fingers bleed. We might never fucking play stadiums. And we could crash and burn because the world’s sick of our shit. You’ve got to bring your damned best and know it might not be good enough, Andrade.”
“And that’s if I even get in?” Rafe set his bottle down on the walk’s floor.
“Yeah, if you get in.” Damien drained his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We’ve got a practice session down at the Sound tomorrow around nine. Bring your shit, and let’s see what you can do. After that I’ll talk it over with Miki. You’ve got to fit, Andrade. Rub someone the wrong way, and there’s no going forward.”
“St. John’s not the easiest guy to get along with,” Rafe pointed out. “Kind of like a wet, blind cat caught in a burlap bag kind of not easy.”
“Dude, that’s your problem. I get along with Sinjun fine,” the guitarist grunted. “You want in. Make him like you. Fuck, make him love you, because Forest, that’s easy. He likes everyone.”
“And what about you?” Rafe ventured.
“Me? I’m a fucking breeze to get along with. Do what I say. Listen to how I want things, and we’ll be fine.” Damien opened the door leading to the house. “Just so we’re clear. All of this works and you get in, that’s good for you. Fuck me over like you fucked over Collins? I get one damned hint that you’re dosing up, and you’d better be the dead guy on the floor this time around, because by the time I get done with you, you’ll wish you were.”