Cheeto stomped out his cig. “This is a bad, bad idea.”
Halfway into their opening song, the show turned rough. In the middle of the cramped, dark venue a mosh pit stirred to life, led by a bandanna-headed dude who rushed, shoved, and tackled until he jacked up the pit’s intensity to eleven. Just the way Ash liked it.
Onstage she played her guitar with a pounding pulse. Sweat slicked her face as she strummed faster and rocked harder. She swung her white-girl dreadlocks in a hurricane frenzy, the speakers thundering behind her.
Partway through the set, she spotted two Bad Parts t-shirts down in front, right against the stage barrier. They were the two fans Cheeto mentioned. They screamed lyrics and hammered their heads in sync with her main riff. She stepped toward them in time for a finger-splitting solo, her hand scampering down the fretboard like a methed-up spider.
Both guys went nuclear, pumping their fists in salute.
Behind them the mosh pit spiraled outward, squishing the front rows into the stage barrier. Dozens hunched over the railing, faces hanging down.
The stagehands didn’t arrive to help. They were preoccupied with crowd surfers at the other end.
Ash signaled for Kane, her drummer, to dial back the pace. For a moment the crowd settled. Then Cheeto found his groove. He howled through the opening verse of their hyper-fast song “Slave to the Sound” and sent the place into hysterics.
The pit turned nasty, but Ash couldn’t afford to stop. Not now. Not with Cheeto rocking and the judges noticing. Besides, the crowd craved more. At this rate, they’d all Tweet and Instagram about how Bad Parts had thrashed the place for fifteen relentless minutes.
She tore into the song’s final solo, fingers burning down the strings.
Ash noticed the pair of fans up front gagging as the barrier rail dented against their chests. Both faces burned red. For a moment she made eye contact with one. Then his eyes clenched shut in pain.
Something broke inside her. They were her fans, and nobody fucked with her fans. She needed them like oxygen on the moon.
She nixed the solo and grabbed the mic off Cheeto. He raised his brow in question but stepped aside.
“All you fuckers, back it up,” she called, still strumming. “People up here are getting squashed.”
The pit raged on, led by that bandanna-headed asshole.
“Back it up!”
The crowd ignored her. Especially the swirling mess in the middle.
“Last warning,” she said. “Back off or I walk.”
It was a threat she couldn’t afford to follow through on. Killing the show now would disqualify them and forfeit an easy payday. She looked at Cheeto, his rhythm locked in. Looked past the drum set at Kane, who kept bashing away. Looked across the stage at Remmy, their bassist, whose face was transfixed, like he’d swallowed a whole bag of shrooms and seen Zeus.
The band caught fire.
Ash was certain they were gonna win this.
For the money. For themselves. For Flanny.
But not for her fans. Their mouths hung open, sucking for air, right in front of her. The sight turned her stomach into a ball of ice, yet she kept strumming. If those kids could just hang on. Just one more song. Just—
The pair wilted over the railing.
Ash couldn’t bear another second.
She unplugged her guitar.
The music turned hollow without her.
Cheeto glanced over, his brow furrowed with confusion. The others stared with mixed expressions of disgust and disbelief.
The music stopped.
The crowd booed.
Cursing herself out, Ash marched off stage.
3
Ash loaded the van in silence. It sat under a shaky floodlight toward the back of the parking lot. The inside stank of cut-rate Chinese takeout—nobody’s favorite, but they had to make do. Earlier she promised her bandmates if they won the competition, they could splurge at a steakhouse. That was, of course, before she abruptly ended the show. What a shitheaded move. Sure, she saved two fans from getting crushed, but now she was packing up gear instead of wrecking eardrums in the final round of the competition.
Once her Gibson was securely stored, she stepped aside. Nobody acknowledged her. Remmy tossed his bass inside. Kane stashed his Rock-N-Roller cart, drum cases, and hardware bag. The two of them announced they were gonna meet up with some chicks they met earlier. When Cheeto reminded them that Flanny was still hospitalized, they said they’d visit him later. Much later.
Cheeto went ballistic. Soon the three of them were shoving and trading insults.
Ash, her mind still on the show, didn’t bother intervening. Losing easy money was bad, but walking out on a crowd was pure sin. She took her frustrations out on their gear cases, playing a rough game of luggage-Tetris until all of it was stashed. By then, Remmy and Kane had disappeared into the gloom.
Raindrops began to patter against the van roof. Cheeto sat on the tailgate and lit a smoke. He grinned, eyeing her up and down.
“Yo, Ashes.”
She slammed the opposite door shut. “What?”
“That was kinda cool, what you did.”
“Kinda stupid, you mean?”
“No way.” He tapped his cig. “I didn’t notice people were getting squeezed. Good thing you stopped it.”
“Yeah. Couldn’t let our fans get hurt. I mean, what good am I without them?”
“Crazy good.” He grinned.
She rolled her eyes.
“What? I’m serious.”
“I wish the music biz would get serious.”
“They will,” he said. “Don’t forget about our Friday gig. That’s our coming-out party!”
Her mind tingled at the thought. They were opening for Deathgrip, an underrated 80s thrash group that made Slayer look slow. When Deathgrip announced their farewell tour, Ash emailed them and somehow earned an opening slot at their Ft. Lauderdale gig—the very last show in the band’s history. Thousands would be in attendance, even some bigwigs from major labels.
“We’re gonna rock that stage to rubble,” she said.
“Hell yeah! Buddy of mine at the venue said they already sold six thousand tickets. Monster gig for us.”
“Bout time,” she said, clenching her fists. “I’m sick of playing these cramped little shithouses. I’m too good for it.”
“Relax. You’ll be the queen of metal someday.”
“Someday? Try Friday.” Goosebumps rushed across her neck in anticipation. “I’ll yank that throne out from any bitch ballsy enough to sit on it.”
“Save me a seat on the armrest, milady.” He stood and delivered a sweeping bow.
Ash snorted. “You can lie on the floor. Be my footrest.”
They laughed. He flung his cig into a puddle. “All right. Ready to visit Flanny?”
“You go.”
“Just me?”
“Yep.” She reached behind him and grabbed a stack of demo CDs. Tonight’s show may have bombed, but it wasn’t too late to recruit new fans over by the bar. “Pick me up in an hour.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Sure can,” she said. “Besides, I already saw Flanny. Remember? I’m the one who drove him to the ER.”
“Oh, come on, Ash! Don’t leave him hanging.”
She shouldered past him, ignoring his chiding remarks.
The drizzle picked up, drowning out Cheeto’s voice and splashing her with November chills. She hurried, cutting between parked cars, until she heard someone approach on her left.
Without streetlamps, she saw only darkness in that direction. Then a silhouette emerged, tall and boxy-shouldered, like one of the pub’s bouncers. She assumed he was just that, though his head twitched in an odd, spazzy way. It reminded her of someone headbanging, but there was no rhythm to it.
There was, however, rhythm to his legs. Puddles splashed beneath him as he rushed closer.
Rushed straight for her.
Her spine turned to ice. Anoth
er moment passed before Ash noticed he was wearing a ski mask. That settled it—clearly this guy wasn’t coming over for a selfie with her.
The man started running.
So did she.
“Cheeto!” she shouted.
Ahead of her the van’s taillights flickered as he backed out of the parking spot.
“Cheeto, wait!”
The brakes gave an aching squeal.
Behind her, footfalls splashed closer.
She sprinted for the passenger side and dropped the CDs as she tore open the door. With shuddering relief, Ash threw herself inside.
“I knew it!” Cheeto said with a triumphant fist pump. “Knew you wouldn’t leave Flanny hanging.”
“Shut up. There’s a psycho out there.”
“What?”
“Somebody chased me.” Breathing heavy, she checked the side mirror. All she saw was darkness and the orange dots of distant streetlamps. “The guy, his head was twitching. Like he was possessed or some shit.”
“For real?” He squeezed her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Just get us outta here.”
4
Ash pressed a shaky hand over her pounding heart. The heater cooked her face and turned her tongue to cardboard as she panted for breath. She shouldn’t have been this unsettled—not after countless run-ins with drunken concert-goers—but this lunatic was different. Something about the way his head shook disturbed her.
Cheeto put the van in reverse and hit the gas. The vehicle flinched but otherwise didn’t move. Ash urged him to give it more juice. The engine growled, but they went nowhere. They traded worried looks before he shifted into drive; the van inched forward until they were lined up with the adjacent parked cars. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he shifted into reverse again.
Cheeto stabbed the gas pedal.
Pumped it.
Floored it.
The tires squealed in place.
“He’s back there,” she said, checking the side mirror. She couldn’t see anyone but knew better. “Dude’s probably methed out of his mind.”
“Call the pub,” Cheeto said, his voice shrinking. “Have them send out some bouncers.”
With a sudden whoosh of cold air, the back doors popped open. Ash heard hands slap at the instrument cases in the back. Something large—maybe one of her amps—hit the pavement with a crack.
Panic flooded her veins. If this psycho was desperate for cash, he might try to steal their gear and pawn it. Her Gibson would fetch a high price, around two grand. But no way in hell would she let him take it. Not her guitar—her baby.
Ash yanked a can of pepper spray from her purse.
“The hell you doing?” Cheeto whispered.
“Protecting our shit,” she said.
“You’re going out there?” he said. “Are you nuts?”
“No, but that asshole is if he thinks he’s taking my Gibson.”
“Ash.” He squeezed her elbow. “It’s just a guitar.”
She shrugged him off and opened the door.
Her pulse thrumming, she stepped outside. She heard Ski-mask rummage through their gear. A hard leather case thudded against the wet blacktop. Could’ve been her guitar or one of the others. Either way, he isn’t getting it.
Her pepper spray cocked and ready, Ash crept toward the red glow of the taillight. Her foot crunched something—the dropped CD cases—and she hopped backward.
Ahead, she heard the psycho pause.
Oh fuck. He’s listening.
Her heart rumbled in her chest. She was breathing heavy now, her lungs sucking in the harsh, dry exhaust fumes. She wanted to retreat but couldn’t—not without squandering her chance to catch the intruder at least somewhat off guard.
Leaning forward, she leveled her shoulder with the door handle. She set her feet, her back heel bouncing anxiously against the pavement. Then, with a nervous lunge, she rounded the taillight, the spray can cocked like a pistol, and depressed the trigger.
Her spray missed his spazzing head. She redirected the nozzle, but a gloved hand smacked the can away. It clattered across wet blacktop.
Cheeto ran out, howling threats. He lunged to tackle the psycho and received a swinging elbow to the face. A snap sounded before he tumbled backward. Cheeto’s ass hit the ground and his head followed, striking the pavement with an awful thud.
“Cheeto!”
He lay there, motionless.
“Help! Somebody help! Somebo—”
The psycho pressed his heel against Cheeto’s throat.
“Wait,” Ash said, her voice small. “Please, don’t.”
Head twitching, the man turned to her. Though it had barely started drizzling, his ski mask was dripping wet, as if he’d just finished bobbing for apples with all his lunatic friends.
“Do what I say,” he snarled in a shaken-up voice. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded red cloth. Ash recognized it—the same red bandanna worn by the asshole who ruined her show. “Stuff this in your mouth.”
The bandanna landed at her feet. Trembling, she picked it up from the blacktop. It was slick with grimy moisture. She wiped it off and crumpled it into her mouth. The oily flavor triggered her gag reflex. She overcame it and closed her lips, glaring at him.
“Now lie on your stomach.”
She dropped to one knee in a cold shallow puddle. Once she leaned forward and lay flat, he lifted his boot off Cheeto’s neck. She felt a small flush of relief.
Then he squatted and lifted Cheeto into his arms. With a grunt, Ski-mask rose to his feet again. “Stay put.”
Her joints stiffened. She wanted to jump to her feet and fight but was too petrified to move. Her opportunity faded as Ski-mask carried Cheeto away behind her. She hated to think where this was leading. Torture crossed her mind. Then rape. Murder.
Her thoughts stopped as something crashed down on her lower back. Something misshapen and heavy. The shock rattled her more than the actual impact. It took a moment before she realized Cheeto’s body had been dropped across her own. Scrawny as he was, his weight pinned her in place.
“Don’t move.”
As Ski-mask climbed inside the van, the overworn shocks squeaked. Instrument cases scraped and thudded. She watched her hardshell guitar case hit the pavement.
He opened it and removed her Gibson.
“Nice ax,” he said, hoisting it. He stepped closer, the wind stirring his baggy jeans. He lowered her guitar to the ground. She lay at eye-level with the volume knob.
Seeing her guitar in his grasp made her want to claw through that mask and rip his face off. The best she could do, however, was stretch her left hand out toward the guitar. Her fingers grazed its solid mahogany body.
“Bet you’re wondering why I’m doing this,” he said, sidestepping her hand. He dropped his shoe against her forearm, pinning it down. “Thing is, I don’t like your music. Not one bit.”
Haters gonna hate, she thought miserably.
“But don’t worry,” he said, tapping her guitar against the pavement. “I’ll let you and your orange-haired friend off easy. Long as you promise me one thing—you’ll never play again.”
Sure, she thought. Deal. Whatever. Anything to shoo away this whack job and spit out his filthy rag.
“Grunt if you agree.”
She grunted.
“Gonna hold you to it. You promise?”
Again she grunted.
“Positive?”
Grunt.
“Okay,” he said, lifting her guitar off the ground. “You promised.”
A white shock of pain blitzed through her hand. She flinched, her eyes snapping shut. Her chin bounced hard off the blacktop. She tasted blood. At first she didn’t understand what had happened. Then she opened her eyes and watched the guitar drop like a guillotine blade across her knuckles.
A scream ripped through her throat. The guitar slammed again and again, striking her hand like a shovel tip against frozen earth. Hot vibrations bolted up her forearm. No matt
er how much she writhed and roared, she couldn’t pull her arm free from his shoe. Nor could she shake off Cheeto’s weight. Every time she tried to push herself up with her free hand, the next strike dropped her flat.
Tears flooded her eyes. She shut them so she couldn’t watch.
Her fingers exploded one by one. Broken bones poked against the skin containing them. Her thumb got it the worst, or at least it felt that way. Waves of fire spread everywhere.
Soon the pain stopped mattering—the physical pain at least. Fresh misery poured through her as she realized her career was sunk. Left hand was the money hand, and once her bandmates got wind of this, they would desert her in a cocaine heartbeat. Even if they didn’t, what could she possibly look forward to? Certainly not the Deathgrip show. Or any show. Without her hand, she had no identity. She lived her life through her fingers, and if she couldn’t play a riff or create a solo, she’d be lost.
At some point the pounding brutality stopped. The parking lot went silent but for the pattering rain. The pressure on her forearm lifted. It was over.
Before he left, he set her Gibson gently down in front of her. The lower curve of its body bore horrific dents and the neck was crooked, probably cracked.
“Real nice guitar,” he said, turning away. “Hope I didn’t break it.”
5
Static crackled through the patrol car’s two-way radio. Somebody had reported a bear on their property. Here in Hollow Hills. Great. Just what Karl needed when he was three sips into his morning coffee from the Downhill Diner. At his age, he needed twelve steaming ounces to offset the late-November chill. Otherwise the cold ate through his car, his uniform, his skin, everything—including his knees, which didn’t exactly belong to him.
Dispatch gave the address, and Karl’s gut dropped. Candace Lapinski’s house. When Candace called in a bear complaint, it was never about a bear.
He hung up, pulled away from the curb, and made a left at St. Raphael’s Church. He hoped to God that Candace’s call was nothing serious. Normally she didn’t bother him while he was on duty. Not unless it involved the creek or the Traders.
Bad Parts Page 2