Razor's Edge (Afflictions) Read Free Page B

cable. 
    My gut churns. It’s not the normal sick feeling I get before every performance. This time it touches my soul. Something’s wrong. This night isn’t going to go well. What if they all laugh at me, or boo me? What if my pitch is off, my screaming not deep enough? Is Rictor’s knocking over Wiley’s drums a sign of bad things to come?  
    Needing to get away from the tension, I head through the long, dark hall and escape outside. I retrieve my pot stash from my black Dickies and roll a blunt. Yeah, I need this. It’ll take the edge off. I light it and inhale as I lean up against the building. The medical marijuana card in my wallet is my ticket to freedom if a cop pulls up.
    The back door opens and Rictor stumbles out, a beer can in his dark hand. He takes one look at my blunt and arches his brows. "Not gonna share?" 
    "You’re already toasted, my friend." I take another inhale and hold it, letting the THC kick in, and exhale slowly. I’m not up for sharing. This isn’t about getting high to feel good. This is about keeping my past at bay long enough so I can do what is expected of me. My mom isn’t welcome here tonight. 
    My mom. Her hair in curlers on her head, waving a lit cigarette at me while trying to keep a grip on her vodka bottle. She stumbles and falls into the coffee table. The memory of how pathetic she is makes me laugh. My high hits me full force. Head in the stars, but feet cemented to the ground. All my stage fright gone, up in a cloud of smoke.  
    Rictor reaches for my blunt.
    I pull it away. He’s halfway to obliteration, and we need him to function.
    He frowns. "The fuck is your problem, dog?" He tries for it again. 
    I put it to my lips. Taking another hit, I talk through the smoke in my mouth. "You don’t need it." I let it out slowly, cough, then I butt it. "You need to play." 
    Rictor takes another swig of his beer and crushes the can then chucks it. "I’m fine."  
    "Yeah, tell that to Wiley and his drum set." I laugh and pocket my paraphernalia. “And what happened to your stash? Don’t you sell some grade-A medical shit? What do you need mine for?”
    “I’m out. My supplier got narked on.”
    I shrug. “Point is you need to play, bro. You’re already falling all over yourself. This is a big night for us. Don’t shoot us in the foot.”
    He clenches his fist. I didn’t think it was possible for his dark brown face to turn red. It does. He wants to hit me. I can feel it. Instead, he shoves me into the brick wall.
    The slam of the brick, along with Rictor’s PMS bullshit, kills my high.
    He glares at me then goes back inside Harper’s. The slam of the heavy, metal door cements Rictor’s mood. I should play the guitar and send him home. But then I wouldn’t be able to bounce across the stage, connect with our fans, and make new ones. Tonight is important. He’s acting like it’s just another gig at a bar. This is a big venue. We are lucky to be here. He better not blow it.
    My bad feeling from earlier returns. Shit. This isn’t about gaining wealth or making my name known. This is about proving that all that abuse I received growing up wasn’t in vain, that I’m not some useless boy who can’t carry a note. I don’t care if Stones of Rage gets signed only to have us fall into the category of a one-hit wonder. I need to know I can do it. That will be enough to give the bitch downstairs a big “fuck you.”
    I take the blunt back out and spark it up. If Rictor fucks this up, he’s out.
     

 
     
            Two
     
    Shay
     
    Light snow falls outside Harper’s as I smoke my cigarette and wait for my friends to join me. The opening band sounded awesome but I couldn’t bring myself to look at the stage. Instead, I wallowed at the bar. The anxiety of Gary being released and wanting his life back only so he can fuck it up again keeps my mind in a chaotic swirl. Marla’s comments earlier, about having Gary finish the tattoo I’ve been working on, replay