Scar Girl (The Scar Boys #2)(42)

After a minute, Johnny let out a big sigh and pushed himself up from the table. “Let’s go tune your guitar to the keyboard.”

And we did.





CHEYENNE BELLE


I don’t want to talk about the actual gig.

I don’t remember a lot. And what I do remember, I don’t want to talk about. The other guys can give you what you need on that one.





HARBINGER JONES


It was the worst gig we ever played, or ever would play, mostly because Chey was falling-down drunk. And by falling-down drunk, I mean that she couldn’t stand up.

When the band before us started breaking down equipment, we gathered by the side of the stage, ready to move our gear up quickly. Johnny was motionless, lost in his own thoughts. Richie was a ball of nervous energy, rat-a-tat-tatting his sticks against his thigh. I had my guitar slung over my back and my hat pulled low, trying, but failing, to look cool.

I figured Chey was in the bathroom and didn’t pay it much mind until we had all our equipment—including her bass and her amp—on the stage.

“Where is she?” I asked. Johnny was just about to answer, a look of resignation on his face, when Chey stumbled up the stairs on the side of the stage. I reached out and caught her before she nose-dived into Richie’s mounted toms.

When she looked up at me, her eyes were sparkling, but not the kind of sparkling that made me fall for her. Maybe glassy would be a better word. Her eyes were glassy. Or maybe swimming would be the best word. Her eyes were swimming.

“Are you high?” I asked.

“No,” Johnny offered from his seat on the cramped stage behind me. “She’s drunk.”

“Oh, shit,” I mumbled. “Can you play?” I talked to her like she was an imbecile, and that made Chey laugh.

“A courz Icahn play,” she slurred. She gained her footing, found her bass, and put it on. The weight of the instrument against her small frame was too much, and Chey fell backward onto her amp. She caught herself so she landed on her butt, and it looked more like she sat down roughly than anything else. She giggled.

“Johnny,” I asked, turning to him, “what do we do?”

He looked at me, looked at Cheyenne, and shook his head. “We play.”

Richie shrugged and played the opening drum fill to the first song on our set list: tonight, a cover of the Beatles’ “Birthday” with New Year substituted for birthday each time the word came up in the song. It was a short drum fill and ended with all of the instruments crashing in together. And that’s just what Cheyenne did. She crashed in.

She was late with the riff and was playing the wrong key. I tried to shout to her, but her eyes were closed and she was lost in the music, hearing, I guess, what her beer-soaked brain wanted her to hear.

Each song after that was worse than the one that came before.

At the end of the fifth song, Johnny said, “Thanks, and Happy New Year, everyone,” and walked off the stage.

“Pussy!” Cheyenne yelled after him, and she launched into “Girl in the Band.”

I had no idea what to do, and I don’t think Richie did, either. There were really only two choices. Follow Johnny off the stage, or stay and play.

We stayed and played with me singing lead. We got through two more songs, sort of, before it became clear that Cheyenne was done.

There was a smattering of polite applause, with a couple of “You guys suck” chants thrown in for good measure. Luckily, people didn’t need the Scar Boys to feel good that night. Or at least they did a pretty good job of pretending to feel good. I have a theory that everyone secretly hates New Year’s Eve as much as I do, but that no one will admit it. Mandated pleasure is an oxymoron.

We left the stage, and that was that. I was pretty sure it was the end of the Scar Boys.





RICHIE MCGILL


New Year’s Eve was brutal. I mean, fucking brutal.

Cheyenne was, like, ten sheets to the wind, Johnny was being a whiny bitch, and Harry was just Harry. Definitely the worst gig we ever had. I mean, Johnny walked offstage halfway through.

But you know what? I still would’ve rather been playing that God-awful gig than doing just about anything else. That’s how much I love this band.





HARBINGER JONES


It was two weeks before we all saw each other again.

I spent most of that time lying low and trying to put the finishing touches on my essay. The focus of the piece was the Scar Boys and what a life-changing experience that had been, but I didn’t want to end it on the down note of the New Year’s Eve gig. I was up to the part where Johnny lost his leg and didn’t know where to go next.

When the phone rang, I was lying on my bed reading and rereading what I’d written, figuring this must be what people call writer’s block. It was Jeff; he was summoning the entire band to a diner on the west side of New York City the following day. He was brief, he was matter-of-fact, and he hung up.

All thoughts of the essay went temporarily out of my head.





RICHIE MCGILL


I figured the band was toast, so I was surprised when Jeff called me. “Come to such-and-such diner tomorrow,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why not?” he answered. “What have you got to lose?”