Chapter 5: Before the Lights Hit

"Groupies," Matt said, eyes lighting up like he'd just discovered fire. "How long you think it takes before chicks start fuckin' us just because we're in a band? I could see it happening after one set. What about you?"

Jake chuckled, head shaking. "Not spreading your message to the masses? Not fighting for social justice with your brand new rock star voice? Groupies? That's what you're after?"

"Social justice?" Matt scoffed like the term itself was offensive. "Jesus, Jake. You kill me with that shit. You're the one writing all those songs about nuclear warheads and the plight of the misunderstood teenage misfit or whatever. I ever write songs about that crap?"

Jake had to admit—he had a point.

They split lyric duty almost evenly, but the themes? Completely different planets.

Jake wrote about society, injustice, politics, heartbreak. Angst with substance. Matt, on the other hand? His lyrics were angry, primal, and unapologetically sleazy. Songs about partying, using people, manipulating life for your own gain. When Matt touched the subject of love, it was only to burn it down. His most "romantic" piece was Who Needs Love?, a scathing anthem against emotional attachment that sounded like it had been written after a breakup with a brick wall.

"No," Jake said with a smirk. "I guess you never have."

"Fuck no," Matt said, puffing out his chest. "Not that I don't respect your shit. Your stuff's just as tight as mine. It's good stoner rock, y'know?"

"I know what you mean."

Matt leaned forward, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "So what do you think the odds are? One set and we score groupies? Some wide-eyed bimbos so impressed they'll let you snort coke from between their ass cheeks?"

Jake burst out laughing. It was impossible not to when Matt got graphic. "I suppose," he said dryly, "it's theoretically possible we might encounter a person of the female persuasion who could technically qualify as a groupie tonight. How's that for an answer?"

Matt made a face. "You been hangin' with Nerdly too much. Next you'll be ranting about gravitational shifts and Planet X."

"Hey now," Jake said, defending their keyboardist. "I liked that lecture. Where else you gonna get that kind of content when you're baked?"

"PBS," Matt shot back, grinning. "Speaking of baked… my guy came through this morning. Got an eighth of that sensimilla. Bitchin' stuff. Bong's already in the van, locked and loaded."

Jake nodded, smiling. "Tell your guy we'll save a groupie for him. I'm definitely ready for a nice hit after this."

"No shit," Matt agreed, taking a long drag off his cigarette.

There was no debate, not even a whisper, about getting high before their set. It was off-limits.

Despite their daily flirtation with weed and the occasional trip to the bar, Matt had laid down one non-negotiable rule years ago: no practicing or performing under the influence. Ever.

They could write songs stoned—hell, Matt only wrote stoned—but when it came to rehearsals or shows? Sober only. He'd learned the hard way, back when the band was just a few guys in a garage. Even one beer dulled their edge. The rule had been in place long before Jake or Bill joined. And tonight, their first real gig? No way in hell anyone was bending it.

They sat for a while in silence, watching the crowd thicken through the curtain slit. Eventually, Jake couldn't take it anymore and snatched the half-smoked cigarette from Matt's fingers. He took a deep drag, exhaling slowly as the nicotine hit like a wave.

Matt frowned. "That's mine."

Jake grinned but didn't argue. Matt snatched the smoke back before he could sneak another hit.

"Tell me the truth," Jake said, shifting into his no-bullshit voice. "You nervous?"

Matt hesitated, then let out a slow breath. "I've never been so fuckin' scared in my life."

They both laughed at that—big, honest, gut-level laughter. It didn't kill the nerves, but it took a little of the sting out.

"Most of it's probably irrational," Matt said, sobering. "Like… I'm scared we're not actually as good as I think we are. Or that the crowd's too dumb to get our sound. Or that Chuck's pulling some kind of long con because we finessed our way into the audition."

"Yeah," Jake said. "I've had those thoughts too."

"But some of it's real," Matt admitted. "I worry Darren might sneak off and do a line, or throw back a couple shots because he's nervous. He's that type. I worry Nerdly missed something and we'll sound like garbage. But mostly, I'm scared we'll fuck up. I mean, we rehearsed the hell outta this set, but there's always a chance someone freezes. Loses it. Chokes now that the cock's in the pussy, y'know what I mean?"

Jake nodded. "I do. I'm afraid I'll crack a note. Forget the lyrics. Drop my pick and fumble like an idiot. Or hit the pedal at the wrong time and ruin the whole sound. Sometimes I wonder if I'm even cut out for this, man. Do people really want to hear me sing? Do they really?"

Matt raised an eyebrow. "Let me ask you something. You think Seth Michaels can sing?"

Jake shrugged. "It's not painful to listen to him. His tone's decent. But his range is nothing special."

"Exactly," Matt said. "Timbre and range. You think that preening little fuck even knows what those words mean?"

Jake smirked. "Nope."

"But you do," Matt pressed. "You've been trained since you were, what? Ten?"

Jake nodded. "Nine, actually. My parents signed me up when they realized I wouldn't shut up."

"Right. Your voice is made for this. You hit notes that make people stop breathing. If I was a chick, I'd be flashing you after the first chorus. I mean it. I knew you were the one from the second you grabbed that mic. The second."

Jake looked away, embarrassed. Compliments weren't Matt's usual style.

"But…" he started.

"No buts," Matt cut him off. "You already answered your own question. People paid to hear Michaels tonight, right?"

"Right."

"And you're better than him."

Jake hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. I guess maybe I am."

Matt grinned. "Damn right you are. And my guitar playing makes Hathaway sound like a sixth grader learning 'Smoke on the Water.'"

Jake laughed. "Tell me how you really feel."

"Fuck modesty," Matt said. "I've been playing since I was twelve. I know I kick ass."

He turned to Jake, voice low and serious now. "We've got it, man. We're gonna wipe those hacks off their own stage. And it won't stop here. We're putting this backwater dump on the map."

Jake smirked. "It's already on the map. I've seen it. Central Valley, right between Redding and Sacramento."

Matt pointed a finger. "That may be so. But someday? Some enterprising motherfucker's gonna roll up in a tour bus and point out the house where the great Jake Kingsley grew up. Then he'll show them my old garage where The Saints rehearsed. Mark my fuckin' words."

Jake snorted. "You're insane."

He would've been stunned to know Matt was right.