Silas gripped the microphone tight enough to feel the metal creaking beneath his fingers. The bass thumped, and he belted the lyrics in a voice reminiscent of the screams of the damned--only he was in tune. A guitar dangled from a strap across his back, swinging as he swayed and coming within inches of hitting the microphone stand.
He didn’t f*****g care.
The music had him. Walt, on rhythm guitar, pounded out power cords that shook the bar. Kitten, the drummer, threw sweat from her brow across the stage as she pounded the skins and thumped a double bass. Carl, one of the fattest and ugliest bass players Silas had ever seen, alternated between slapping the bass strings and smoothly grooving to the rhythm.
It was always like this. When he was on stage, he ruled the world. He wasn’t
