The W Lounge was small, dark, and more than a little grimy. It wasn’t any bigger than a comfortably-sized living room, and the stage at the front was not so much a stage as it was a cleared space. They boasted live music seven nights a week—mostly local bands and DJs who split their time between the dozen decent venues in Salt Lake. Gage had played there his fair share after turning twenty-one, but he’d mostly spent his time nursing a Diet Coke and listening. It was a shithole, but the music sounded good. And it had a certain energy. Even in the middle of the week, when the audience was sparse at best, there was something vibrant about it.
This time, Gage didn’t order a soft drink. He was becoming more accustomed to beer, and in the stifling heat of the summer night, nothing sounded bette
