After their set, Benjamin didn’t stick around for Hazard’s performance. He didn’t have to—their song filled the club, and Skree kept up a running commentary that Benjamin could have lived without. “Wrong note,” the drummer chided as they headed for the men’s room, the closest thing to a dressing room that Catch-22 offered. Skree kicked the door open and laughed when it swung into the wall with a thin crack. “Wrong lead-in. Damn. Did you hear the stutter in that drum roll? I thought they knew this song.”
Shoving past his band mates, Benjamin shrugged out of his leather jacket and sighed when stale air cooled the sweat that stained his T-shirt. “Give it up,” he muttered. He draped his jacket over a nearby towel dispenser and turned on the water in the sink full blast.
“We’re gonna win th
