Sweat gathers on my brow and my stomach drops as if it’s the first time I’m about to play for an audience. Never mind ten years on the road, an international tour, and a set at every festival under the sun. I’m a bona fide rock star but my palms are sweatier than a virgin’s on prom night. Not that I’d know anything about that. I didn’t even go to my prom.

This is it. The big time. We’re playing the fucking Grammy’s, baby!

“Five minutes!” Some assistant shouts through the backstage chaos, as if we weren’t counting down the seconds before our time in the spotlight. The words barely register over my nerves and the cacophony of movement between commercial breaks. The show’s an orchestration of madness like I’ve never witnessed before.

Not only that, but we’re up for two awards: Best Rock Single, and Album of the Year, which is a fucking long shot. The show’s only half over but we’re waiting, not so patiently, until Three Ugly Guys can take the stage for a duet with the latest solo rock sensation, Lexi Marx. She’s the daughter of rock legend Richie Sands who passed a few months ago, but more importantly, she’s dating one of my best friends who also happens to be the lead singer of our band. Trent and Lexi are so damn happy and if she weren’t practically a sister, I might be jealous.

Adjusting my in-ear mic for maybe the thousandth time, I try to keep the jitters at bay. I’m not a front man but it doesn’t matter the size of the crowd or the levity of the stage, after all these years I still battle the burst of anxiety that erupts from stepping into the limelight. Today’s opportunity is filled with more than the norm. The pre-party drinks at the house and the shots we downed in the limo held my worries at bay. Or they did until this moment.

“Three minutes. Please come this way.” A girl dressed in all black with a staff badge waves for us to follow her to one of the two stage entrances. Trent and Lexi go hand in hand, the rock music power couple they are, as if this were any other show or they were headed out to breakfast.

“Fuck, Sean! Fucking Grammy’s!” Austin slurs through a loopy smile as he pushes off the wall and slaps my back too hard. I’d like to slap him back, but I’m certain that’d knock him over in his current state of inebriation. His body sways and he reaches out to use a pretty blonde for balance. By the wide smile on her face she’s thrilled to oblige.

“You ready, Iz?” I stand and give my black shirt and black jeans a final brush off. I’ve never put much effort into my stage outfit since most days we toss our shirts into the crowd after our opening song, but for this, like other big events, our label brings in a stylist. They decided I’d play the dark horse, all black everything to match my dark eyes and mood. The media loves my stewing bad boy persona. I admittedly don’t smile all the time, but it’s not ’cause I’m pissed at the world or struggling with inner turmoil, it’s just my face.

Ever since the paparazzi caught photos of Lex and me “together” they’ve had a plethora of theories as to why I’m so angry. Their favorite lie being that I hold unrequited feelings for Lexi, and that Trent stole her from me. Don’t get me wrong, Lexi’s gorgeous, witty, and a kickass woman. And yeah, the first time we met I wanted to get with her, but as soon as it was clear she only had feelings for Trent, and him for her, any lustful desire toward her was forever crushed. I don’t covet something that’s not mine, and I’d never go after one of my bandmates’ girls. Which only makes the media’s interpretation all the more hilarious. They can write whatever they want. Hell, they do anyway.

“Iz?” I repeat and this time give his shoulder a little shake.

With amber shades covering his perpetually bloodshot eyes I can’t make out his exact expression, but the fact he doesn’t even attempt a move to stand troubles me. He’s high all the time, but he gets things done on-stage. Or at least he has been over the past year. As for being nervous, this isn’t his first time at the Grammy’s; he told us earlier he worked backstage in his younger years, back before he toured as a roadie for Whitesnake. Iz is older than all of those guys, too. We’ve never asked his exact age, but he’s gotta be well over sixty. He was our roadie for a while, but stepped up to play drums when we needed him.

“Sean! Iz! Let’s go!” Trent’s eyes are wide as he shouts from across the room. A roadie waits with my Fender and the woman in charge of this entire show frantically points at the stage.

“We’ve gotta play, man. Pull yourself together.” I loop my arm around his back and under his armpit to hoist him to his feet. My dedication to fitness comes in handy at this moment because as tall and scrawny as he appears, Iz isn’t light. Not when his feet don’t move, and his head lolls onto my shoulder. “Come on, Iz! Walk, man,” I say into his ear, but I don’t slow down or wait while I drag him across the busy room.

We gather more than a few side stares, but I don’t have time to give a fuck. In fact, I’m not even careful with his body in hopes that all the jostling will wake his ass up.

“What the fuck?” Trent’s eyes widen with concern.

“That can’t be good.” Austin’s words roll together and he laughs.

Lexi rushes to my side and lifts Iz’s face between her hands. “Iz, wake up! We need you. Nap time is over.”

Maybe it’s the fire in her voice, or the fact she’s a woman, but it’s enough to bring Iz back to consciousness. He pats my back and mumbles something incoherent as he steps to my left.

I take my guitar from the sound crew and loop the strap around my shoulder. “Thanks, man.” I bump up my chin in a nod, and slap out a quick riff to work the nerves from my fingers.

“I need you onstage. Now!” The woman in charge points past the curtains that divide this space from the big show onstage. “Go, go, go!” She whispers a shout into her mic as we pass her on the way to the side stage. We practiced all of this yesterday, from the placement spots to stand on to which cameras to rock out to. Lexi takes her place opposite Trent up front, and Austin jogs to the far side of me, but my attention’s distracted by Iz. He climbs behind the drum set, but almost slides off the seat before he catches himself on the snare.

“Iz? You feeling okay, man?” I ask, though it’s clear he’s pretty messed up.

He lifts his chin, his head lobbing twice before his shades focus my way and he gives a thumbs up. The audio from the main stage pipes into my ear, the short introduction, and before I can turn toward the crowd, the curtains swish open.

Austin wails on his guitar, a killer riff that intros into our most played song of last year. It’s the same one up for Single of the Year. Now it’s Iz’s turn to pick up the beat, take over the song, and lead us through a jam we could all play in our sleep. Good thing, too. Because we’re live and on national television. Only where Iz is supposed to crash in with a cymbal, there’s a different sort of clatter. The audience of industry professionals erupts in an audible gasp and I spin in time to witness Iz tumble over the side of his bass drum, off the riser his set’s on, and slam to the ground.

“Shit!” Austin exclaims into his mic before the audio team can cut him off. I don’t wait for Lexi and Trent to react. I’m running straight over to the man who has become not only a band member but a friend.

“Iz. Iz!” His name rolls from my mouth and I sling my guitar onto my back as I fall to my knees. I’m afraid to touch him. Not exactly sure what’s going on, but before I can think what to do, there’s a team of paramedics surrounding his crumpled body, rolling him to his side as his limbs jerk with a convulsion that steals whatever’s left of my composure.

“Iz, it’s gonna be all right. They’re gonna take care of you.” The words don’t even sound like my own, but my lips move anyway.

“Sir. We need to work here.” One of the medics taps me on the shoulder and it’s only then I lift my gaze to find they’ve closed the curtains to the audience. Lexi grips Trent’s arm as he holds her in front of him, and Austin just shakes his head. I don’t understand how they’re so far away when Iz needs help.

“Sir. I’m sorry, but we need space. We need you to move,” another medic demands.

I’m horrified, glancing down to Iz’s jaw slack and eyes dilated so wide he doesn’t even look human. Or alive.

Strong hands grip my shoulders and my first instinct is to shove them away. “Sean,” Trent’s voice pulls my stare away from Iz. The fear in Trent’s gaze mirrors what must be in my own. “He needs help. Let’s get out of the way. Let them do their job.”

I nod and with Trent’s assistance I get my body and mind to cooperate enough to move to the side. We circle the medics at a distance, and our manager Bedo joins us, along with one of the publicists from Off Track Records. It feels like eternity but it’s only a few minutes before they’re rolling Iz off the stage strapped to a stretcher and toward the nearest hospital.

Bedo ushers us to a far backstage corner. His lips pinch with irritation and the scowl he wears when we’ve really fucked up. Which I guess we have. Three Ugly Guys just caused a major disruption to the largest televised music event in the industry. I should care. I’m sure this doesn’t bode well for us or the future of our band, but I can’t get the image of Iz out of my mind’s eye as he practically rolled over his drum set before crumpling to the ground.

“We need to go to the hospital,” I blurt and Bedo glares, pushing us all forward until we’re safely tucked in a corner away from prying eyes and listening ears.

“Mics off? Headsets.” He holds out his hand and waits until we unhook and return the equipment that took makeup and wardrobe almost an hour to expertly hide. “You!” He shouts to some poor stage hand, and piles it all into his hands. “Take care of this.”

The young kid only nods, his eyes wide when he takes us all in. I don’t know whether he’s starstruck or the news of what happened onstage has made us a freak show.

“Thank you,” Lexi says, and that finally snaps him out of his stare. He rushes back to whatever task he was doing.

“Tell me right now. What was he on?” Bedo’s hard gaze meets each of ours.

“On?” Austin shakes his head and laughs though it holds no humor. “What wasn’t he on?”

“This isn’t funny. You all were center stage. The biggest fucking opportunity of your careers and you pissed all over it. We worked so damn hard for this, and after what just happened . . . you’ve got jokes?” Bedo’s face heats with his words, and the blotches of red on his cheeks match the fine linen square kerchief tucked in the pocket of his white tux.

“I’m not laughing because it’s funny. It’s not. But you know as well as we do that Iz smokes whatever the hell he wants. We don’t keep track.”

“You all knew he was lit before taking the stage tonight? You didn’t think to warn me?”

I glance around and find the exact spot Iz wouldn’t get up on his own before we were called onstage to perform. He’s high all the time, sure, but that wasn’t normal behavior. Should I have said something? I knew he was off. Guilt, heavy and unnerving, settles in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

“He does it all the time! Why would we think anything of it?” Trent says. His tone grows and matches Bedo’s irritation. “Maybe you should have been backstage with us, managing our band instead of enjoying the fucking show. Maybe you could have stopped this.”

“Trent!” Lexi scolds and shakes her head. “We’re all upset right now, but this isn’t anyone’s fault.”

“She’s right. We need to concentrate on Iz. Let’s go.” Austin moves toward the back door but Bedo holds out an arm to stop him.

“Hold up. You’re not going anywhere. Not until we decide how we’re going to handle the press.”

“Our friend is fighting for his life and you’re concerned about how it looks? Fuck this shit. I’m going to the hospital. You all can figure out how you want to spin it without me,” Austin challenges and walks past Bedo without a second glance.

“This is bigger than you think,” Bedo calls out, but I’m not sure whether that’s more for him or us. I don’t wait to stick around.

“Wait up!” I shout to Austin, leaving Lexi and Trent to deal with our manager and the trouble Three Ugly Guys has caused this year’s Grammy’s show.

Austin stops at my voice and turns to look back, his chin nodding when he sees me coming.

Before I catch up to him, Trent’s at my side, one arm around my shoulder with Lexi tucked into his other side. “I don’t often say this, but I agree with Austin,” he mutters, and it’s enough to bring a slight smile to my lips.

We might be an unconventional family, not connected by one drop of blood, but we’re there for each other, through thick and thin. These bandmates are my chosen brothers and we’ll get through this next challenge. Together. I have no doubt.