Chapter One
“Ethan”
Jesus Christ, just let me get through this fucking sound check. Every few minutes we start, Eric stops us, the band argues, then we start again.
It’s too hot—the Hollywood Bowl on a June afternoon is like being in a broiler even in the shade—though the smoldering heat on the stage isn’t coming only from the sun.
Rivers of sweat drip down my face as I shut my eyes and try to melt away into the music instead. Even deep in the zone, I can’t block out that crackling current between my brother and my dad.
Why did I hope this afternoon would be different?
You know how this goes down.
New day, same shitstorm.
I open my eyes, never missing a beat from the drum stand, and quickly glance between Eric and Alan as the air grows more static with tension.
How can two dudes be so alike and not see it? But they are—young and old versions of the same genes.
Both born to be total fucking rock stars.
Both electric and dominant.
Both pains in my existence.
Well, when they’re together.
Not when they’re apart.
I love them both, but it’s fucking hard to be the buffer in between them, which I can tell is soon about to happen.
Thank fuck the amphitheater’s empty except for the band, security, and the road crew. Don’t need the press catching this hurricane waiting to blow through the stage. And, yep, it’s going to be a category five hurricane if the vibe I feel from my brother is any indication.
Not that Dad would give a fuck if the entire world was watching. Dad doesn’t do bullshit. No pretty public face for him. He’s the realest man I’ve ever known. Irritating as it is, but, hell, it works for him. It’s made him a fucking legend and much fawned over music icon.
Funny how age redeems a man with the press. But they fucking love Alan Manzone now that he’s old—or maybe because he and Mom have had a good thing going on for twenty years of marriage. It’s Mom that gave Dad the Parker mojo of being loved by the media. Dad sure as hell didn’t have it before Mom.
In the ink war, Dad comes out on top every time. He never makes a public comment, never responds to the vicious pen because he wins by the virtue of being him. The adored and undisputed number one rock god on the planet.
I wish Eric would remember that and stop pouncing on each opportunity to kick up the dust with Dad. My brother doesn’t need more bad press this tour. The band doesn’t need more ugly, spinning tabloid drama.
I lock my eyes on Eric’s taut profile and try to will my thoughts into his head.
It’s one fucking performance, bro. Whatever’s got your cock in an uproar, let it go. Hold your tongue so we can just get through this. It’s only two fucking songs.
That’s all Dad agreed to do when our manager reached out to have him perform with us the last show of the tour. We need to end the road on a high since, for the last three months of performances, the gate hasn’t been as good as the promoters had hoped.
They wanted the seats sold out tonight and the management team came up with Pop as a solution.
Eric flat-out said no. When he got overruled, he was too stubborn and proud to ask Dad. And fuck, he wouldn’t let me ask in his place. He sent our manager, an insult to Dad, not that Alan ever mentioned it to either of us. He’s a good man and an even better father.
Why can’t my brother see that?
Or at least keep it together, let the history he holds onto like a cancer stick go for one fucking day so we can get through this without more public family ugliness.
This never-ending war between father and son makes Mom so sad. Nothing should ever make Chrissie sad. Especially not her favorite son. Even though we’re twins and Eric’s either thorns or sweetness, he is Mom’s favorite son.
I’m sure it’s the only reason Dad agreed to do this. To make Chrissie happy. Why can’t Eric focus on the important things—like how terrific our parents and family are—and do the same?
A high, piercing screech of a metal guitar string strummed abusively shoots pain into my ears—fuck—and I freeze in mid-beat as the music careens to an abrupt halt.
Breathing heavily from exertion, I relax on my stool as I watch Dad slowly ease off the mic and tilt his face toward Eric, one black brow arched.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Eric tosses his guitar onto the stage and rakes a hand, angry, through his shoulder-length golden blond hair.
“Sound check,” Alan states, clipped and heavy in that razor-edged calm voice that gets Eric going every time.
“You had one of the guys mess with the board, change the mix. I can’t fucking hear anything but you.”
Oh Jesus, Eric. Wrong. You can’t think that. Alan’s got nothing to prove to anyone. He’s here for us—for you. Nothing else.
Dad smiles, tolerant and amused. “No one changed anything, son.”
“Don’t give me that shit. You’re doing what you always do. Hijacking every moment you’re on stage. This isn’t your band. These aren’t your guys. My fans aren’t coming to see you. This is my fucking universe. I own it. You’re a guest here.”
Alan settles on the chair he keeps on stage during sound checks and it hits me like a two-by-four. Dad’s seventy. It’s hard to remember that because he looks the same as he always has: still fit, handsome, and his jet-black hair is without a hint of gray, but he isn’t getting any fucking younger and he doesn’t need this shit.
“Who the fuck changed the board?” Eric’s voice shatters the quiet as he hops off stage and moves toward the mix engineers.
Once he’s out of earshot, I dry my face with a towel and come from behind the drums. “Hey, man, I’m sorry,” I say to no one in particular.
“What the hell’s the matter with him?” Hugh asks.
I wish it was something I could explain, but I can’t, even though Hugh deserves an answer to that. He’s our oldest friend and the best damn bass player in the business, in my opinion.
Hugh doesn’t need Eric’s bullshit either. He could land a new gig with any big-name band he wanted to. It’s been a long fucking eight-month tour and it’s ending how it started. With Eric sprung, a pain in the ass, and everyone like they’re ready to quit and looking to me for a reason not to.
I shrug. “Who knows? He’s keyed up. Under a lot of pressure from the label. From everyone. Give him a break.”
“That’s all we’ve done this tour. Give Eric passes on everything. You tell your brother he needs to get his shit in gear or there won’t be a band after tonight.”
I could tell things were building to this point, but Hugh’s words hit me hard. “Come on, man. We’ve been friends forever. Don’t let one bad tour and sound check fuck up everything. You can’t mean that, Hugh.”
“I’m not fucking up a thing. Your brother is.” He opens his water bottle and guzzles two-thirds. Then with his arm he wipes the sweat from his brow. “If the label is up his ass, it’s his fault. The new material is shit. He won’t let anyone change or contribute anything. It doesn’t matter if the band breaks up or not. The label is going to cut us loose if things keep moving in the direction they’re going. He’s ruining things for all of us.”
I never could argue against truth so I don’t even try. Besides, I’m as worn out by the last eight months on the road with Eric as the rest of the guys.
I lean into the cooler, grab a bottle of water, and take it to Alan. “You ready to walk out on him, too, Dad?”
His black eyes light up as a slow smile spreads across my dad’s face, turning into a grin. “Hell no. Any man who thinks this is anything hasn’t been around the industry very long. Won’t last very long either.” His face transforms into something enigmatic, and I know there’s about to be a dose of Alan Manzone theatrics center stage. “You ride the bumps. You ride the smooth. You ride the ride however it comes. That’s life and the music industry. Working through the bumps. You don’t let anything keep you from what you want. Certainly not something that’s not going to make a bit of difference or even be remembered in a day.”
A subtly put jab to Hugh and the silent members of the band, brilliantly done. Dad does know how to cool things rapidly and keep the guys in line with a minimum of effort. No wonder he’s kept the same band together for fifty years.
It’s been hell for me keeping Eric’s band together, and we were friends—Hugh Levine, Linc Tanner, and Taz Kennedy—long before we became a band.
And Black Dawn—an Eric creation lifted from the first half of my dad’s band’s name and one word from our grandfather Jack’s most famous song, “Take Back The Dawn”—has all the makings of a great band.
Hugh on bass.
Linc on keyboards.
Taz on guitar.
Eric as the lead singer and guitarist. He’s fucking brilliant at both, just like Dad.
And me—I’m a pretty badass drummer, if I do say so myself. Not that I planned to end up the drummer. Just how things worked out. Where Eric wanted me when we formed the band six years ago. We couldn’t find a drummer up to his standards and I was already a member of the band, and that was that.
I’d prefer to be up front, howling on a guitar with my brother like it used to be, but when Eric decides something there’s no changing his mind. And I’d rather be a drummer with him than play guitar in a different band.
Each of the guys, separately, is a fucking awesome musician, present company included, but together we’re even better, gelling in that way most musicians search to find into a sound that’s undeniable.
We’re on our way to what we all want to achieve if I can just hold the guys together until Eric works through whatever shit is making him a prick these days.
“Fucking don’t argue with me, or you’re fired. It’s that simple.” Eric’s thundering voice causes me to look at him. Christ, what the fuck happened this tour to switch him on a dime into wrapped-too-tight super-asshole?
I know something’s wrong and it sure as shit isn’t the label, the band, or our dad. I wish he’d tell me already. He hasn’t confided in me—that never happens—and it’s got me on edge and worried because Eric’s gotten into a lot of trouble, but never anything he wouldn’t tell me.
I feel my dad’s potent black stare and shift my gaze to meet his eyes directly. “Then I guess Eric’s on his way to epic greatness, Pop,” I joke tentatively, because, hell, the strain on stage needs to be dialed down.
My dad throws back his head and his raspy laughter fills the air.
I glance over my shoulder toward the seats and wonder how long this delay will be. Eric’s red-faced and speaking with his hands, doing angry gestures as he argues with the guys at the board. What the fuck is this about? There was nothing wrong with the mix.
There’s a firm pat on my back. “I’m going to cut out, son. We were pretty much done before this. See you tonight.”
Dad cutting out without waiting for Eric to say we’re finished. That should go over great with my brother. Another reason for him to blow up. Not that I fault Dad for not sticking around for more of this. “Thanks, Dad. I’m sorry this afternoon’s been this way. You know Eric doesn’t mean half the things he says. It’s just the pressure. The stress. You remember what it was like back in the beginning of your career. Everyone telling you what to do. Everyone depending on you. Everyone kicking you. It’s been a rough tour for him.”
Alan studies me for a while then his expression turns unreadable. “You worry too much, Ethan. It’s all going to be all right. Eric will figure things out. Everyone has junk from time to time that they’ve got to work through. Your brother’s no different. And I don’t take anything that went down today personally. I’m your father first. Always, Ethan.”
I run a hand across the top of my head. “Eric’s going through something, Dad. I don’t know what, but I think it’s something serious. He’d tell me if it wasn’t.”
Alan’s mouth tightens as he nods. “Whatever it is, it’s his shit not yours. Don’t let it pull you down, too.”
My stomach shimmies because I have the oddest feeling my dad knows whatever Eric is hiding. I refrain from telling him it’s impossible not to get caught up in Eric’s shit, and watch Alan leave the stage.
It’d be nice if it were possible for what happens to Eric not to collide with my world as well, but that’s not how being a twin works. I can’t explain it, but all that twins crap people say is true. We’ve both gotta be okay for either of us to be okay. It’s how it is and always has been. Nothing’s going to change that. Not even advice from Dad.
“Talk to him, Egghead. This shit’s gotta stop,” Hugh says to my back.
I turn to find him flanked by Taz and Linc, and they’re all pinning me with that you better do something about this gaze.
I glare. “Don’t fucking call me Egghead again. And don’t tell me what I have to do about my brother.”
Hugh flushes, but he doesn’t back down from the challenge in my eyes. “Can’t be helped anymore. Eric’s the talent, but you’re the brains, Ethan. If you don’t get him back in line no one will. We’re all worried about him. Not just you. But let’s face reality. We need to finish the album and he needs to let us be a part of it. Taz and Linc have some great material. He won’t even listen to it. It’s like he’s purposely trying to self-destruct and taking all of us with him.”
I roll my eyes at him, but his assessment is the very thing I’ve worried for months. “Eric does what Eric wants to do. No one’s going to change that. Not even me.”
“Try, Ethan. That’s all we’re asking,” Taz replies. “We’ve got a good thing together. None of us want to see it end.”
Oh fuck. It’s not just Hugh threatening to leave band. They all are.
“Hey, we’re heading out,” Linc says. “Going to grab some grub and brews until it’s showtime. You should come with us, E. It’s been a long fucking afternoon. Or are you going to stick with your brother?”
“What do you think?”
Hugh’s jaw clenches as he shakes his head. “Staying with Eric. Like you always do.”
He exhales in annoyance to make sure I know he thinks I shouldn’t. But, fuck, what else can I do? They’re my closest friends, but he’s my brother.