“You know Dirty’s looking for a new guitarist?”

Mark slid onto the barstool next to me with his phone in his hand, and my chest burned a little at his words; that creepy heartburn feeling I got whenever I heard mention of Dirty.

Davey, sitting on my other side, leaned over to look at the phone. “Fuckin’ news site,” he grunted. “You know they’ve got porn on the ’net, right?”

Trent cackled, stomping up behind us in his cowboy boots. “Yeah. We’re gettin’ real tired of all the videos of your old lady though. Seen ’em all.”

Big Jake, behind the bar, ripped the phone from Mark’s hand. “Who needs porn when you’ve got this.” He touched the screen, spreading his fingers to enlarge an image.

“Hey, Big J,” Trent said, knocking on the bar, “gimme the usual.”

The bar had shut down for the night, customers cleared out and it was now just the four of us, sweaty and spent from a long night of playing music under the lights, and Big J, cleaning up. Everyone was drinking but me. And Trent, because he didn’t have his beer yet. But Big J was too transfixed by Mark’s phone to pull beers.

“Whadya say, Becks?” Mark asked me, and I felt all eyes converge on me. “You see yourself in the big time?”

No, I did not see myself in the big time. Or at least, Todd Becker didn’t.

Seth Brothers had temporarily retired, and Todd Becker was now in the house; I’d appropriated the name from my dead father, just a regular name for a regular Joe. Though my parents were far from regular.

It wasn’t forever, but it was for now and it suited me fine. Todd Becker didn’t have to deal with lawyers and paparazzi and accusing stares wherever the fuck he went. Todd Becker was nobody. He played in a dive bar down south for shit pay, but no one really knew who he was or where he came from.

Which meant I could be left alone to do what I loved—play guitar.

As long as I kept my beard grown in like a thicket and my hat pulled low, no one gave a shit who I was. No one cared who any of us were so long as we showed up to the gig and played what was expected, which was CCR covers. So long as we knew ‘Born on the Bayou’ and ‘Proud Mary’ and ‘Bad Moon Rising,’ we were fucking golden. Around here, I was just the quiet dude who played guitar and slept in one of the tiny rented rooms above the kitchen, and perpetually smelled of barbecue because of it.

“What is it?” Davey leaned over the bar, angling for a look at the phone again and scanning the article. “One of those stupid reality shows?”

“Documentary series, whatever the fuck that means,” said Big J. “They’re filming the auditions.”

“Gettin’ thirsty here, J,” Trent complained, still waiting on that beer.

“You’re good enough, Becks,” Mark said. “You should do it.”

“Yeah. To hell with the guitarist position, though,” said Big J. “They don’t hire you, just take Elle to bed. I’ll never get the fuckin’ chance.”

Trent, impatient, headed behind the bar to pull himself a beer.

I sipped my water. My heart was beating steady and slow, but hard, as I asked, “Rhythm or lead?”

Davey burst out laughing. “Jesus, you’re cocky, you think you can fill Jesse Mayes’ boots.”

“I’d like to fill his ex-girlfriend,” Big J mumbled, still thumbing through the article and drooling over Elle.

“You know, I met her once, in an elevator,” Davey said, settling back on his stool. “’Bout five, six years ago, when I was playing out in L.A.. She’s prettier in person.”

“You didn’t fuckin’ meet her,” Mark said.

“I saw her,” Davey clarified.

“Dirty?” Trent snorted, pulling up a stool and taking a grateful swig of his beer. “The fuck is that? You wanna go play with punks?” Trent was a hillbilly, so in his mind Dirty was punk, Zeppelin was glam, Nirvana was noise, and all of it was trash. He only tolerated CCR because it paid the bills around here.

“Dirty’s not punk,” Mark said, then elbowed me, waiting on some kind of reaction. “You should try out, at least.”

“Yeah,” Davey said, “if they come ’round here.”

Big J was shaking his head. “Says they start this week in Vancouver, finish in L.A.. Not comin’ near here.” He handed me the phone and I took it.

What the fuck.

I did my best to look totally unmoved as I scrolled through the article, my heart battering in my chest. But I couldn’t fucking believe it.

At the top, there was a photo of Dirty, obviously recent. It was Zane, Elle, Jesse and Dylan. And yeah, Elle looked gorgeous. As always.

No Jessa in the picture, though.

I knew they’d asked Jessa to join the lineup, before they asked me. I knew she’d been writing with the band. I’d assumed she was filling the role, permanently, and I could live with that. It made sense.

But a fucking open audition? A documentary series? What were they, desperate or something?

Or was this some kind of publicity stunt?

If it was, kind of felt like it was tailor-made to slay me.

I’d accepted being asked to leave. Again. At least, I’d swallowed it as well as I could. I could step back and wish them well and not begrudge them a thing—mostly—if what they truly wanted was Paulie or Jessa or Ash instead of me.

But some random stranger, some nobody joining Dirty?

If it was wide-fucking-open, anyone had a shot at it. Anyone.

Even Todd Becker.

And that got me thinking…

Last time, I didn’t fight for it when I had the chance; when Jessa gave me that chance. And that shit had been eating me raw for the last six months. I’d lost weight, lost sleep, lost a big fucking heap of self-respect. And I knew it, suddenly, with my next breath.

This was my last chance.

Third time’s a fuckin’ charm.

Maybe it was a chance I didn’t deserve, but if that guitarist position was still open, it could still be mine.

The way I saw it, Dirty had been playing my songs, without me, for far too fucking long.

They’d also been my family during some of the best—and worst—years of my life, and that kind of thing wasn’t shrugged off so easily when you were an orphan. I knew I’d fucked them over, thanks to my addiction, but Dirty was and always would be my family and my band.

I knew they’d wanted me back, too, before Jessa told them whatever she told them about me.

That I was a fucking rapist, apparently.

I stood up, so suddenly my barstool tipped over and crashed to the floor. I tossed some bills on the bar, picked up my guitar case and headed for the door.

“Where you goin’?” Big J asked.

“Vancouver,” I said.

“You know that’s in Canada, right?” Mark called after me.

I didn’t answer.

“Hey, asshole. You got a passport?” That was Davey.

I didn’t answer that either.

“You got two fuckin’ dollars to rub together?” Trent shouted, amusement in his voice. “You know, case you get cold?”

They all laughed. I kept walking.

“Shit,” I heard Davey mutter. “Think we just lost our guitarist.”

“Good one, too,” Mark mused.

I turned to shoulder through the door and took one last look at the guys I’d been playing with these last few months but didn’t really know. They didn’t know me either, and I liked that fine. Easier to disappear when the time came.

Well, the time had come.

I knew this wouldn’t be easy; I just didn’t care about that anymore.

I tipped my hat at them. “Later, boys,” I said, and walked out the door. But I didn’t plan on seeing them later.

I was going back to claim what was mine—and this time, I wasn’t letting it go without one hell of a fucking fight. Which meant Todd Becker was about to give the performance of his life.

And Seth Brothers was about to make a comeback.

* * *