A Song for the Dead (Wray Mallory Book 3) by H.P. Bayne

Author:H.P. Bayne [Bayne, H.P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bayne Independent Publishing
Published: 2024-07-30T00:00:00+00:00

Twenty-Four

Fear. And a hell of a lot of it.

Pain and blood. Plenty of those too.

At first, it hadn’t been bad. Shock maybe. Now though, it was horrible, the worst thing he’d ever felt.

If it weren’t for the terror, he might have given in to it, fallen to the ground and wailed like a baby.

Instead, he was running.

And if the fear wasn’t enough incentive, the memory of Buck’s screams and the sight of his blood-soaked body sure as hell were.

Another image, another time. The bus, brand new paint job. Damn, it looked cool.

Micky was already next to it, posing with tongue out, Gene Simmons style, while a photographer did her thing. Their manager had lined up the shoot, ensuring the new paint job was put to full effect while it was at its best. Probably something to do with the fact their manager’s brother had done the work, but maybe Havik was being cynical again. Kit always told him he was too cynical.

He stood back as Micky went into full rockstar mode, posing for all he was worth. Havik was pretty sure Alban Ezra could split up tomorrow and Micky would do just fine.

The rest of them, not so much. Johnny Fade was the best guitar player Havik had ever known, and he had that whole silent, brooding thing to go with it. He’d probably land a spot with another band easily enough. Rizzo was good enough on bass to secure plenty of session work, same way he’d been doing before he joined Ezra.

Havik was never sure where he stood. He was a good drummer but not great. He had personality but nothing compared to the charisma of Micky or the allure of Johnny. Sometimes Havik just thought he was along for the ride, nothing more.

Playing a part. Hoping he didn’t lose it.

At least that was how he felt during his down moments, and damn if he didn’t have a lot of those.

He’d left a couple of baggies of the white stuff buried deep in his toiletries kit. It was easily accessible back in the car. Snort a little and all his self-confidence woes, this creeping depression, would be knocked away—if only for a little while.

By the bus, Micky had snared Rizzo, had him more or less in a headlock while the photographer snapped away. “Fade, Havik, get over here!”

“Give me five,” Havik called back.

All he needed was to get to the car and into his bag. After that, he’d do all the damned photoshoots Micky could handle.

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