I grab the head of the guitar, swinging it over my shoulder. Gasps ring out, collectively, as if everyone breathes in at the same moment. The air gets sucked from the room as I swing the guitar over my head.
Crash.
It slams to the ground, my favorite guitar, the most expensive wood I've ever had, collides to the ground in a loud—so fucking loud—crash.
Everyone stops.
The crowd goes silent. You can't even hear them breathe. I don't look at the guys behind me, but I can tell they're shocked, fucking furious at me.
They know.
It's over.
Hands grab my arms, fingers digging into my muscles as I'm shoved off stage. I can hear three sets of footsteps behind me, heavy and angry, shoving me. Pushing my back.
Everyone is going crazy backstage. The stage crew have their headsets on, all shouting over one another.
I don't see Brandy anywhere.
I'm shoved into a closet, where all four of us cram inside.
Lonnie slaps the light, switching it on. We're shoved beside stage equipment, some random fucking signs, and a box of toilet paper.
Flynn's fist snaps out, hitting me straight in the nose. My head flies back, my hand going up to my nose. The back of my head slaps against the wall. "Fucking hell!" I roar.
I can feel the blood flowing before it pours out of my nose. I pinch my nostrils, but the blood still leaks through, seeping down my fingers and onto the floor. I can taste the blood in the back of my throat, and I lean forward, letting the thick red drip from my mouth.
Clyde bends down, grabbing a roll of toilet paper and tossing it at me.
"That's it, huh? That's how you wanted to go out?" He stares at me, his jaw clenching as his furious eyes bore into mine.
"It's not right. Not without her."
Silence.
Lonnie closes his eyes, tipping his head toward the ceiling.
"It's always been about her, huh?"
"You know it has." I narrow my eyes at him.
"You don't even know where she is. What is your plan, to fucking search the entire country until you find her?" Lonnie barks at me.
I shake my head, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and plugging my nose with it. "I don't know."
"You're fucked up, dude. You fucking threw the entire show because of your damn broken heart! You couldn’t wait until after the show to fuck shit up?” Flynn barks at me.
I say nothing.
“You need help." He frowns in my direction.
"I'm fine." My voice is nasally, congested. The toilet paper gets soaked instantly. I pull it out, and I can feel the blood seep into the back of my throat. I bend down, spitting a pile of blood onto the ground.
"Are you really done? This is it?" Clyde asks. We all stand there, staring at one another. We've been doing this since we were kids. Since we knew how to create music, we’ve been doing it. It’s all we know, really.
Music is in our blood. Being on the road, it’s in our fucking veins.
But I also know that I love her. And at the end of the day, she's all that fucking matters.