large man, larger than me, hooked his arm around Johnny's throat. I hadn't noticed Porter before now. The bassist for my band wasn't much for dank drinking holes, he usually just made time for the swankier after-parties.
He had our—former—singer on the floor in a simple swing of his thick arms. Johnny had been choked into submission a few times in our career together, but this was nothing like that.
“Two fucking years!” Johnny bellowed. “Two fucking years together! Fuck you, fuck you Drez!”
His ragged shouts broke the anxious silence like it was a fragile egg. The groupies, the waitresses, everyone began to move. Some helped Porter with subduing Johnny, but mostly, everyone wanted to take a picture of the conflict. I was sure I saw seven girls on their phones.
Maybe some of them are calling the cops.
Who the fuck was I kidding? All they cared about was getting the most likes or upvotes or whatever the hell it was these days on their social media accounts.
Breaking into the night air, I closed the backdoor and leaned on the building's cold wall. My jacket sounded like aluminum foil when I slid down, sitting on the asphalt with a grunt. It was dark, the only light coming from a single flickering street lamp. The dying orange reminded me of my unlit cigarette.
Patting myself in search of my lighter, I glanced up as the door cracked open beside me. “Near death by a flying bottle sure makes you wanna rush out and get some of that tasty lung cancer, huh?” Porter asked.
Chuckling, I spoke out of the side of my mouth, still looking for my lighter. “I'll take tobacco over a concussion any day.”
He crouched beside me, his own lighter flicking to life. Leaning in, I let him turn the tip of my smoke cherry-red. “Funny,” he mused, “I didn't know there were only two options here.”
Inhaling deeply, I shut my eyes while smoke floated around us both. “Tragedy just likes to rub elbows with me, that's all.”
The thick man pulled his knee to his chest, frowning up at the foggy sky. The stars were nowhere to be seen. “You're serious about getting rid of Johnny.”
Flicking ash, I stared at the bloody smudges on my knuckles. “Yup.”
“Guess that means we need a new guitarist, huh?”
“Yup.”
Porter scratched at his head, fingers not putting a dent in his blonde faux-hawk. “Well, fuck. You know Brenda is going to be pissed over this.”
He was right, and I did know it. Our manager was going to lose her shit when she heard I'd kicked Johnny out. Chances were, she'd already heard it through the tweets and blogs of our fans.
She'd already dealt with a number of things on this tour, but I'd be insane to think that would make her take this news any better. It would have been nice if any of the other bands playing with us as we went city to city could have caused a bit of havoc.
Just a little bit, anyway.
Porter moved his hands in front of him, pantomiming outlining a headline for a newspaper. “Four and a Half Headstones becomes Three and a Half Headstones! Singer is a maniac, kills their guitar player!”
I waved smoke away from my eyes. “I didn't kill Johnny.”
“But you sure looked like you wanted to.”
“I did want to,” I said, sticking my smoke into the corner of my mouth.
That made him laugh, which got me to smile in spite of everything. My hand was burning from the sucker-punch, my mood dark as I imagined hunting for a new guitarist. “Whoever we get,” I mumbled, “We'll need them fast. We've got two days before the next show.”
“That's a fucking slim-shot.”
Crushing the cigarette on the ground, I eyed Porter thoughtfully. “He'll need to be reliable, and not a damn joke like our last guy.”
“Our last guy who's probably not going to just vanish contentedly while we replace him.”
The back of my head tapped the wall. “Good point. So, he'll need to be tough, reliable, talented, and not mind that there's a good chance Johnny will take a swing at him someday."
Porter reached out, clasping my shoulder grimly. “Like I said earlier, Brenda is going to be pissed at you. No way we'll find someone like that, not out here, man. We're on fucking tour!” I moved to brush him off, but he just squeezed harder. The way his thin, near-white eyebrows lowered made me hesitate. “Drez, do you honestly think replacing someone like Johnny is possible at this stage