Chapter Four: The Loyalty Test
The venue was called The Basement, which was appropriate, because that's exactly where Alex felt the band's morale was currently residing.
Greg had called out sick—something about food poisoning from a gas station burrito—so Marcus had hired a sub at the last minute. Their name was Jordan. They were a nonbinary session player with a shaved head, impeccable posture, and a reputation for being a human metronome.
Unlike Greg, who played like a machine because he had no soul, Jordan played like a machine because they had perfect discipline.
During soundcheck, the friction started.
"Hey," Jordan said, adjusting the snare stand. They didn't look up, but their voice cut through the feedback. "On 'Echoes,' when we hit the bridge, don't extend the vocal ad-lib. Keep it to eight bars. If you go over, the rhythm section falls apart."
Leo, who was busy checking his reflection in the darkened window of the sound booth, scoffed. He was wearing a leather jacket that was far too expensive for the venue.
"I don't count bars, Jordan," Leo said with a dismissive wave. "I feel the moment. If the crowd wants more, I give them more. That's what a frontman does."
"That's what a jam band does," Jordan corrected, their tone cool. "We're playing a set. Keep it to eight bars, or you're going to be singing acapella while I stop playing."
Alex saw Marcus bristling in the corner, his eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. No one spoke to The Talent like that. But Alex felt a secret thrill. Finally, someone was saying it.
The gig itself was a mess of mixed signals. Every time Leo tried to drag a song out to bask in the spotlight, Jordan locked the beat down, forcing the song to end on time. It sounded tight, professional, and punchy. The crowd loved it. Leo, however, looked like a child who had been told to go to bed early.
After the show, the air in the green room was thick with humidity and ego.
Leo was buzzing, riding the high of the applause, completely ignoring the fact that Jordan had saved his timing multiple times. He pulled out his phone, swiping through photos taken by fans near the front row.
"Check this out," Leo grinned, shoving the phone toward Alex and Jordan. "Girl in the front row. Look at that top. She was definitely giving me the eyes during 'Static.' I think I'm gonna DM her."
Alex glanced at the screen. The girl looked young. Too young.
Jordan didn't even look at the phone. They were packing their stick bag, movements efficient and sharp. "She looks sixteen, man. Leave it alone."
Leo pulled the phone back, offended. "She's a fan. It's called engagement. You wouldn't understand, you're just the hired help."
"I'm the help that kept you on beat," Jordan shot back, zipping their bag. "Stop creeping on teenagers and focus on your pitch. You were sharp on the chorus."
Leo's face flushed red. He wasn't used to pushback. He was used to Marcus telling him he was a golden god and the rest of the band nodding along.
The tension boiled over at the loading dock.
The alley was narrow, cluttered with dumpsters and gear cases. Jordan was carrying a heavy cymbal case, maneuvering around a puddle. Leo was standing in the middle of the path, posing for a selfie with the brick wall.
Jordan turned to squeeze past and their case bumped Leo's elbow. It wasn't hard—barely a graze—but Leo, already bruised by Jordan's comments, reacted like he'd been shanked.
"Watch it!" Leo snapped, shoving Jordan backward.
Jordan stumbled, dropping the heavy case with a loud clang. They regained their balance and stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Don't touch me."
"Or what?" Leo stepped in, chest puffed out, fists clenching. He looked ready to swing. "You think you can come in here and tell me how to run my show?"
"Leo, stop!"
Alex didn't think; he just moved. He stepped between them, putting a hand on Leo's chest and shoving him back firmly. He knew Leo wasn't a fighter—he was a poser. But Jordan looked like they could—and would—defend themselves, and that would end with assault charges.
"Back off, Leo," Alex barked. "It was an accident. Let them load out."
Leo looked at Alex, shocked. "You're shoving me?"
"I'm stopping you from being an idiot," Alex said. He turned to Jordan. "Just go. I'll handle the rest of the gear. You're paid, right?"
"Marcus paid me in cash," Jordan said, glaring at Leo one last time. "Good luck with... whatever this is. You guys need therapy, not a manager."
Jordan grabbed their case and marched down the alley, vanishing into the night.
Alex let out a breath, turning back to Leo. "What is wrong with you? You were going to punch a session player?"
Before Leo could answer, a shadow detached itself from the doorway.
"Is that what we're doing now?"
It was Marcus. He had been watching.
He walked slowly toward them, his shoes clicking on the pavement. He ignored Leo completely and zeroed in on Alex.
"You put your hands on my son," Marcus said. It wasn't a question.
"I was stopping a fight, Marcus," Alex said, his adrenaline still pumping. "Leo was out of line. He shoved Jordan."
"Jordan is a nobody," Marcus spat. "Jordan is a temp. Leo is the star. Leo is your best friend. Or... he was."
Marcus stopped inches from Alex's face. He smelled of cologne and stale cigarettes.
"I saw you," Marcus hissed. "You jumped in to defend that stranger. You took their side against Leo. Why? Because you wanted to see Leo humiliated? You wanted to knock him down a peg?"
"What? No!" Alex looked at Leo. "Leo, you know that's not what happened. I was trying to keep you from getting sued."
Leo looked at his father, then at Alex. The confusion in Leo's eyes was visible, but Marcus was quicker. He put a hand on Leo's shoulder, squeezing tight.
"He's jealous, Leo," Marcus said softly, staring daggers at Alex. "He sees you getting the attention, getting the girls, getting the glory. He wanted that drummer to embarrass you. That's why he shoved you. He's not loyal to you. He's loyal to his own ego."
"That is insane," Alex shouted, throwing his hands up. "I arranged the songs! I set up the gear! I do everything for this band!"
"You do what you're told!" Marcus shouted back, his voice echoing off the alley walls. "And tonight, you disrespected the hierarchy. You turned against your brother for a stranger. That is a rot, Alex. Deep down, you want this band to fail because you can't stand that it's Leo's name on the marquee, not yours."
Marcus turned to Leo. "Get in the car, Leo. Let Alex load the van. He needs time to think about where his loyalties lie."
Leo hesitated. He looked at Alex—fourteen years of friendship hanging in the air. But the seed had been planted. The poison was working.
"You shouldn't have shoved me, Alex," Leo muttered, looking away. He turned and followed his father to the luxury sedan parked down the street.
Alex was left alone in the cold alley, surrounded by heavy amplifiers that he now had to load by himself.
Two hours later, Alex lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His back ached from lifting the cabinets alone. His heart ached from something else entirely.
He felt isolated. The narrative Marcus was spinning was so warped, yet Leo was buying it wholesale. Disloyal. The word burned.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Alex ignored it, assuming it was a group text from Marcus outlining a new punishment or a fine for "insubordination."
It buzzed again.
He groaned, rolled over, and picked it up.
Sender: Sarah (Keys)
Sarah: Hey. Just got home. You alive?
Alex blinked. He typed back slowly.
Alex: Barely. Did you see what happened in the alley?
Sarah: I saw enough. I saw Leo being a brat and you saving him from getting his teeth kicked in. Jordan looked like they knew Muay Thai.
Alex let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Someone else had seen the truth.
Alex: Marcus says I'm disloyal. Says I'm jealous of Leo.
Sarah: Marcus is a gaslighting sociopath. You know that, right?
Sarah: He's terrified of you, Alex. You're the only one in the band who actually understands music theory. If Leo wakes up and realizes he needs you more than he needs his dad, Marcus loses his control. So he has to paint you as the villain.
Alex read the message twice. It was the first time anyone had laid it out so clearly.
Alex: It's getting hard to breathe in this band, Sarah. I feel like I'm going crazy.
Sarah: You're not crazy. You're just surrounded by noise. But I hear you. Even when they turn you down in the mix.
Alex smiled. A genuine, small smile in the dark.
Alex: Thanks for checking on me. I really needed that.
The typing bubble appeared for a long time. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Sarah: Get some sleep, Alex. Don't let them win tonight. You're a good musician and a good friend. Better than they deserve. Goodnight <3
Alex stared at the little heart emoji at the end of the text. It was a small thing. Just a collection of pixels. But as he set the phone down and closed his eyes, it felt like a shield.
He wasn't entirely alone. Not yet.