Page 130 of The Ruthless Note

I can barely hear my own guitar riff over the screaming fans filling the outdoor stadium as far as the eye can see. They’re dressed as ghouls, cartoon characters and animals. But no matter how different their costumes are, they have one thing in common.

They’re freakinglovingour music.

It should be an ego boost—all this screaming and mass adoration. It should mean something to me.

But it doesn’t.

It never has.

In fact, tonight, as I shred my fingers over the guitar, sweat leaking down my face, I’m not there with the crowd belting out the song.

I’m not worried about what notes I’m playing either.

My mind is on Brahms.

Is music still a burden?

The last time she asked me that question, she was in disguise. This time, she was herself and it still left a damn impression.

Is music still a burden?

I thought I was the only one pushing her buttons in the pool last night. How is it that she always manages to take a bite out of me whenever I attack?

My heart pounds in time to the kick. The crowd is slurping up every note we put down. They paid for a show. Hell, Zane alone is giving them one.

My twin smacks his sticks against the drums, beating out his frustrations on the kit. He’s a professional and he’s been playing with a metronome since he was in diapers. Zane can keep a steady and perfect rhythm in the middle of a hurricane.

The problem is… he’s playing like heisthe hurricane.

I let the drums take over since it’s so loud and insistent.

The crowd thinks its rehearsed and cheer at the unexpected musical break. The noise becomes even louder when the heat of the stage gets to me and I whip my shirt over my head.

Girls in the crowd go wild, screaming bloody murder. I can feel their adoration from somewhere outside of me, but it doesn’t make a damn difference. Their faces are all a mush, blending into the darkness beyond the lights of the stage.

I can just barely make out the decorations. There are black plastic roses all over the place. Tacky black and orange streamers have me wondering if a PTA mom was in charge of the decorating.

The neon-purple strobe lights are nearly blinding as they streak their way across our part of the stage again. Fog machines puff out smoke from both corners. It’s a grand production. Some would say a little above our pay grade.

Not that I’ve ever cared what people thought our pay grade was.

I catch Finn’s eyes before I turn to grip the mike. My brother clutches the bass, keeping a calm, steady rhythm and grounding Zane’s frantic drum beat so it feels rehearsed.

Running my fingers through my hair sends a spray of sweat over the stage. I swing the guitar back over my head and finish the set.

After the last note rings out, the crowd roars for an encore, but I don’t oblige. If Zane goes another round on those drums, he’s going to stake his sticks right through the face of the instrument and we’re going to look like idiots.

I raise a hand over my head, grabbing my shirt from where I’d discarded it next to the amps. Finn waves too, setting his bass on the stand gently. Zane is the only one who doesn’t give two damns about the crowd.

He swipes the bottle that was hidden behind his kick drum, uncaps the top and downs it. Two hundred dollars says that clear liquid isn’t water.

Finn and I turn to follow Zane off the stage, but we can still see the crowd behind the platform. Tonight’s Halloween bash is being held in an old warehouse near a cemetery.

Fitting for Halloween, even if it is a little cliché.

The warehouse is in an abandoned side of town with very little buildings. Through the large, broken windows, the stars are out in full force.

“Heads-up.” Finn tosses me a bottle of water.