1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Toby

" I don't understand why we still do this shit."

Perched on a stool, buried under packages and envelopes covering the counter, I toss another folded page to the growing pile at my feet. The discard box is already full, but I keep letting letter after letter flitter down.

"Um, because we should ."

"Shut up, Mac."

My eyes scan the page in my hands, this one typed out in scrolling font, and scoff. "It's asking Rex not to marry Aria. Too fuckin' late. " Another addition to the pile at my feet. "Have we ever found anything decent in the last five years?"

"We've been doing this for eleven," Mac corrects.

"Exactly," I mutter and push the pile aside to make room for my forearms against the surface, though it only causes shit to fall off the opposite side. "Oops."

"Seriously?" I lean up to see Mac, my band's drummer and nickname extraordinaire, has migrated to the floor just beneath the bar on the other side of my station, covered in another layer. He snags a handful and tosses it back up at my face, only for more to fall off of the counter. "Motherdicker."

"That's what you get, Mackie." Snickering, I plant my ass back in the stool and snag my highball glass to take a drink.

And maybe push more shit aside so that it falls on his head.

"Pretty sure rock bands are not supposed to get this much mail."

"Oh, so you think the panties thrown on stage is plenty?" I pause mid-drink, glancing over the pile into the living space where Fin Montgomery lounges on a couch with his own pile of shit to wade through. The bastard .

"I actually like those," I say and take a sip, except nothing meets my lips when I tip the glass back.

"Dirty fucker," someone mutters from another couch. Probably Rex, our band's lead singer, songwriter, and twin to the drummer. I flick another envelope at Mac, hoping it sticks in his ever-present bandana headband.

Today, it's white.

And for some reason, so are his nails.

It'd match perfectly.

"What?" I chuckle and pour a fresh taste from the bottle at my elbow. "Like you bastards didn't enjoy the shit, too. Y'know, before your balls sagged so much, you needed assistance holding them up."

"Some of us like having our balls handled," Mac mutters wistfully on a scoff.

"Oh, I like my balls handled. Fondled ." I cup my hand and wiggle my fingers. "Tongued. Just not by the same set every night."

Shaking my head when I get a round of grumbles, I take a swig and lean back, no longer interested in the handwritten letters proclaiming love and sacrifices for people they've never met. We've never met.

Of course they love us. We're As Above.

My drink settles heavy in my gut; the tension in the air thickening, thanks to my bandmates and brothers ignoring that this used to be fun. Getting bras thrown at us was funny and sexy. Getting laid in a different city every night was our life. And letting the world drool over us was our way.

Not anymore.

The bachelors left in our group are dwindling fast, and I'm beginning to think As Above's days of chaos have officially come to a screeching halt. Even Mac has been weirdly off . Distant and permanently tired looking.

Show nights have stopped including after-parties with booze and girls and blow.

Tours are paused for the foreseeable future.

Even writing new music and practices have been capped.

All thanks to the permanent pussy these bastards picked up.

Grumbling, I push up from the stool with a spinning head and wrap a fist around the bottle I've been nursing.

I'd rather be drunk off my ass than sit here any longer with a bunch of old bastards that have given up on this rock star life we were all so desperate for as kids. Dreaming and planning about, together , since fucking grade school.

We couldn't fuckin' wait to get our hands on it. Now look at 'em.

"Bunch'a nannies. All of you." I gesture around the room at the big tatted bastards I call brothers that fit right in when they should be standing out against the frilly decorations and whitewashed walls.

Just like my granny's place. She blended in so much with that shit I almost got myself in trouble a lot.

Like that time I tried to sneak two chicks in after a garage show, only to be stopped by the old cockblock of a woman jumping out of the dark.

"You mean Nancy's," Mac corrects with a scowl I meet through a haze.

"I said what I said." Flicking a hand in dismissal and realizing it's my bottle holding hand, I forgo the glass and pull straight from the neck.

The whiskey used to burn when I drank it straight like this. But at some point, the hair on my chest thickened, and now I don't even bother with a mix or a chase.

"Dude, it's snowing outside," Rex calls when I make it through the mountains of fan mail clinging to all the surfaces in this room and the kitchen.

"It's cool," I say on a shrug and whip open the door, then hold my bottle up as the chilled wind rushes in. "I know how to stay warm."

I don't wait for any more protests. Or for someone to call Leo and report me like some kind of misfit kid that needs a sitter.

I don't need a damn sitter.

Instead, I step out into the winter with only the leather vest over my tee and damn near lose my untied boot in a pile of built-up snow blocking the stairs. It's abnormally icy and snowy for this time of year, the shit soaking into my boot as I walk the slick sidewalk.

They think they're so much better now that they have steady broads. Better now that they have someone waiting for them at home.

I can't count the number of times I've heard that shit, and it still pisses me off every time they bring it up. Because they all do, except for Leo.

And Mac.

Like it wouldn't take the right groupie on the road to change all that, but whatever.

Means more for me.