The Fiery Boys (A Sample)

River nodded. "Chip's right, you know." Gabe puffed out a breath at River's use of the nickname. Of course, he wasn't the only one whose identity was fluid. River had a fake last name, and Buck used to be called Chuck. Nobody was who they seemed.

River continued, oozing sarcasm. "We're Jason's indentured servants now, forced to play for our lord and master."

Buck joined right in, bowing to Jason. "My lord and master."

"You're making nice money, Buck."

"I have money." He growled. "Can't stand this fucking tour." He stomped away. I let my shoulders slump and backed away in the other direction. No need to make them any more testy before the show.

Ten minutes later, as predicted, Jason took a quick peek and then spoke into his phone. He turned to the band with a nod. Like puppets on a string, the boys became animated by their manager's signal. They straightened up, excited and ready.

A voice boomed through the hall. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome." The announcer gave a lecture about recording, smoking, throwing things, and all the other uncivilized activities that they hoped they could count on the audience not to do. Then, with the fans whipped into a delirium, he wrapped up his introduction. "Let's give a big Chicago welcome to the Fiery Boys!"

The house lights went down, the stage lights went wild, and the crowd went wilder. The boys marched onto the stage.

Chuck grabbed the microphone and did his best to own the crowd. "Hello Chicago! Are you ready to rock?" River clicked his sticks together, and the band seamlessly launched into their first song, an old chestnut called "Sizzling Love."

I had always liked this song, with its powerful beat and soulful lyrics. It had been rerecorded recently and popularized by Alejandro, the rocker whose T-shirt Big Tim was wearing when he picked me up. There was definitely some crossover between the two bands. I'd even heard a rumor that they were planning on trading guest appearances when their tours intersected in Seattle. Too bad I'd be gone by then.

I felt woozy, standing in the wings and watching them play. No fan could get any closer. Gabe stood nearest to me in his power-zombie stance, legs apart, head thrown back, eyes closed. River thrashed the drums like a mad man, a smile on his face that left little doubt he was enjoying every second. Chuck howled and growled as he postured for his fans, clearly happy to be the center of attention. Even Buck seemed pleased, standing near the drum kit and bobbing his head. He and River occasionally traded hand signals and nods, keeping the rhythm section solid.