The backstage door was locked, but pressing the buzzer next to the frame triggered the sound of footsteps on the other side. A few seconds later, a series of clinks, rattles, and metal clacks echoed through the thick door—like someone undoing Fort Knox one bolt at a time.
Finally, it creaked open.
Standing there was Chuck O'Donnell, owner and manager of D Street West. Bald up top with a graying ponytail trailing down the back, Chuck looked more like a roadie that had forgotten to quit than a business owner. Once upon a time, he'd been a rock guitarist himself—never made it, never even got close. Ten years ago, he'd scraped together enough to buy this club, and since then, he'd made it Heritage's default mecca for live rock. He wasn't rich, but he was steady. And more importantly? The guy had an ear.
Two weeks ago, The Saints hadn't even been on his radar.
In fact, their audition had been a mistake—he'd only scheduled them because he hadn't looked too closely at their so-called portfolio. If he had, he might've noticed that the "previous performance dates" Matt Tisdale had listed were completely fake.
He'd planned to teach them a lesson.
Let them plug in, let them start their first song—and then, just when they thought they had a shot? Cut their power. Humiliate them. Crush whatever teenage ego made them think they could fake their way onto his stage.
That was the plan.
Then they played.
And everything changed.
They weren't just good. They were scary good. The lead guitarist, Matt, played like the devil himself owed him a solo—ripping through riffs with speed, control, and soul. Jake, the frontman, wasn't just a rhythm guitarist; he could sing. Real range, real power, and something raw underneath. All he needed was polish, and he'd be unstoppable.
And the piano…
Chuck had always believed keyboards had no place in hard rock. Pop bands used piano. Ballads. Bubblegum garbage. Not serious rock.
But Bill? That nerdy kid with his thick glasses and buzzcut?
He made it work.
No—he made it incredible.
What The Saints had wasn't just talent. It was instinct. Identity. A sound that didn't feel copied or stitched together. They didn't sound like anyone else. Not even close.
They made his beloved Boozehounds sound like amateurs.
Chuck had a good feeling about these kids. A dangerous, exciting feeling.
"Hey, guys," he said, beaming like an old-school salesman. "How's everyone doin' today?"
A chorus of "fine" and mumbled greetings followed.
"Glad to hear it." He nodded. "You're right on time. I like that in a band. Go ahead and start bringing your gear in. You know where the outlets are. Get everything tuned and checked before we open, yeah?"
Matt, acting as the de facto spokesman, gave him a confident nod. "We'll be ready before the first guy pulls into the lot."
"Love to hear it." Chuck gave him a friendly pat on the back. "I'll be in the office doing paperwork. I'll check in now and then, see how things are sounding."
With that, he disappeared back inside, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Ten seconds later, he was back in his office, leaning over his desk and snorting two neat lines of cocaine. Then he leaned back, eyes closing, mind drifting—thinking not about tonight's ticket sales, but about what he might've been if fate had rolled different dice.
Loading in took nearly twenty minutes. The Saints didn't pack light.
Nine amplifiers. A double bass drum kit with fifteen pieces. A full-size electric piano. Two guitars, one bass. A tangle of cords—at least 400 feet of it. Five mic stands, six pedals, a portable soundboard, and enough gear to build a small concert hall from scratch.
The stage sat at the rear of the bar, elevated four feet off the ground and covered in scuffed black wood. Overhead lights hung from scaffolding, dusty but functional. They stacked four amps on one side, five on the other, then arranged the mics and began threading power cables through the mess of wires.
Coop got to work assembling his drum set while Bill started wiring his keyboard. Jake, Matt, and Darren handled the rest—running power, connecting pedals, plugging in the gear that would twist and shape their sound into something more than noise.
Then came the guitars.
Jake unlatched his case and gently pulled out his pride and joy: a 1975 Les Paul in sunburst. He'd bought it for $250 three years ago and treated it like a newborn baby ever since. It could do anything—soft, near-acoustic tones or dirty, grinding distortion. It was the core of his sound, the one instrument he trusted completely.
He lifted it with both hands, like cradling something alive. Then he wiped it down with a cloth until it gleamed under the stage lights. Only then did he sling it over his shoulder and carry it to the cable leading to his row of effects pedals.
Matt wandered over, watching him with mild amusement. "You got enough picks?"
Jake glanced up. "I think so."
"Stick two in the strings, keep the rest in your pocket. If you drop one mid-song, you'll want backup."
Jake tensed. "What if I drop one during the middle of a riff?"
In rehearsal, they'd just stop and start again. That wasn't going to fly with a live crowd.
"You keep playing," Matt said flatly. "Use your fingers if you have to. Grab another one between songs."
"Awesome," Jake muttered, his nerves ratcheting up.
Matt gave him a shrug. "The fuckin' show must go on, my man. Always."
"Right," Jake muttered. "Show must go on."
He suddenly wished he had a beer in his hand. Or better yet, a nice fat bong hit.
Anything to take the edge off.