Dreams

Heavy Tulsa was still the same den of extravagance and excess—but when X-Mass was on the bill, everything felt supercharged. I knew Stan had pull, but the sheer amount of drugs flowing through the hotel this year made me wonder how he kept the DEA from kicking down the doors.

We arrived at the festival grounds on Thursday night. Skye was already ripping a bong with some band from Chicago before I had settled in. I forgot, sometimes, that she’d been a party girl before I met her.

I almost joined in—just to blend in—but I actually felt good for once. Besides, I knew better than to lose track of Skye here. That same protective paranoia I’d had with Courtney last year was creeping in again.

Most of the night was spent following Stan and Jason around the grounds. There were introductions, networking, half-scheduled sessions with artists we’d be helping. A mix of fake enthusiasm and quiet resentment—everyone wanted what EoT had, and everyone knew we didn’t earn it the traditional way.

Funny thing—I noticed Stan never introduced us as part of the band. Just by name. It was subtle, but it stuck.

By 3 a.m., we were back at the hotel. We both needed to rest before the weekend started in earnest.

“Sorry about earlier,” Skye said, curling into me. “I haven’t smoked since last summer when you were on tour. I got excited.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I forgot you had a life before me.”

She smiled. “I’m not planning on going wild this weekend, but… it’s nice to unwind. And I know better than to wander off—Stan said he’ll keep an eye on me when you’re onstage.”

We kissed until sleep took over.

***

By the time 9 a.m. rolled around, we were back at the festival, now in full swing. Backstage was crowded with familiar faces and legends I’d only seen on magazine covers. X-Mass still hadn’t shown up—the rumor was they wouldn’t be seen until their Sunday headliner slot—but the aura around them was everywhere.

Stan pulled me aside and walked me through the songs I’d be playing during the All-Star Jam.

“Nobody’s Fool, Look What the Cat Dragged In, Twilight Zone… and your personal request,” he grinned, “The Ballad of Dwight Frye.”

I’d pitched it as a joke, thinking it was too niche. Apparently not—Stan said the demand to be on that song was overwhelming.

I’d be playing lead on Nobody’s Fool and Dwight Frye. I didn’t know who else was joining me on Cat Dragged In. As for Twilight Zone, Caleb was playing lead.

I hadn’t seen him yet.

The first two songs were solid. The crowd was into it, even if I wasn’t totally confident. I felt like a knockoff Tom Keifer the whole time. Empty vibrato, tired licks. Not my best.

Then, during setup for the third song, Caleb appeared.

He tapped me on the shoulder, grinning. “Dude, you’re sounding great. Have some confidence.” His tone cut through the chaos on stage.

I spotted the white Charvel Predator in his hands—that thing was older than both of us. I was ecstatic to hear it live.

I stepped to the back of the stage—content to play in a support role.

Caleb walked over to me during the bridge.

“Let’s do harmonies in the solo,” he added. “Come out front with me.”

I hesitated, but nodded. I trusted him more than I trusted myself.

We shredded through Twilight Zone, locking into something wicked. At the end, he slung an arm around me.

“Keep your head up,” he said before vanishing into the wings.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Stan’s satisfied grin. The crowd erupted.

Then it happened—Jack Slye and Tony Black from X-Mass stepped out from stage right.

Jack grabbed a mic. “Are there any real Alice Cooper fans out here tonight?”

The crowd roared.

“This 16-year-old with a top-5 hit asked to play a deep cut, and I couldn’t say no. I’ve wanted to do this one for years.”

Tony Black turned to me. I stammered, “Sir, you should take lead.”

He just waved me off.

Shit.

They weren’t going to let me hide. Not now.

I gripped my Firebird. Tried to remember every nuance of Glen Buxton’s original take. I bent into every note, let the dissonance spill out like a scream. For a few minutes, I forgot everything else.

It was just me, the music, two legends, and a killer backing band who believed in me enough to hand me the reins.

When it ended, the crowd erupted again. Tony clapped me on the back.

“Not bad, kid,” he said, cool as ever. “I can’t wait to see you play your own shit on the road.”

Then he disappeared into the wings with Jack.

I stood there, blinking. I couldn’t tell if it was validation or a warning.

Maybe both.

***

The rest of Friday blurred. We crashed back at the hotel by midnight—spent from the high of the day. Skye had gone a little harder than planned, cycling between weed and some light hallucinogens. She was passed out in my arms before we even had a chance to undress.

Eventually, it was Sunday night. For the first time at this festival, I felt… relaxed.

I’d run into my dad earlier in the weekend—he was trailing Stan, smiling for cameras, playing the role of a major sponsor. He asked why it was just Skye and me this year, where the rest of EoT was, but Stan stepped in and handled it. I didn’t have the energy to explain.

All I cared about now was getting through one song with X-Mass… and getting home in one piece.

Standing offstage, Firebird in hand, I was hit with a strange nostalgia. I knew the truth—these guys were a letdown behind the scenes—but they still carried the presence of their prime. Watching them, it was easy to remember what we all used to dream about.

“Alright,” Jack Slye shouted to the crowd, “we’re going to do something special for you tonight. This is our only Oklahoma date this summer.” The audience roared. “Our friends in Embers of Twilight didn’t play for y’all this year, but we’ve got their guitar player—Wes Reau—up here tonight.”

I walked out to a sea of noise. It might’ve been stolen valor, but I didn’t care. Playing in front of over a hundred thousand people? Unthinkable. I let it wash over me for a moment—this was what it meant to make it.

“We’re gonna play a song off our first record. This one’s called Razorblade.”

The crowd erupted for a song they’d been hearing live since 1982.

But following X-Mass live wasn’t easy. They’d played this song so many times that it had morphed—warped into a version so loose, so internal, it barely resembled the original. I struggled to lock in. Every shift, every improvised run felt like a trapdoor.

I tried not to fall apart at the height of my life.

Then Stevie caught my eye. He started playing off me—bringing the band toward my tempo, guiding me back into the pocket. The others adjusted to the bassline. I found my rhythm. By the second verse, I was finally playing like myself—bold, clear, unafraid.

The solo came. I stepped between Tony and the drums, channeling every EoT show we’d ever played. The crowd fed off it, like they were watching the past and present of X-Mass collide.

For five minutes, I wasn’t a kid playing dress-up. I was an equal.

By the time the song ended, I was wrecked. Five minutes on that stage had taken everything out of me. The weight of a crowd this size didn’t hit your fingers—it hit your lungs, your bones, your head.

And I finally understood why they medicated so heavily. Doing this every night—at their age—was insane.

I stumbled off stage into Skye’s arms. Stan gave me a firm pat on the back, pride in his eyes.

I’d made it through. Just one song. But that was all I needed.

***

I woke up around 2 a.m., still groggy, the last echoes of adrenaline fading. The only people left were the stagehands, slowly dismantling the chaos—returning the stage to an empty airplane hangar.

“Welcome back,” Skye said, her smile soft and warm.

“Thanks,” I was still groggy.

“Stan invited us to the after party at the hotel—he said it was X-Mass’s suites.”

“If you want to go, we can,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “But I promise it’s sadder than you’re imagining.”

“I figured… I’d rather just talk to them after the tour is over.”

“Oh, why is that?”

“Stevie and Tony were talking to Stan before they left—they really want us to write a couple of songs with them for the next album.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I’ll believe that when I hear it from the source.”

We made it back to the hotel a little before three. We thought about swinging by the party—just to say we did—but neither of us hit the elevator button for the eleventh floor.

The best parts of the festival were the quiet ones.

We decided to end it on one.

***

The rehearsals with EoT before leaving for tour were rough. Not musically—we sounded tight. Every song locked in. The performances were clean and consistent.

But I felt like a hired hand.

I ignored it for two weeks after Heavy Tulsa. Told myself it would sort itself out once we hit the road. But the night before we left, I couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

We were finishing up at the practice space when I broke the silence.

“Hey,” I said, loud enough to cut through the tension. “Does anyone have something they want to say to me before we’re stuck on a bus for the next three months?”

Awkward glances flew across the room like shrapnel. For a moment, I thought they’d let it pass.

“Fine,” Kenny muttered, barely loud enough to hear. “What the fuck was that Tulsa thing?”

I raised an eyebrow.

“One minute Stan’s ripping into us for last year, acting like we shouldn’t even be there. The next, you’re onstage with X-Mass like you’re their kid brother. And suddenly, you’re all over social media.”

I nodded. “That was a last-minute call. Stan wanted to capitalize on Chasing Ghosts—use me to sell the tour.”

Scott shook his head. “Yeah, well, it felt like a message: ‘Follow the rules, get replaced.’”

“Maybe it was,” I said quietly. “But I didn’t party. I didn’t even see my brother. I showed up, played the gig, and tried to elevate our brand.”

“Elevate our brand,” Kenny scoffed. “You’ve been around Stan too long. Listen to yourself—brand, campaign—you sound like a fucking sellout.”

I took a breath. “Sure. I won’t argue with that.”

The silence was heavier after that.

Jim cleared his throat. “Guys, what are we really trying to say here? Wes held down the fort. He gave us something to come back to.”

“I don’t blame Wes,” Scott added. “He did what we were supposed to do. I just… I feel like a voyeur in my own dream.”

His eyes drifted to Kenny.

“If I knew it would turn out like this, I would’ve preferred if you’d killed me in your dad’s living room.”

“Scott—don’t,” I cut in. “I pushed him too far. He had every right to lash out. But don’t forget—you were smoking heroin in the van like a fucking loser.”

“Stop,” Jim snapped. “We’re not getting anywhere like this.”

We all leaned back against the walls of the practice space, avoiding each other’s eyes.

Finally, I asked, “Scott, you’re the leader—what would you have done if I didn’t come back?”

He hesitated, then spoke.

“After the tour, I figured you were gone. I wanted to find a new guy. Record a few songs. Show them to Jason and try to book a spring run with any band who’d take us. Then, if things picked up, we’d ride that into a summer tour, then maybe start writing again by winter.”

I laughed. “So what changed when I came back? Why’d you retreat?”

“Guilt,” he admitted. “And insecurity. I knew the back half of the tour was a disaster. And if you were back, what could I contribute that you couldn’t? All I can really do better is sing.”

“Scott… I’ve always trusted your leadership. I still do. Can we move forward?”

We met in the middle of the room and hugged.

Jim smiled. “That’s one.”

I turned to Kenny. “What’s holding you back?”

His jaw tightened. “I hate what this band has become. And yeah—I hate you.”

I let the words hang.

“Everyone treats you like the victim. Especially Maggie. But I don’t see it that way. You’ve been pulling strings from the beginning—manipulating people’s feelings. And now you’re looking to ditch us, probably go solo, because you think we’re beneath you.”

His eyes snapped to Scott. “And you—you were supposed to be my brother. Instead, you imploded after Dallas and disappeared when things got hard.”

Jim stepped toward him, voice firm. “Say whatever you want about Wes, but don’t come at Scott. You ran too. You folded. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Jim’s voice cracked. “I know what you used to say about me, Kenny. I wasn’t proud of who I was. But when this band needed me—I didn’t flinch.”

Kenny’s face fell. Jim had hit something raw.

“So you’re just fine with Wes?” Kenny asked. “You’re okay that he’s halfway out the door, ready to bail the second it suits him?”

Scott smiled, calm now. “Kenny, that doesn’t matter. Not tonight. We’ve got an arena tour starting tomorrow. We’ve got a top-5 single. The future can wait. We have to show up now.”

It wasn’t perfect. But it was honest.

And for the first time in months, we pulled together.

We were ready to open for the most notorious rock band in the world.