It was our third time on the Overcast Summer lineup, but our first time since getting signed to a major label—Concinnity Records—and going gold. There was a feeling of returning to normalcy that lasted a whole five minutes when we arrived. Then I could feel the stares; hear the whispers.

How the hell did they get famous before us?

Rhett's the only reason anyone looks at them.

They don't deserve it.

I bet they're stuck-up now.

Chris Ellington on TV? Is that a joke?

My best friend and our band's lead guitarist, Rhett, heard the whispers too, and he was insistent on changing everyone's mind about us with an opening night party at his friend Kev's house. Andy and Ryan, the bassist and drummer of our band, left before us to prep while Rhett worked on convincing me.

"Come on, Chris! This isn't like all the other parties, dude. This is our first Overcast since going gold. We can't have everyone thinking our lead singer is stuck up now."

Rhett's hazel eyes burned with intensity as he watched me from the doorway to the back bus lounge. With a pointed sigh, I lowered my handheld game and returned his glare, grimacing exaggeratedly at his tousled blonde hair dyed pink as he rolled his eyes. Honestly, I was used to it by then, but initially it had provoked a very physical cringe from me when he did it the year before.

"I've never gone to parties, Rhett. I haven't changed," I said for probably the fifth time.

He crossed his arms and scowled, looking a lot like a little kid not getting his way. "Bro, you have to come! Literally everyone is coming. I already talked to all the bands. You'd be the only one who thinks you're above parties," he insisted.

"Dude, I don't think I'm above parties. I just don't like them. They're not fun."

Rhett plopped down on the couch beside me in defeat with a heavy sigh. I returned my attention to my game, figuring the conversation was finally done. Then Rhett laid down and started slowly scooting closer to me, continuing until his head was nearly touching my leg. I shot him a glare past my game, making eye contact, then focused on the game again. I hoped it was clear I didn't care about whatever he was going to say next.

"That poor guy isn't even gonna get to meet you," he sighed dejectedly.

I paused my game and looked down at him through tight lids. "What?"

He looked at me with puppy dog eyes. "Yeah, I invited those guys from that new band that did their soundcheck after us. The Mezcla, I think. One of them seemed to really want to meet you."

I thought back to the band that went on after us and felt a chill run down my spine. I bumped into one of those guys backstage... and he looked mad.

"Who was it?" I asked nervously.

Rhett hummed for a moment while he thought, then clicked his tongue. "I don't remember his name, but he's the one that was shredding."

Fuck. That guy.

"That doesn't even make sense," I insisted, hiding my fear with annoyance. "You're better at guitar than me. What the hell would he want from me?"

Rhett shrugged. "Don't know, man. But I'm sure he'll be pretty bummed," he said, frowning.

My scowl deepened. "Back up. What exactly did he say?"

Rhett sighed and rolled his eyes. "He said, and I quote, 'Will Chris be there too?'" he mimicked him in a terrible imitation of a Spanish accent. "And I promised him you would. Don't make me a liar, bro."

I swallowed hard, looking back at my paused game. "That's just ... so random."

He pulled himself into a sitting position and leaned in with a sly smile "Maybe he's in love with you."

I punched him in the shoulder with a scowl. "You're an idiot, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said dismissively as he stood. "Grab whatever you need and let's go. And maybe put on some clothes that don't make you look like you play card games all day."

"We still have to play our set tonight!" I protested. We were the headliners, so we were one of the last bands on stage. That left us the day free for setup, but what about the show?

"Chop chop!" he barked with two claps.

He turned on his heel and strode down to the front of the bus before I could protest. I sighed in defeat and got up to start rummaging through my duffel bag for something Rhett would consider more acceptable attire. I pulled out my red chucks and a pair of black skinny jeans—that was the best I could do. Once dressed, I rushed off the bus to meet Rhett and his friend Kev and go to the off-site party location.

The two-story house was massive compared to the one I grew up in back in Chicago. Even so, I wondered how everyone involved in the tour was supposed to fit in there. The foyer quickly filled with liquor and beer, and when it was all inside and we could take a minute to cool off, I decided they were good on the rest without me and went to find a bathroom.

I ran up the stairs and gently knocked and pushed in doors in search of it. The first few doors I pushed open were bedrooms with giant beds. It had only been one night in the bus bunks, and I already missed sleeping in a normal bed. I finally found the bathroom and, before walking out, I tried splashing water on my face to wake up. Somehow, it made me feel more disgusting and exhausted. Instead of rejoining my friends, I snuck into a room for a quick nap.

I must have fallen asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. It felt like as soon as I laid down I was being body-slammed by Rhett, as he always did if he caught me sleeping.

"Dude, what the hell," I complained groggily.

"Get the fuck up dude, set time," he said as he rolled off the bed and onto his feet.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"After eight already."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah dude. You've been sleeping for hours."

I got off the bed groggily and followed Rhett out to Kev's van. He gave us a ride back to the showgrounds, and we headed straight for the main stage with barely enough time to get our guitar straps on. Eight songs and a bunch of free beers later, I was half-wasted and buzzing for more. But then I remembered the party, and my stomach sank.

Kev gave us a ride back, and just about everyone from the showgrounds followed us there for the party. I hurried to the living room once inside to grab a drink before it became nearly impossible to move. Somehow it was already crowded, though. I snuck my way through until I made it to the closest table with liquor and cups on it. I filled a red cup with vodka and grabbed a can of soda from the cooler beside the table and rushed out of the crowded living room.

I met up with Rhett out there, who had two red cups in his hands and gestured with his head for me to follow him. We walked to a sitting room on the opposite side of the house as the living room and settled in on a couch. All too fast for my liking, people started gravitating toward us until we were completely surrounded. I quickly gulped down half the cup of vodka, burning my throat and making myself want to vomit. I took a big sip of the soda to get the taste out of my mouth and tried not to look as miserable as I felt.

Rhett captured all their attention with his charisma as usual and steered the conversation mostly. I spoke to a few people who didn't seem all that interested in Rhett's antics. They were vocalists from other bands on the tour. One had been on the tour a couple times before and seemed much less nervous to speak to me than the others, who were on the Overcast Summer lineup for the first time. One of those vocalists was Mateo, lead singer and rhythm guitarist of The Mezcla. Rhett must have screwed up who it was that asked about me, I figured. That was a relief.

"Bro, let's go do keg stands," Rhett said to me suddenly.

"Oh, hell yeah!" someone from the crowd around us called out.

"I'm good, dude." I had finished my cup of vodka by that point and could already feel the blackout coming on.

"Aw come on, Chris!" someone else yelled out. I could barely keep straight where the voices were coming from.

I looked down at my soda and took a sip. "No, really. I'm gonna sit this one out. I gotta sing tomorrow."

The group filled with oooh's and chatter as one girl said, "Yeah man, we're all playing tomorrow. Loosen up." She and the group laughed.

I'd have probably been embarrassed if I wasn't completely wasted, so instead I just shrugged. Rhett stood and left the room and half the group followed him. The rest dispersed from the couch, finally giving me some space to breathe. I rubbed my eyes as I tried fighting the exhaustion creeping back in. Then I felt someone sit on the couch beside me and looked up.

"Hi," he said.

It was the guitarist of The Mezcla. He wore a backward baseball cap with dark curls poking out the buckle on his forehead, torn black skinny jeans with the knees exposed, black combat boots, and a plain black t-shirt. He had on jewelry too—a shiny silver watch, a silver cross necklace that hung in the center of his chest, and big white diamond earrings. There were a few tattoos scattered around the bronze canvas of his skin, and his face was perfectly smooth. He sat turned toward me with his elbow on the back of the couch, resting his head in his hand as his honey brown eyes watched me through tired lids.

A smile tugged at his full lips as I gawked at him. Maybe Rhett wasn't mistaken. Most importantly, maybe this guy didn't want to kick my ass.

"I'm Rigo," he said easily, taking a sip of his beer. He didn't seem mad.

My curiosity flared, aided by all that alcohol. "I'm Chris. You're in The Mezcla, right?"

He nodded as his smile grew. "Así es."

Shit, how drunk am I? I had no idea what this dude was saying.

"Uh ... what?" I asked.

His eyes widened with realization. "I'm sorry. You don't speak Spanish," he said. It wasn't really a question.

A laugh burst out of me. "No, man. Sorry. I thought I was losing it," I snickered.

He laughed too, seeming to relax. I hadn't even realized he was tense until that moment. Maybe he'd been worried about seeing me, too.

"What does that mean? Your band name, I mean."

"It's like ... the mix." He took another sip of his beer.

"Oh. That's cool."

Fuck. There it was. The lull. But what else could I say?

"How you sing like that?" he asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"Like ... what?"

"Like ... I don't know how to say it," he said with a sigh. "But you don't sing like that on the records."

I was taken aback. "What do you mean? I sing the same on the records as I do live."

He shook his head, smiling again. "No, no. On the records you sound ... boring, honestly."

"Boring?" I asked in disbelief. "What the fuck do you mean, boring?"

He seemed to really enjoy my reaction, exposing his perfect pearly whites in his smile. "I mean your voice is incredible, and I wish your records sounded just like it because it's just not the same after I heard you today."

"What? No, the records are good," I insisted. "I'll redo it a thousand times if I need to when I'm in the studio. The guys fucking hate it, but our records are good."

"So it's your idea to ruin the songs by singing so boring, not the producer?" It seemed like he was screwing with me at that point.

"Dude, there is nothing ruined about it," I disagreed, probably too loudly because I could feel eyes on me. "Our records are clean. That's how they should be."

He pursed his lips but was still somewhat amused. "Sabes qué, you're right."

My eyebrows creased in confusion. "Now I'm right?"

He nodded. "Make them pay to see you in concert if they want to hear your real talent. It's a good strategy."

"It's not a strategy," I countered, a little offended. I scooted closer. "Look, when I sing in the studio I am only singing. I can focus on that and make it perfect. On stage I'm playing guitar too. It's different."

His eyes flashed with confusion for a moment before he seemed to understand. "Right, the guitar. I forgot you play."

"Didn't you say you watched us today?"

"I did. But I couldn't really focus on anything else when you were singing," he said in a low voice as he leaned forward a little, looking at me with an inexplicable intensity.

Huh.

"I ... uh, thanks," I said awkwardly, not really sure how to respond.

"Am I interrupting?" someone else said, and we both looked. It was The Mezcla's drummer, but I didn't know his name.

"Yes," Rigo answered flatly.

The drummer asked something in Spanish which Rigo snapped back at, and he cocked his head to the side and sighed heavily. After a second, he turned to me and cleared his throat, suddenly appearing nervous. That had been happening a lot ever since our song went gold.

"Hey, uh, Chris. Do you mind if Rigo catches a ride back with you? Our singer's kinda sick right now. He overdid it," he said with a nervous laugh.

"Güey," Rigo said, notably annoyed.

"Sure, it's cool," I said. I didn't really know if we had the space but we'd figure it out, I was sure.

Rigo looked back at me quickly, momentarily surprised. He slowly relaxed back into his position and smiled again, biting his bottom lip. It made me feel kinda funny, but I was too drunk to think more about it.

The drummer nodded. "Thanks, man," he said, waving. He looked at Rigo and said something else in Spanish quickly, then walked off. Rigo didn't look away from me.

"What's his name?" I asked him, feeling the room start to spin.

I forgot almost instantly what he said. I didn't know if we sat there talking the whole night or if I got sick and we left. The rest of it all was a nonsensical blur by the time morning came around. I woke up in my bunk ... with Rigo's arms wrapped snugly around me.