By John Cosper

The light of a new day blurs my vision as I finally open my eyes somewhere around noon. Gradually, my pupils adjust to the light, and my tiny apartment comes into focus. The TV is still on, broadcasting pirated music videos from the cable pirated from the apartment downstairs. I glance over at the wall adjacent the TV at my guitar collection. It took a lifetime of working, dreaming, and scheming to acquire all these guitars. My mind races back to last night, once again pondering which guitar will be sold for this month's rent check. It's a shame. A rock god must have not one, but a menagerie at his disposal.

Of course, a rock god also needs a band, and that minor detail continues to be the thorn in my flesh.

The throbbing in my temple reminds me of the previous night's drinking, but also of the reason I am now awake. That was the phone ringing, wasn't it? A flashing red light on the answering machine five feet away seems to back that theory. Probably a bill collector, Capital One or maybe the phone company wanting a payment that's already a month past due. You'll get paid one day when I'm rich and famous... or when my family liquidates my assets after I die of starvation. Whichever comes first.

It's the call of nature that drives me from the couch. I stare in the mirror a short while, then stagger back into the den, pushing the play button on the answering machine. I expect to hear a bill collector, the landlord, anything but what I hear instead.

"Chuck!! Hey, it's Steven down at the Vogue. I'm in a serious jam, man, and I need a motivated guy like you."

Steven Porter is a liar. All promoters are, but Steven's particularly heinous because we grew up together. I dreamed about being the rock star, while he dreamed about inheriting Daddy's concert hall and promoting my shows. Steven got his dream when Dad took a drunken ride into a concrete flood wall. Then he got a broken jaw the one and only time he booked my band... then cut us at the request of the headliner.

"I know we've had our problems, bud." Darn right we have. "But I need a rider man for tonight's show. Road manager's chewing my butt to get a certain errand taken care of, and he's willing to listen to your stuff if you'll help."

What?

"This guy's a player, man. And I wouldn't mess with you on a thing like this because I don't need another cracked jaw. Get here soon as you can, man. Sooner! I don't want to give this to someone else."

So some prima donna's in town with a high powered manager, wants something ethically questionable. That's what rider contracts are all about, meeting every material, carnal need the so-called talent might require. Anything from the Monkees and their vegetarian cuisine to the hookers and cocaine loved by vintage metal bands.

Odds are good this is going to be illegal. But who am I to argue? I'm twenty-five years old, six months from being outside the MTV demographic myself. And who wants to make a millionaire rock star out of an old timer?

I dress quickly and make for the door, taking the back stairway in case the landlord happens to be in his office. You'll get paid, old man. If this deal's half as good as Steven made it out to be, and if I don't get locked up myself, you'll get your precious rent money. And I'll get a better place to live.

Twenty minutes and I'm outside the Vogue Theater, an institution in this town full of classic theaters. Steven's father saw to it she was the first to be renovated when the city started her clean up downtown initiative. Steven's hard luck as a promoter meant she had slid most of the way back to her former decrepit self. I'd feel pity for the guy if he hadn't played such a huge part in keeping me out of the music world.

"Holy crap, look who it is!" I turn toward the familiar voice of a former band mate, Nick McConnell. I recognize him, and the amplifier he's unloading out the back of his Blazer. It was mine before he stole it. "You think you can just show up, play like a rock star now, Chuck?"

"Actually, I was invited. Steven called me."

"Must need an extra janitor, huh?" Nick turns and walks into the theater as if I was never there, carrying my equipment - my equipment! It wasn't my fault my car broke down that night outside Shelbyville. Nick pulled up, took all the gear in his van, and left a message on my machine two days later, saying I was out of the band. Acid Reign, the band I started, threw me out. I'd jack his jaw harder than I did Steven's that night if the opportunity of a lifetime wasn't waiting inside.

Steven's on his cell phone, chain smoking as I enter the lobby. There's a no smoking ordnance in this town, but Steven, like most of the artists he books, ignores it. He flags me down without missing a beat on his phone call, leading me through the auditorium.

"No! Glen, no meats. Do you hear me? Jeremy Duncan's a very sensitive vegetarian. If he sees meat... Glen, what do you think? Of course turkey counts as meat!"

Jeremy Duncan? Good thing he never mentioned that on the phone. The whiny king of the Emo Rock scene was a local boy who got his start wailing his sad songs about not getting any at local coffee houses. As with most artists his ascent to fame and fortune had to do more with luck than talent. A friend of a friend booked him to open for Dashboard Confessional on a college campus, and the rest is history. I can only imagine what felony I will have to commit in service of his vanity.

Steven leads me backstage through a maze of lights, speakers, and catering tables full of vegetarian-friendly breakfast. I can see Nick and the boys setting up their gear. Acid Reign, opening for Jeremy Duncan. Talk about selling your soul for a shot of fame.

Who am I kidding? My soul's on the table, waiting for an offer.

The table is in a small room near the artist's dressing rooms, barely larger than a closet with a chair, a stool, a laptop, a duffel bag, and a man of about fifty flashing a devilish smile that would make a politician leery.

"Is this my boy?"

"Hang on, Glen." Steven finally takes a breath, then introduces us. "Chuck, this is Dana Peters. He's Jeremy Duncan's road manager."

"A pleasure." The man's iron grip nearly jerks my arm out of socket as he shakes my hand vigorously. "Steven tells me you're quite the song writer and guitar player."

A chill hits my spine like nothing I've ever felt. Steven praising my skills as a song writer? I shoot a glance at my "old friend," who flashes me a thumbs up. What have you dragged me into?

I let ten years of self promotion take over as I tell Mr. Peters about my writing, my ambitions, and endless sacrifices I have made in the name of the only lover that matters to me: music. I can't tell if he's interested or not, but he sure plays the part of the good listener well.

"Sacrifice is what it's all about, Chuck. I've been in this business thirty years, and I gotta tell ya, I don't have time for slackers not willing to sell everything they have to take hold of the pearl. You know what I'm saying?" Peters sounds sincere enough, a smooth tongue devil if I ever heard one.

"I'll do whatever it takes. Moving, lessons, whatever, man."

He smiles, then turns to Steven. "He'll do. You mind giving us a few moments alone?"

Steven's still fighting with someone about whether or not pimento cheese is a vegan to hear anything. He catches the hand signal and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Dana sits back in a relaxed posture. "What do you know about Jeremy Duncan?"

"Local boy hit it big, just like I hope to do." Actually, he's a talentless wannabe whose puppy dog eyes made millions forgive his lack of talent and buy his albums like it was oxygen, and I hear he once wet himself while getting beat up in the gym locker room. It's a lie I tell, but I'd profess a love for Barry Manilow if it got me signed.

"Jeremy's a great talent," said Peters. "He's made an awful lot of money for himself, for me, and for other people. Four-point-five million copies of his first album alone."

No accounting for the taste of the masses. "Yeah, I read Billboard."

"Jeremy connected with people by crafting songs that speak to the pain, loss, and heartache in all of us. That's why he's loved, Chuck. But there's a problem."

I almost blurted out "crack habit," but decided it's best not to speak out of turn. "What's that, Mr. Peters?"

"He's happy. And happy Emo singers write lousy songs, you know what I'm saying?"

"I think so," I say. "If you're happy in you know it, how do you write a sad song?"

"And Jeremy's too honest an artist to 'lie' to his fans, as he puts it. I've been reading his latest efforts and let me tell you, it's not pretty."

Neither was his first album. "Something I can do to help?"

Dana pulls a pair of gloves out of his back pocket, snapping them on his hands. "This is not the first time I've had an artist in a creative funk." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a padded manila envelope about four inches thick. "There are ways of restoring the magic, and you, my friend, are about to become the catalyst for writing Jeremy's new album."

The gloves on his hands mean my prints and not his are the only ones registering on the envelope, which he tells me to open. Seeing how I've already stepped into whatever crime he wishes me to commit, I decide to open the envelope and find how far my rock and roll dream will take me.

It's way farther than I imagined.

"Jeremy had a girl here. Her name is Alyssa."

I look at the photos in my right hand. The girl is very petite, with a thin face and a slender nose. Her eyes are a dark brown, her hair is long and black. There's a seductive quality about the eyes that intrigues me. Yet as devastatingly beautiful as she is, my eyes are drawn from the photos to the gun I now hold in my left hand.

"She needs to die."

It's a small gun, like the Walther PPK James Bond uses in the movies. I turn it over in my hand, realizing that this is a real gun, and I have been asked to become an assassin.

"This is in the rider contract? You want me to... kill some girl?"

"Not just any girl," said Dana. "And while terms like murder, kill, don't appear in the contract, the agreement does state that certain off the record tasks will need to be fulfilled."

Now that's a new one. I thought J-Lo's demand for all white dressing area complete with all white furniture was odd. But murder? I suddenly find myself wishing all he wanted was drugs.

"I don't suppose there's any use asking why she has to die."

"Jeremy's made too much money to feel sad. Money's bought too many friends to feel alienated."

"So a little tragedy into his perfect world becomes the recipe to a second hit album."

Peters smiles, the devil pleased with his newest servant. "You're going to go far, Chuck. I can see it now."

A hundred sirens are going off in my brain, telling me to drop the gun and walk away. I do my best to shut them off completely.

"You ready to become a star?"

I answer his question with one of my own. "Where do I find her?"

Ten minutes later, Sabbath is blaring over my car speakers as I head east to the Highlands neighborhood, the artsy section of town. I almost don't make it a block as a mini-van with two guys who look like they leaped out of a Wham! video. They glare at me like it's my fault I was driving down the road they wanted to drive.

Ozzy and the boys can't drown out the thoughts I'm having about becoming a murderer. I look at the angel face in the photo on the passenger seat and day dream it's her sitting there. She's beautiful, and if she went for a guy like Jeremy, surely she's into other musicians. I can't help but think she'd find someone with real talent more appealing than that whiny-voiced minstrel.

I can feel the gun digging into my thigh as I make a hard right turn. If my ticket to fame is murder, what did Jeremy Duncan do to earn his fame? I can't imagine a little scrub like him pulling the trigger on someone. Then again, I wonder if I'll be able to go through with this. We're all after the same thing. Is the price this high for everyone?

Alyssa works at a women's second hand clothing store, a place called Double Take. The shop is on the corner, next to Better Days record store and across the street from Drewer's Coffee Shop. I hate coffee, but the place has big windows, making it the ideal place to check out the clothing store. I grab a Jones Soda and the local arts rag and take a table right by the window.

I'd almost swear that was Wham! driving past my car down the street. The mini-van is the same color, and the driver... Eh, where else in this town would a pair of odd jobs like that fit in? I focus my mind back on the task at hand, letting my eyes stretch into the clothing store. A couple Goth chicks, a mother and daughter, some preppy college girl trying to look trendy.

Alyssa.

She's even more beautiful than her photo, dressed in a peasant shirt and jeans. Her hair is down, and she simply looks magnificent. A guy like Jeremy Duncan got an angel like this? The very idea fills me with a murderous rage that makes this seem easy. If only she weren't so beautiful.

The fewer people in the store when I do this the better. Figure chat her up a bit, get her into a back room, it'll be over before she knows it's coming. I'll shoot her in the chest. It might not be as lethal, but there's no way I could destroy a face like that.

I sip my soda slowly, watching the customers trickle in and out of Double Take. There's only preppy college girl in there now, and I see Alyssa's co-worker leave the store with her purse. Must be lunch time. All the better for me. I wonder what the reaction will be when this woman, much older than Alyssa, returns to find her lying in a pool of blood behind a dressing room door.

The soda bottle hits the trash can instead of the recycle bin, provoking a cry from the tree-hugging coffee jockey behind the counter as I move out the door. Might not have been the best idea, drawing attention to myself. I'm too busy to worry over that, too focused on my new-found status as a murderer as I cross the street.

It feels as if everyone on the street may be watching me. I catch the glances of pot heads, carrying their bongos to the coffee house; an out of place soccer mom shuttling the kids to after school music lessons; a pair of gangsta wannabes with their corn rows, looking out from an old Chrysler as Snoop flows from the speakers. It's paranoia, I know, but give me a break. It's my first murder.

Fate smiles on me; the college girl walks out the door as I walk in. Alyssa, face of an angel, turns to greet me. "Hello, there!"

"Hey," I say, walking to the counter. I realize I can pop her right here. It will all be over and my music career can begin. I start to reach for the gun until I hear the door chime. Another customer. This is not going to be easy. I don't even realize I'm acting odd until Alyssa asks if she can help me.

"Just looking around, I guess," I tell her.

"For a friend, a sister?"

"Myself."

"In here?" She smiles; it's intoxicating. "I don't know if we'll have anything that will flatter your body type."

I come to my senses, my hand falling back to my side. "Who said I was looking for something to wear?"

Her eyes light up. "A ha. I didn't think you were our typical male client. There are some who prefer the feminine look."

"Not me," I assure her. "I like the feminine look, but I prefer to see it on someone like yourself."

The little old lady who came in the store asks Alyssa if they have a particular pair of jeans in a different size. It's amazing how some people don't get the concept of second hand clothing. Alyssa tries to convince her that everything in the store is unique. She's patient, she's very kind. I'd have yelled at the old bag and sent her packing. It's a pity such a delightful girl is being wasted on a punk like Jeremy Duncan.

I'll soon fix that problem; gosh, am I really going to do this?

"Some people," she says. "You gotta wonder what they're thinking."

"Or if they think," I say. "I'm Chuck."

"Hi, Chuck, I'm Alyssa."

"Pretty name," I tell her.

"It's all right. So what do you do when you're not window shopping for second hand clerks?"

"Well, I'm a guitar player."

Her face goes stone cold. The open window of her eyes shuts, and her entire demeanor changes. "That's a shame."

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"I'm sorry. It's just that I swore off musicians two days ago. Used to be all I would date. But, uh, well, I guess you could say I grew up."

Ouch.

"Some scumbag broke your heart, eh?"

"Try several scumbags. I used to think it was only drummers, but come to find out pretty much every musician is a waste of my time."

"I don't know about that." I shouldn't care about this if she's going to be dead in a few minutes, but I guess I have something to prove about my worth before I end her life.

"Do you have a job?" she asks.

"My music is my job," I tell her.

"No sense of responsibility. That's one. You have a girlfriend?"

"Would I have hit on you if I did?"

"My experience says yes," she says.

"Maybe you just haven't experienced the right guy," I tell her. Granted, I'm not the most faithful guy. I cheated on my last three girlfriends. In fact I was dating two of them at the same time and cheated with a third girl, twice. She looked like Salma Hayek, though, so it had to be done. But there's no use explaining that to this chick.

"Look," she says, "You seem like a nice guy. You wanna talk music, be friends, I got no problems with that. Matter of fact, my dad owns a rock club. Give me your name and number, I can have him book you any time you want. That's all most guys want from me anyhow. Who do you play with?"

"No one at the moment," I sheepishly admit. This is going on too long.

"I see. Well, when you get a band, bring me a flier. But as for dates..."

Anger brings the gun out and thrusts it in her face, provoking a shocked, wide-eyed reaction. She drops the sweater she was folding and looks up into my eyes. NOW I have her attention. "You know, maybe one date won't hurt. Some place public. Very, VERY public."

"You have a back room?" I ask. She starts to well up with tears. Those eyes with tears, it's almost too much. I force myself to remain stone-faced as she leads me into the back of the store.

"Please don't rape me." she begs.

"What?"

"Please, just don't rape me. Take whatever you want, but not that."

"Relax, I'm not here to rape you. Gosh, you really think we musicians are evil, don't you?"

"You're holding a gun on me."

"That's because I'm here to kill you."

Her eyes widen larger than before, tears flowing freely. "This is supposed to make me believe musicians are not evil?"

"It's not me," I say. "It's your ex."

"My ex?"

"Well, actually, his manager. He sent me here."

"Wow." She gulps hard. "And here I thought you just had a problem with rejection."

I hear the door chime signaling that I've hesitated too long. Alyssa's eyes look past me out into the store. I put a finger to my lips, holding the gun on her as I step toward the door looking out--

And nearly get my head shot off as some jerk unloads an automatic weapon in my direction. I dive forward, instinctively tackling Alyssa to protect her - though God only knows why! Alyssa's crying and screaming as bullets rip the store apart.

"Is there a way out?" I shout.

"Back door!" She starts to crawl, and I follow. I fire a few shots behind us, hitting the door frame as the power of the gun nearly sprains my wrist.

I pull Alyssa to her feet as we run out the back door. The gun is in her side, and I think for a second to pull the trigger. But the odd job in the back alley with spiky bleached hair and the white jumpsuit holding an Uzi makes me hesitate.

"That's far enough," he says. The accent is clearly faux-British, and I know immediately who he is.

"Simon LeFors," I say.

"What?" Alyssa looks at me, then him. "Oh my gosh it is!"

"Shut up!" the former boy band pin-up shouts. It's Simon all right. I'd recognize that young George Michael wannabe anywhere. And coming out the back door of the store I see the other half of the Playground Fellaz T.J. Sparks.

"You were following me. In the mini-van."

"Very observant," said Simon.

"This has got to be the worst nightmare I ever had!" Alyssa says. "It's like karma getting me back for all the swearing I've done about musicians this week."

"Relax, honey," I say. "They're not musicians."

"We are so!!" Simon steps closer, a trembling, angry hand holding an automatic weapon in my face. "We are GREAT musicians!"

"You were a fad," I tell him. Heck, if I'm gonna die, might as well meet my maker being honest. "Just like the New Kids, Menudo, N'Sync."

He strikes me with a dainty back slap that makes me laugh. he drives the tip of the gun into my forehead. Sissy or no, he's got a gun.

"It's too public, Simon," T.J. says. "Take them back inside."

"You're right," he says. "Inside, both of you."

T.J. takes my gun as we file back inside. Simon runs to the front door, locking it, while T.J. secures the back door.

"This is unbelievable," Alyssa says. "I'm about to be killed by a boy band."

"Tell me about it," I say.

"Hey, you were going to kill me a few minutes ago!"

"Yes, and now we're both going to die. As if my life as a rock and roller hasn't been star-crossed enough."

"Oh shut up!" she tells me.

"Shut up, both of you!" Simon orders. I bite my tongue, stifling laughter. I should be scared to die, but the irony of being held at gun point by boy band wimps with Uzis is just too much.

"You two should be proud," says T.J. "You're about to revive the career of the greatest boy band in history."

So that's it. "You talked to Peters?"

"That's right," Simon says. "We've been following him for months, waiting for just the right opportunity for redemption. Dana gave us the same deal he gave you. Kill the girl, become stars."

"Kill me, become a star?" Alyssa looks at me, then back at Simon. "Why?"

"We've been stuck in the bottom right corner of the Hollywood Squares the last four years!" Simon shouts.

"And frankly, we're tired of being the punch line for so many of VH-1's flashback shows," T.J. adds.

"So you do the job instead of me, you get to be stars?" I ask.

"Peters is already writing songs for us," Simon says proudly.

I turn to Alyssa. "See what I mean? They can't even write their own songs."

"I've had about enough of you!" Simon snaps, striking me again in the face. Maybe it's courage, maybe it's a sheer lack of respect for a boy band with machine guns, but next thing I know both my fists fly up into Simon's crotch. He yelps and squeezes the trigger which, because I moved forward, is now aimed at T.J.'s leg, nearly blowing his foot off. T.J. screams and instinctively fires back, multiple bullets ripping a hole in Simon's chest. A very shocked Simon fires back, shooting T.J. in the face and insuring their next career move will be the Hall of Pop Stars Dead Too Young... Or not soon enough, depending on your point of view.

It's another minute before Alyssa looks up from her crouched position, hands over her head. She covers her face soon as she sees the blood spurting from Simon's chest, then glances back to see the bloody mess that is T.J. Instinctive chivalry tells me to make sure she's okay, and that chivalry distracts me from what should be my next move, securing a gun.

Which is why a moment later, I am on my knees, with Alyssa standing over me holding Simon's Uzi.

"Okay," she says. "You're gonna start from the beginning. Who are you?"

"My name is Chuck. I'm a guitar player. Used to play with Acid Reign, until they revolted and kicked me out. A promoter friend called me in this morning and introduced me to your boyfriend's manager--"

"Ex-boyfriend!" she corrects me.

"And he promised to make me a star if I fulfilled his artist's rider contract... which said I had to kill you."

"He sent you here to kill me?"

I nod.

Alyssa looks away. Both hands lower under the weight of the gun. "I can't believe he wants me dead."

"It's his manager," I tell her. "He says he's not 'inspired' enough to write music. So he wanted to create some heartache."

The gun comes back up quickly. "So you agreed to do it, without questioning why! Is your music that important? You selfish pig, is it that important?"

"Music is my life!" I tell her. I've said it a hundred times, but it never sounded so empty as now.

"That's a pretty stupid reason for someone to die."

I look at Simon and T.J. She's right. People have died for the glory of music for years, and what do they get for their trouble? An early end to life. Life would be nothing without my music, but it sure beats taking an eternal dirt nap at the age of 27 like so many before me.

"I suppose it is." I stand up, Alyssa's trembling hands still holding the gun. She scares me more than the Playground Fellaz did, largely because she's so worked up, so I move slowly.

"Just stay right there," she demands. "You hear me?"

"I'm not going to hurt you," I promise.

"Why not? Because I have the gun now? Hmm?"

"You're right about this whole thing," I tell her. "It's insanity."

"And you're insane!"

"Yeah," I say. There's a long, silent moment, as two people thrown together by a homicidal talent manager try to stared into each other's eyes. They're so beautiful. They'd look a heck of a lot nicer across a table in a dimly lit rock bar than they do right here behind an Uzi. Not that I'll ever have the chance to test that theory.

"So what do we do now?" I say.

"You have a car?" she asks.

"I do."

"Good. I walked it today."

"You want a ride home?"

She motions for the door. "We are going to talk to my ex, and get you and this psycho thrown in jail."

"Me in jail?" I shake my head. "Why would I help you do that?"

"Because I'm holding the gun!"

"You're gonna shoot me?" I say. "That would make you as bad as me. Worse, I haven't killed anyone yet."

"No, but I'm the one having a really SUCKY day!"

She makes a good point. Plus I figure I can cut a deal and hand over Peters for a reduced sentence. We leave the Playground Fellaz to rot where they are. Alyssa puts the gun in her purse which, being made from a pair of cut off jeans, more than conceals the deadly weapon. She places one phone call to her co-worker, telling her to call the police before she returns from lunch and warning her not to slip in the mess in the back office. A few minutes of silence follow, then we arrive at the Vogue.

"Pull right up front," she demands.

"I'll get towed," I say.

"You're going to jail! You're not going need this car in a few minutes. Now get out."

Alyssa's out before I even have the car in park. I kill the engine and climb out, following her inside. I can hear the familiar strains of Jeremy's hit single "Flood Sorrow" as we walk in the doors. Honestly, walking into a room to hear him play is the scariest thing I've done today.

"Where is he?" she asks.

"Follow the music," I say.

As we walk down the aisle of the auditorium, I take the lead, determined to salvage some sort of goodness out of this nightmare. Jeremy is alone, absorbed in his playing, as I leap on the stage and knock his microphone away.

"Hey!"

"Mr. Duncan, we need to talk."

He smiles nervously, like the small guy in the bar when he realizes the girl he's been hitting on is dating a guy the size of a truck. "Okay... What can I do for you?"

"I've got some bad news for you, pal. Your manager tried to murder your ex-girlfriend."

Alyssa's tapping me on the back, but I'm not hearing her, focused in on the little twerp with the guitar. "Murder? I don't know what you mean."

"Your manager, Mr. Peters sent me out this morning with orders to kill this lovely young woman."

"Dana did what?" he shouts.

Alyssa pulls on my shirt sleeve. "Chuck!"

"You're too rich and happy to write sad songs, so your manager decided to off your lady friend. Did you know that your manager's a murderer?"

Jeremy swallows hard. "I... I..."

"Come on, dummy!" I yell. "Speak!"

He looks at Alyssa. "I... I don't know this woman."

I look back at Alyssa. "I was trying to tell you!"

"He's not your ex-boyfriend?"

"No!"

"Who were you dating?"

I can't believe my eyes as Nick McConnell, my old pal, walks on stage toward Alyssa. "Baby, if you wanted to come to the show, you should have called me."

"Wait," I say. "You dated Nick?"

"You mean you seriously thought I dated Jeremy Duncan? Please!" Alyssa seems insulted, and I don't blame her one bit.

Nick looks up at me. "Chuck what's this all about?"

"You know Nick, five minutes ago, I could tell you, but now..." I turn back to Jeremy, who looks like he's going to faint. "I think we need to have a talk with your manager."

"Yeah," he says. "I think so."

Jeremy puts his guitar down and begins leading us off stage. I can hear Nick behind me. "What's going on here? Alyssa, how do you know Chuck?"

"It's a long story," she says.

"You gonna tell me?" he says.

"You'll hear everything in a minute," Alyssa assures him.

Jeremy leads us into his own dressing room, where Dana Peters is talking with Steven, for once not on his cell phone. He looks up and sees everyone enter. He's a cool cat for sure, not even batting an eye lash when I return with a living, breathing young woman named Alyssa.

"Jeremy? Something the matter?" Dana asks.

Jeremy gestures toward Alyssa and me. "This couple came to me with quite the amazing story."

"Holy crap!" Nick yells. "You're a couple?"

"Shut up, Nick!" Alyssa follows with a slap on the arm to emphasize her point.

Steven looks my way. The guy hasn't got a clue. "Chuck? What's this all about? Did you fulfill the contract?"

"No, Steven, I didn't," I begin. "And let me tell you why. This morning, Mr. Peters here handed me a gun and a photo of Alyssa. He told me she was Jeremy's lady love, and if I would kill her, he would offer me a recording deal."

Steven looks around. "Who's Alyssa?"

A very annoyed Alyssa waves at the promoter. "Right here!"

Nick steps closer to me, playing the big man he isn't. "You tried to kill her?"

"Back, down, cowboy, I saved her life."

"You tried to kill me!" Alyssa interjects.

"Okay, I did. I walked in her store, took her in the back room, and was about to shoot her when these two clowns formerly known as Playground Fellas burst in with automatic weapons."

"The Playground Fellaz?" Steven says. "I thought that was them I saw this morning! You told me--"

"Quiet," Dana speaks, still placid as ever. "Go on, Chuck."

"Turns out Mr. Peters offered them the same deal he gave me. Wax the girl, get a record contract. Lucky for us, the boy band gang bangers wasted each other. I told Alyssa the story, and she insisted we come to talk to her boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend!" Alyssa adds.

"Which is me," Nick says, "Or was until a few days ago."

Jeremy turns sternly to his manager. "Dana, I'm shocked. What do you have to say about this?"

Dana smiled. "What would you like me to say, Jeremy?"

"Tell me you can clean this mess!" Jeremy snapped. "This was supposed to be a clean operation. I gave you an album that will sell a hundred million copies, and all I needed in return was a body!"

All heads turn to Jeremy, no longer the little weenie, but a man clearly in charge. "Wait," I say. "You already wrote the album?"

"My listeners are sheep. Any idiot can write a sad sack love song. All I needed was a story, a tragic romance that would break open their hearts and wallets."

"So you chose me?" Alyssa says. "Why?"

"Well, after listening to this sap cry in his beer for three hours about how he wished she would die," Jeremy points at Nick, "I felt sorry for him. I figured it might ease his pain to see you dead."

Alyssa turns accusingly to Nick, eyes demanding an explanation. "Hey, look, babe, I might have said some things in anger, but I didn't really want you dead!"

"Be careful what you wish for," Dana adds.

"So I don't get it," clueless Steven chimes in. "How did Chuck end up almost killing this girl?"

"It's in the rider agreement!" Jeremy yells. "But now instead of two bodies, we have one, two, three, four people to dispose of!"

"Two bodies?" I say. "You were going to kill me?"

"Actually," Dana says, "I was counting on the Playground Fellaz."

"They kill me, and the guy who murdered Alyssa is found. Case closed."

Dana nods. "Though had you killed them instead, I would have lived up to my end of the deal."

Nick's hands go up in defense. "Hey, look fellas, do what you want with them, but I'd be happy to keep my mouth shut."

Alyssa glared at Nick. "You coward. You wonder why I broke up with you?"

"Enough!" Jeremy turns to Dana. "I'll finish this myself."

Dana picks up his bag, still the cool customer, and opens it. Jeremy reaches inside and pulls out a handgun. Nick continues babbling for mercy, while Steven remains a few minutes behind.

"Hey, is that a gun?"

Jeremy brings the gun up with both hands, and once again, chivalry sends me into action. He aims at Alyssa, and my feet launch me in that direction. The noise is deafening, and I see the bullet fly into my hip, now positioned in front of Alyssa, in slow motion.

Normal speed resumes as I hit the ground. I feel tiny soft hands on my face, and faintly hear Alyssa calling to me. A blurry shape blocks my view of Jeremy. It's Nick, playing the hero, wrestling the gun away. Well, he wrestled in high school. Good old Nick. I wonder if I'll see him soon...

I hear the machines. It sounds like a hospital room. That's the life support monitor - or whatever it's called - beeping away. I can't feel much below my chest. I move a hand, then open my eyes. I almost think the whole Jeremy Duncan ordeal was a bad dream, but then I see the two men in the room.

"He's awake!" It's Nick.

"Well hello there." It's Dana. "We were wondering if you'd join us for this meeting."

I groan, unable to ask why, of all people, the two of them have come to see me. I think about Alyssa, hoping to God she's alright.

"Chuck, I hope you can hear me," Nick says. "We've got some great news."

I want to tell him to jump out a window, but all I manage is, "Huh?"

"You're a hero, Chuck," Dana says. "You saved the life of a lovely young woman. Your buddy's girlfriend."

I look at Nick, then Dana. "Hmm."

"Jeremy Duncan got him drunk, and found out about this girl he knew," Dana tells me. "He was going to murder her, then pretend she was his girlfriend. He had a whole album of sad songs for this dead girl already written. But you, you stepped in and saved the life of this innocent young woman. Even though you had no reason!"

"Sure, man, we kicked you out of the band! You want nothing to do with us, right?"

Boy, he got that right!

"But after your sacrifice," Nick goes on, "How can we stay mad? We want you back in the band."

"And I'm sending you on tour," Dana adds. "Once we release the album."

"And the videos!"

"Of course, Nick," Dana looks at me. "The videos."

I decide to go for it, put together a sentence. "I'm not... in trouble?"

"In trouble for what, pal?" Dana says. "You were never involved in the murder plot."

"Yeah?"

"Jeremy's going to do a little time. And when he gets out, he'll be bigger and badder than ever. Meantime, I'm going to make rock legends out of you, Nick, and Acid Reign."

I'm out of it, but it makes sense. The devil will never be punished for sin. It's the sinners, the artists under his power, that do his bidding and pay the price. So this time it was Jeremy. Next time...

"All we need are a few signatures, pal," Nick informs me. "We still have our studio recordings from a year ago. Dana's gonna augment them, make us sound really great."

"Slash is re-recording your solos!" Dana says.

"By the time you've healed, the album will be out, we'll be in rehearsals. Steven's already got us a tour bus and everything. He's gonna be co-managing us with Dana!"

"Your dream come true." A wicked smile accompanies Dana's promise.

Nick takes my hand. "What do you say, pal? Acid Reign rides again?"

I pull my hand away, and I tell Nick and Dana where they and their devil's bargain can go. Thankfully, that's all they need to hear. A shrug, a few profanities, and my rock and roll dream walks out the door.

Eight weeks pass. For a time I honestly didn't want to step on another stage, but a phone call from a local club owner changes my mind. Song writer's contest, $1000 prize to the winner. Someone had put my name in. The promoter won't tell me who, but assures me it's not a grown man with a girly name, so off I go.

Two bottles of Honey Brown and I'm ready to go on stage, buzzed but aware. My stomach still hurts, so I can't do the high, wailing notes. That's okay. My guitar work can speak louder than my voice.

The MC introduces me, and I take the stage to scattered applause. It's such a joke. One of the bands in the contest brought all their friends to the show. With the audience choosing the winner, I have no chance. No one's even looking my way...

Except Alyssa.

Suddenly it comes clear. This is her Dad's club. She got me the invite. She's giving musicians a second chance.

No, she's giving me a second chance.

I smile, and sing for an audience of one, an angel who showed me the true meaning of redemption. I just hope she doesn't realize my new song about the stuck up princess who doesn't appreciate the poetry of an artist's heart is about her.

Copyright 2006 by John Cosper