GRIT (The Silver Nitrate Series Book 2) by Tiana Laveen Page B

woefully. “Just let me get my foot in the door, that’s all I ask. Besides, we don’t know what’s going to happen. I could get in there and they don’t like me, you know? None of this is guaranteed.”
    Javier looked down at the ground, arms crossed again, but said nothing. Then, he straightened up, put one booted foot in front of the other, and walked the fuck out…
    A feeling of heaviness overwhelmed him. He made to leave and, as he passed Flip, he paused. Grabbing his friend, his band mate, he gave the man daps.
    “Thank you…”
    “You’re welcome. We love you.”
    Zenith nodded, needing to hear those words right about then.
    “I’ll see you when I get back. My flight leaves tomorrow morning. I’ll only be gone a couple of days. I’ll be back here, in time for the next gig. If Javier doesn’t want me, he can say so… but I’ll come, just in case.”
    Flip nodded and gripped his hand, enclosing it in both of his.
    “It’ll all work out. Make sure you call me while you out there.”
    “I will.” Zenith approached the door of the basement, prepared to see himself out. Then, he paused and shot Miguel a look from over his shoulder.
    “Call me a name like that again, and I’ll pick your little ass up and slam you down so hard, you’ll turn to instant dust. No one will be able to save you.”
    “Ohhhhh, scary!” Miguel cackled, laughing his head off.
    Zenith raced towards him and lifted the fucker up by his collar. His feet dangled in the air like some puppet blowing in the wind, and a look of true fear coated the man’s eyes. “Put me… down… man!” he gurgled, his feet swinging frantically. Zenith held on to him for a while, then tossed him in the chair like a bag of old rags. The thing rocked back, threatening to take the bastard down with it. Miguel quickly grabbed the arms of the chair and maintained his balance, all the while looking up at Zenith, not daring to blink or turn away.
    “You showed your true colors with that one tonight, Miguel. That’s like me calling you a spic… Racial slurs against your band mate, man? Really? Tomahawk, huh? That’s supposed to be funny, right? That’s cute. As much as you get on my fucking nerves, I thought for certain that even you wouldn’t cross certain lines. What the fuck is wrong with you, man? I know mothafuckas that would kill you over some shit like that! And you know it’s true!”
    Miguel stiffened up and scrambled to sit straight. Reality had hit. His cousin was no longer there to protect him. Javier had left in a heated huff and Flip may have turned a blind, reddened eye and let him have at him, for he didn’t raise one damn finger to assist when he’d held him up like a flag in the air.
    “Let me let you in on something, since you think truth serum is the beverage of choice this evening. You would’ve been out of this band if it wasn’t for me.” He thumped his finger into his chest.
    “You’re crazy, man…just making up stuff.”
    “Really? You wanna bet on that? I told Javier at least twice not to cut your ass. He wanted to replace you a long ass time ago.”
    “Zenith…” Flip began.
    “Nah, man! He needs to know what tha fuck is up since he believes he’s the owner of reality!” He smirked. “So I’m just giving it to him how he served it to me. You don’t like it? Too damn bad. You’re mediocre, Miguel. You’re a ‘C’ on your best day. Every other motherfucker in here, in Pure Grit, was born with a gift. Javier can sing better than half these bastards with record deals. Flip can outplay anybody on the keyboard; I’d put money on it. Mike is one of the meanest guitarists to walk the state of New York. People don’t take him seriously because of the way he looks! The whole system is fucked up! But you?” Zenith shook his head and slicked his tongue over his lower lip, working hard to regain his composure. “You learned how to play, but you aren’t great. You aren’t even good. You’re just workable.