It was one of those days, Ryan thought.

Pete had gone out, Ginger was still upstairs. Rachel clearly didn’t want to get involved. Just as

Ryan was debating how to intervene, the door opened and Ash strode in. Ryan waved at him as Ash

approached the bar. Ash’s arrival was also the end of Sammy’s interest in arguing with the customer.

His eyes lit up, and he positively beamed at Ash, hurrying over to him. Before Ryan could say hello –

considering Ash was his friend, after all – Sammy had pushed past Ryan.

“Hey, Ash!” Sammy greeted. “And what can I get for you?”

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he quickly made the most of Sammy’s distraction and stepped over to the

flabbergasted customer. Ryan apologised to her, and told a little white lie about Sammy being on work

experience, which managed to smooth over the situation. Appeased, the woman went back to her table.

Ryan was well aware of her beady eye still watching him, so he nipped around the bar and gathered up

the other menu’s. There was a marker pen behind the bar. He’d have to insist Sammy blot out the

slightly offensive joke, and hopefully that would be that.

Ryan glanced up, seeing Sammy dote on Ash while he fixed his drink. Ryan knew it would take

ages for Sammy to serve him. He’d drag out each moment as long as he possibly could to spend more

time with Ash.

Ash took it well, but he was probably used to it. Ryan couldn’t blame people for liking Ash; there

was a lot to like. As well as being tall and slim, he was half Indian and achingly handsome. Natural,

glossy black hair, smooth, tanned skin, and shining dark eyes. Ashcharya Singh. Which was apt, as he

did like to sing.

Maybe if Ryan hadn’t spent the last three years so completely hung up on someone else, he might

have pursued something with Ash. He knew Ash was bi, like him. But as it was, they were just friends.

Probably for the best, Ryan thought. They didn’t need any romantic soap operas disrupting the band.

No matter how crap their band was, it was what they did.

By the time Ryan made it back to the bar, Sammy was still mixing a simple lime and soda, and Ash

was still waiting patiently, responding to Sammy’s flirtatious advances with polite yet distant interest.

Ryan snatched Ash’s soda away and stuffed the menu’s into Sammy’s arms.

“What’s this?” Sammy questioned.

Ryan produced the marker pen, and thrust that at Sammy too. “You can spend the next ten minutes

scribbling out whatever you’ve written on those menu’s. Do it before Pete gets back or I’ll tell him

you’ve been upsetting customers.”

“Oh, come on,” Sammy started to whine.

“No,” Ryan said firmly. “Get on with it, please, Sammy. I’m going out back. Don’t upset anyone

else while I’m gone.”

Sammy huffed and rolled his eyes. Ryan bit his lip and counted to ten, moving out from the bar as

he did so. “Come on, Ash,” he said, handing Ash his drink.

“Bye, Sammy.” Ash took the drink and waved to Sammy, who instantly brightened.

“You know where to come when you need a refill, Ash!” Sammy trilled.

As they walked away, towards the back of the pub, Ryan gave Ash a look. “What?” Ash questioned.

“It must be hard being you.”

“Hah! Yeah, well...” Ash smiled back. “I’m kinda running out of excuses to say no to him.”

Ryan almost guffawed. “So, why not say yes?”

“He’s not really my type.”

“You have a type?”

Ash shrugged. “Maybe. You know when you meet ‘em, right?”

A vision of long red hair and a face with kohl-lined eyes flashed through Ryan’s mind. He had to

fight really hard against sighing. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re right.”

They approached Dee and Glen, who were on their second pints already. “You morons,” Ash said,

sitting down next to Dee. “You were supposed to come pick me up.”

“What?” Dee frowned at him. “You said, meet here.”

“I said, come pick me up! And why aren’t either of you answering your phones?”

“Needs charging,” Dee said.

“Dropped mine last night,” Glen added. “It’s in bits right now.”

Ash snorted. “Good job.”

“So, then...” Ryan hastily changed the subject. “I take it you lot being here means you want roasts?”

“Yeah!” They chorused.

“Don’t any of you upset Matt,” Ryan warned. “He’s in a mega mood today.”

“Mega mood?” Ash snickered. “Is that more than the regular mood?”

Dee piped up, “Ryan, after the roast, we wanted to have a nose upstairs at this rehearsal space.”

Ryan’s blood ran cold. “W-what rehearsal space?”

“Those empty rooms,” Dee said.

“Yeah,” Ash agreed. “It’d be great to practise here, save us a fortune.”

“Um, they’re not ready,” Ryan fibbed. There was absolutely no way he wanted to set foot in the

pigeon loft.

“Ginger said they were ready,” Ash told him.

“Eh?” Ryan squeaked. “What? When’d he say that?”

“Last night,” Dee explained. “We asked him about it, and he said we could use them any time.”

“Oh.” Ryan could feel the chill creeping up his spine. “Er, yeah. Great.”

Chapter Four

“You need to eat something,” Ginger said.

Fizz had been picking at his food for what felt like forever. He’d tried, he really had. A few

mouthfuls were all he could manage. The desire to eat just wasn’t there. His mother used to reprimand

him all the time. “There are people starving out there! Be grateful for what you’ve got!” But that just

made him feel worse. Fizz would much rather give his food to someone who needed it.

Why should he be allowed to eat and enjoy things, when others couldn’t? He didn’t deserve it. An

enormous blanket of guilt had weighed over him his entire life, and he couldn’t seem to shift it. Fizz

wondered how people managed to get through life without seeming to care. All it took was one picture

in a newspaper, or a flash of a documentary on TV, and he felt absolutely wretched and miserable at

the thought of others suffering.

All he could think was, why? Why was there so much misery in the world? And why had he been

given a relatively rich life, compared to others, but without the capacity to enjoy it? Was it everyone

else who was wrong? Were they simply born without guilt, or was it him?

Fizz had come to the conclusion that it was more likely him.

“Come on.” Ginger prodded him. “Don’t make me force feed you.”

Fizz was a little worried Ginger actually meant that. He reluctantly ate another mouthful, hating

every moment. They sat in the staff kitchen. Ginger had finished his own roast long ago. Wolfed it

down, in fact. Ginger liked meat, but Fizz had asked for the vegetarian option. Now his father wasn’t

around to insist he ate “proper food”, Fizz supposed he could even be vegan if he wanted. Ginger

didn’t seem to mind. At least Brighton was more open minded when it came to choice of diet.

However, the more immediate problems whirled around in Fizz’s mind, and stifled his already

small appetite. What the hell was he going to do? Ginger had already said he’d have to chip in and

work if he wanted to stay here, to help pay for his food. There wouldn’t be any rent – not while Fizz

was in that decrepit part of the building, and the company didn’t find out – but he still had to eat.

Fizz wished he didn’t have to eat. He just wanted to stay in his room, forever. But he had to eat, and

use the bathroom, and the washing machine. Ginger had put a load on for him now; the machine

trundled away to itself under the counter, washing his clothes. With each cycle the machine made, he

felt more and more awful.

Fizz hated being such a nuisance. He thought maybe he should disappear, and make life easier for

all his family. He’d send a postcard, of course, and tell them he was all right. He couldn’t bear the