Thud.
Ollie flopped to the ground in a perfect display of face-planting, his limbs stiff from embarrassment. He froze in place, like time had stopped, not moving a muscle.
One second. Two seconds.
Then the pain hit him like a delayed punch. He curled up into a ball, looking like a cooked shrimp, clutching his knee and groaning through gritted teeth. Still, he couldn't stop muttering complaints under his breath: "How could you just step aside like that? I fell flat on my face—practically shattered into pieces! Where's your loyalty? What kind of nonsense is this?"
Pfft.
Ronan's eyes had been full of worry and shock, but Ollie's whining sparked a chuckle he couldn't hold back. "Looks to me like you're doing just fine. No big deal."
At least he still had the energy to ramble.
Ollie's eyes widened as he stared at Ronan, pulling off a pitiful puppy-dog look. "Ronan! You're turning mean!"
But his tone wasn't some fierce accusation. Right after, Ollie scrambled to his feet, sizing Ronan up from head to toe before reaching out to touch his forehead.
Ronan flinched instinctively, wanting to dodge—he still wasn't used to strangers getting close. But his brain overruled the urge to pull back. To Ronan Cooper, Ollie wasn't a stranger, and besides, Ollie meant no harm. He'd have to get used to this slowly.
Ollie didn't notice Ronan's slight retreat. He pressed the back of his hand to Ronan's forehead, worry spilling into his eyes. "You're still kinda warm. How're you feeling? Still dizzy? Nauseous? Need to lie down somewhere? Or maybe we should just head back to the motel now and call it a night. Your health's what matters most."
Ronan didn't answer. Instead, he gave Ollie a weird look, his face dripping with mock disgust, leaving Ollie blinking in confusion.
"You're seriously putting that germy hand on my forehead?" Ronan's eyes were doing the scolding for him.
Ollie glanced down at his grimy hands, then at his dirty, damp clothes. He looked back up with a sheepish grin. "Oops, my bad!" he said, laughing it off as he nudged Ronan aside to head into the bathroom and wash up, completely forgetting the questions he'd just asked.
Ronan seized the chance to shift gears. "Where're Cliff and Maxim?"
Ollie was worried about Ronan's health and wanted him to rest, but what about the other two bandmates? What did they think?
Thinking back, when Ronan had passed out earlier, Cliff and Maxim hadn't rushed over right away. Instead, they'd started arguing. What had that been about? And now, here at the bathroom door, it was just Ollie—no sign of the other two.
Losing his hearing and vision hadn't dulled his sense of the world. Quite the opposite. When his eyes and ears couldn't catch everything, he'd learned to "see" and "hear" more in other ways.
Sure enough, Ollie's expression stiffened slightly, and even his hand-washing slowed to an awkward halt.
"Uh…" Ollie turned off the faucet and spun around, ready to explain, but his lack of eloquence made him give up fast. Before Ronan could press him, Ollie threw in the towel.
"They… they're not ignoring you or anything. They're super worried too, I swear. But the bar owner said our set tonight didn't count since we didn't finish, so no free dinner or drinks. They're out there trying to sort it out with him…"
Was the band really in that bad of a spot?
Usually, bar gigs paid separately—whether it was a proper show or just background music in a restaurant or pub, that's how it worked.
But then there's the bottom-tier kind of gig. These bars aren't fancy spots, and they don't host big events. They just bring in local amateur or indie bands to liven things up. Payment? A little cash plus dinner and drinks.
Naturally, that "little cash" isn't much at all—free food and booze basically offset part of the fee.
Ollie's words carried two big hints:
First, the band was stuck doing gigs this low-rent, which meant things were pretty grim. Second, they couldn't even cover the cost of dinner and drinks? Or was it that the bar owner was refusing to pay even the cash part for tonight?
No wonder they'd pushed through the gig despite Ronan Cooper's raging fever. No wonder Cliff and Maxim were off negotiating with the owner. The band must've hit rock bottom.
Ronan paused, then raised a fair point. "Our set was almost done, right? We basically finished." His scrambled brain couldn't piece it all together yet, just a vague sense that the performance had been nearing its end. "If the owner's not happy, couldn't we come back tomorrow for an encore to make up for it? Wouldn't that work?"
Ollie shrugged dramatically, his shoulders hunching up like he'd stuffed them with pads, his helpless expression almost comical. "That's what Cliff's saying."
"We're arguing that the set was nearly over—you only passed out during the last song. We basically did the job, so we should get paid, fair and square. But you know how these small-time bar owners are…" He held his exaggerated shrug for a long beat before letting it drop, his eyes brimming with resignation. "If that doesn't fly, we'll push for a makeup gig tomorrow. But… don't get your hopes up."
"Why?" The question almost slipped out, but Ronan swallowed it back.
Maybe the owner was just looking for an excuse to stiff them. Maybe he hated their performance and didn't want them back. Maybe he just didn't want the hassle of dealing with them again…
There were a million possibilities, and the band—as the weaker party—had little room to fight back. They were fish on the chopping block.
Ronan got that. He'd tasted the cold indifference of the world plenty of times. And he knew how tough it was for indie bands and unknown musicians.
"Dreams" don't fill your stomach, keep you warm, or shelter you from the rain. More often than not, they don't mean a damn thing. Otherwise, shows like American Idol or The Voice wouldn't have such long, thriving runs—
Too many ordinary folks, chasing music dreams only to get shut out and grind away their whole lives for nothing.
Ronan understood it all. The bar owner could have a thousand, ten thousand reasons to say no. But here's the thing—he didn't care.
Once, even the simplest, most basic normal life had been a luxury he couldn't afford. Now, he had a shot to stand on a stage and perform. That alone was a seismic shift.
He just wanted to savor it, to soak in every second of this adventure. Even if it was all just a dream, that was fine by him.
(End of Chapter)