“The song that Pete had on repeat on his I-pod when he hung himself?” The lack of offense Tony felt was startling even for him.

“Nothing but respect for Mr. Hewlitt, but I can turn that motherfucker out.” Tony’s mother would have slapped him for using a word like that at the boy’s age, but he wore it like a silk kimono.

T studied Vince. He was clean-cut, even for a nine year old. White-blond hair with a part that could have been made with a scalpel. Blue eyes, khakis and a bright red polo shirt. Gleaming tennis shoes, like they’d never been walked in before Vince appeared in the doorway of the theatre. Some little fuck from the burbs looking to grab some attention.

But there was something in the eyes.

Something that could allow him to walk into this room and make a request that could potentially defile the memory of Tony’s best friend and bandmate for 30 years. And just not care.

Shrugging, going for casual, the next words out of T’s mouth were, “Hit it, son.”

The guitars sang. Vince opened his mouth.

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