The Rules Read Online Free

ocean.
    One car. Just one. The place looked like a junkyard. Directly ahead of the van, a rusted wrought-iron sign stretched across both sides of the road. It was decorated with outlines of fish and the letters
Z U L.
Between the open gates, fog rolled toward them like a pack of starving ghosts.
    “What the hell, Drew?” Mick said. “Is this a joke?”
    “It looks like the House of Usher. I like it,” Stacy said, rolling down the window. She was guzzling water from her omnipresent travel tumbler. Mick was positive it was permanently attached to her left palm. And that there was more vodka in it than water. “I am Zul, the Gatekeeper.”
    “Home sweet home, Morticia Addams,” Mick teased her. He could see her in the rearview mirror. Little lost goth girl stuck in a time warp. Her hair was a smudge of black and her face was heavily made up. Her one arm, chest, and back were covered with super-colorful floral tattoos in red, blue, and purple. She was dressed perfectly for a haunted mansion gig: a black leather corset, matching leggings, and lace-up knee-length boots with heels so high Mick couldn’t figure out why her feet never slid out from underneath her. Especially because she was loaded for twenty hours of the day.
    “Hey, we’re getting paid a lot,” Drew pointed out. He sounded like his usual whiny, defensive self. “A
lot.
And we need moving money.”
    God, if only we could leave you here,
Mick thought. Getting signed by Samurai Records was the big time, but only if Maximum Volume proved they were worth the investment. They’d get one chance to make good, and one chance only. Mick was ready. He’d been practicing for at least six hours a day for years. Working out. Taking care of himself. Doing everything he could to be an excellent bandmate.
    But there were problems. Most of them were named Drew. Years of playing dive bars and tiny clubs would have taken a toll on any normal person. No musician was normal, but at this point, Drew was weaker than most people. It didn’t show to the casual observer yet. But sooner rather than later, it would. Drew was going to flame out. It would be better if he died in some epic tragedy, like the great ones, say, in a plane crash. The band would sell a ton of records if that happened. But overdosing was far less sexy and much too cliché. Mick was sure he and Pascha agreed on that.
    The problem was, Maximum Volume had gotten Samurai’s attention because of the three songs Drew had written on the demo. If Drew was out, they wouldn’t be allowed to play those songs. He owned them and no one could record them without his permission. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to give permission if they booted him out of the band.
    But here was the kicker, the thing Mick couldn’t tell Pascha: Drew had stolen those songs from two tiny indie bands that had broken up within weeks of forming. Drew said no one would ever know. So far nobody had made any accusations, but Maximum Volume was a lawsuit away from trouble.
    Mick couldn’t come clean about the plagiarism. Samurai would drop them immediately. So would Pascha.
    Better to get rid of Drew now. That would solve so many problems. But only if it happened fast. And soon.
    The other problem, sad to say, was Stacy. She was burning too brightly. She loved to party. Luckily, she’d slept with him, Drew, and Hiro, so those potential strained group dynamics had already been taken care of, but she still screwed anything that moved, no questions asked. She drank like a fish, popped Ecstasy like Tic Tacs, and had no judgment, none at all. She lived in the moment. One day she was going to bring home a stray serial killer. Or show up completely juiced for a recording session at Samurai.
    He and Hiro had discussed both of their problems. They’d agreed that sexy girl singers were easy to find, especially in L.A. But songwriters who could at least recognize what songs were worth stealing? Much less easy.
    Somebody
had to take care of business.