Free Born Into Trouble (Occupy Yourself Book 1) by MariaLisa deMora Page B

A chorus of “What did you just do?” and “Rock it, do that again” would surround them. Listening to the music, feeling it in his gut, Benny loved those moments when you held the crystal of a newborn tune in your hands.
    The label organized their online presence, getting them hooked up into all the various platforms by which music consumers found their tunes, something Benita then took over and managed. Made easier by their process, but still something that fell to the band to keep going.
    One thing, the only thing the label had done that he knew the band would have never accomplished, was get airtime. Radio stations across North America were adding Occupy Yourself songs into their rotation, and those songs—Benny’s songs—were winning fan-voted contests. There were three online fan groups that he knew of, and Benita engaged with the members regularly, usually posing as him or Danny.
    Their career was starting to gain traction, finally. It felt good to see the hours and days and weeks of work coming to fruition.
    And now the label was dropping them. Fuck .
    “Why?” At his question, eyes all around their little circle swung to him. Blake, Danny, and Benita. “Why are they cutting us loose, Benita?” Her gaze went to Blake. Fuck .
    “What does that mean? That look.” Blake’s face twisted in anger and Ben shifted. “You sayin’ it’s my fault? Always Blake’s fault. Blake’s always fucking up.” No, that’s my job . Ben shook his head. “No, Benny, she looked at me. You saw it.”
    “Let’s hear what the letter says.” She shoved the paper towards him, and he took it grudgingly as if it were a viper ready to strike. Fan-fucking-tastic . Now Blake would associate bad news—and they already knew it was bad news because of Blake—with him instead of Benita. Fuck. Scanning the paragraphs, he focused in on one section, reading it again and again, feeling the rage build inside him. “Fuck.” That one escaped into the air, surprising him.
    Eyes to Blake, he took a step forwards, fist clenching around the papers. “Paternity suit. Lawsuit. Drunk and disorderly. Venue cancelation. They have all kinds of shit here, Blake.” His bandmate had the wisdom to look contrite instead of angry, thank God. Ben didn’t know if he could have controlled himself if the man— boy —tried to pass this off as not his fault. “Looks like you’ve been keeping secrets.”
    Blake had never graduated from the initial rush of recognition. Every show was a chance for him to get his nut off. Every girl a conquest to bury the pain of high school rejections.
    “Fuck it.” Ben shoved the papers back at Benita. He stared at the van, seeing the peeling paint of their logo, the sweeping lines of OY falling in pieces to the pavement at every venue. It’s all shit . “I’m not feelin’ it tonight. Isn’t it what you usually say, Blake? Not feelin’ it, meaning you’re so fucked-up you can’t play. Well,” he leaned far into Blake, his voice a barely-restrained hiss, “I’m not feelin’ it tonight. Y’all go on without me.”
    “What the fuck?” Danny said in a guarded tone, knowing the band could pull off a drummerless show. They’d done it often enough, having to swap over to acoustic about once a week because Blake “wasn’t feelin’ it,” which pissed them off, but they made it work. A show without a lead singer, however? Not as possible.
    “No, he’s been drunk or stoned for three years, fucking his way through whichever state we’re in. It’s time for Benny to have some fun.” Benita drew an audible breath, and he twisted to look at her, denying her the chance to interrupt and soothe things over. “No. It’s my time to fuck off since we’re—”—he swung back to Blake, this time unable to control his shout—“fucked straight up the ass.”
    “Dude.” Blake shook his head. “We can’t play without you.”
    “Oh, but we can play without you?”
    “Fuck, man. Chill. Y’all do fine without