"You're an asshole, man."
Drake turns on his heel. Brett's cheeks are flushed a dull red, the color they only get when he's really drunk or really pissed. A muscle is twitching near his jawline. Drake feels his own face start to burn as he tosses the rolled-up magazine in his hand onto the table. "Fuck you."
Brett's fists curl into tight balls, and he takes a step forward. "Hey, Brett," Joey says, placing a placating hand on Brett's shoulder. "Take it easy, man."
Brett shrugs him off. "Fuck off, Joey," he barks, and Joey backs away with his hands in the air in front of him. "I've had enough of his shit to last me a lifetime."
"Yeah?" Drake says, flexing his own hands even though he'd never really throw a punch and take a chance on messing them up. He hasn't forgotten the night Josh put Devon Malone out of action. He just doesn't want Brett to think he's a pussy. "You know where the door is, then."
"Drake -- " Joey says, a note of warning in his voice, but Brett cuts him off.
"Yeah. I do." Brett snatches his jacket from the back of his chair and pushes his way past Drake, bumping him in the chest with his shoulder as he passes. He stops in the doorway and fixes Drake with a glare. "Let me give you a little piece of advice, okay? Before you blow your ride entirely. Stop fucking up -- "
"I don't want to hear this," Drake shouts, cutting a slash in the air with side of his had.
"I know you don't," Brett says through gritted teeth. "That's your whole goddamn problem. Just shut up for once and listen to what the people who know better than you have to say. You may be on top now, but a year from now you're going to be nothing if you keep this shit up. Less than nothing. You'll be like those clowns we make fun of, the guys who -- "
"Get outta here, Brett," Drake says. He starts toward the door, longing to put his boot in the middle of Brett's ass and then slam the door shut behind him, but Joey grabs his arm and holds him back.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going," Brett replies. Drake closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself, and when he opens them again Brett is gone.
Behind him, Joey exhales loudly through his teeth and lets Drake go. "Way to go, Drake," he says bitterly. He turns and takes a swipe at the ride cymbal on his drum set. It falls to the ground with an ear-splitting crash.
Drake jumps, his heart pounding with surprise and anger. He turns to see Joey slumped in his chair, rubbing his face with both hands. For a long moment, neither speaks. Then Joey sighs and stretches his long legs out in front of him, crossing his feet at the ankles. "So," he says, hooking a thumb in each of the front pockets of his jeans, "what are we gonna do now?" He looks up at Drake with a frown.
Drake studies him with a sinking feeling in his belly. His old friend, Joey. Another one with no vision. No vision at all. No idea of the kind of success they could achieve if he -- and everyone else -- would just listen to Drake and realize he knows exactly what he's doing. Drake's mouth goes dry, and he licks his lips to moisten them. "Don't worry about it," he says, trying hard to sound more confident than he feels. "He'll be back."
