Excerpt from The Future Saints by Ashley Winstead, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

And then there's Hannah herself. My eyes keep finding her, like she's the source of gravity in the room, or else my instincts sense she's the wildcard, a potential danger. She's lit by the venue's swirling lights, which catch the dust motes in the air so it looks like she's singing in a sea of stars. I've seen pictures of her, of course, but some people hit different in person, and she's one of them. I knew she had messy sunshine-blond hair with midnight roots, that she dressed like she just rolled out of bed, with her ripped-up T-shirts, but there's a rawness to her I find impossible to turn away from.

For a full hour I stand in the crowd, watching the Saints coast through their set list. It's almost laughable, the light, breezy singles coming from three people who look anything but happy to be here. Their performance is rote. There's no soul. And as the set goes on, I can feel the crowd growing restless watching Hannah drink from the liquor bottle, her movements increasingly sloppy. When you're up onstage, no one wants anything less than your whole heart and soul. Audiences are like lovers that way.

When the Saints finally strike the last note, Kenny's cymbals shimmering, I prepare myself for my own showtime backstage. But then Hannah grips the microphone, and I freeze.

"We've got a few new songs for you," she mumbles, and before the crowd can register this news with disappointment or glee, she squats for her bottle again, tipping her head back and swallowing a quick mouthful. She tries to stand but loses her balance, catching herself on her hands and knees.

A low, embarrassed murmur travels through the crowd.

Some guy behind me yells: "Feed her more alcohol!" and there's laughter, the kind that says the crowd isn't with you.

Hannah rights herself and raises her middle finger. Then she says something over her shoulder, talking to thin air.

The rumors are true: the Saints are a disaster. Luckily, although my title at Manifest Records is technically artist relations manager, I've developed a niche specialization in disasters. I'm the Fixer of the label (although some musicians call me the Grim Reaper). Whenever Manifest needs to cut ties with an underperforming band, I'm the person our CEO, Roger Braverman, assigns. It's a job no other manager wants, but I've gotten so good at it—at letting musicians down easy, creating minimum stress for the higher-ups—that I've built quite a reputation. The double standard goes like this: at twenty-eight, Kenny, Ripper, and Hannah are considered too old to be up-and-comers. At the exact same age, I'm the label's young rising star.

When Roger signed the Saints six years ago—during the height of the modern California-rock craze—they had promise, all young and shiny and hopeful. I've studied dozens of their recordings—bootleg videos from old shows and one low-budget music video Manifest funded for "Head in the Sand," which everyone thought was going to be their breakout hit—and the gulf between the band in those videos and the one in front of me now is astonishing. Maybe the years of middling sales, of never achieving the success they dreamed of, have finally taken their toll, or maybe it's something else. The problem is, I need to squeeze one more good record from the Saints before we can cut them loose. Which means I need them shiny and hopeful again, at least temporarily. My promotion hangs in the balance.

More than anything, I need intel. I scan the bar and catch sight of a woman who's been parked on a stool with the best view of the stage all night. I know her type. Every band, no matter how small, has a superfan. It's the friend of a friend or random stranger who happened to hear the band play on a day when their heart was wide open, or their needs sky-high, and the music gave form to their feelings. This woman mouthed every word.

I sidle up to the bar, catch the eye of the superfan, and smile. She's in her early twenties, with lavender hair and an eyebrow ring, perfectly at home in this crowd. "Hey," I say. "You like the band?"

Excerpted from The Future Saints by Ashley Winstead. Copyright © 2026 by Ashley Winstead. Excerpted by permission of Atria Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.