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

"Like?" The meager word seems to offend her. "I've been to thirty of their shows."

Thirty? I bite back a question about what the hell she does for a living and instead say, "Wow. I guess you're the perfect person to ask."

She cocks her head, intrigued. "About what?"

Onstage, the Saints launch into the first of their new songs. The tone is bleak, a complete departure from their old breezy-rock sound. The bartender, a guy whose thick neck is covered in swirling tattoos, chooses that moment to slope over. "What can I get you?"

I smile at the superfan. "Let me thank you in advance with a drink."

She doesn't hesitate. "I'll have my usual," she tells the bartender.

"Plus a Jack and Coke, please." I nod my thanks, then hold out my hand. "I'm Theo."

She shakes it. "Minnie. Let me guess—you're in a band too?"

It happens a lot, people mistaking me for a musician. I actually put a lot of effort into blending in. My work uniform consists of expensive jeans and vintage tees I source from all over New York, and I keep my hair on the longer side, the ends falling around my ears, all the better to shake off my forehead like I've seen so many rockers do onstage. Looking like I'm with the band allows me to glide more seamlessly through concert crowds and sound crews, none the wiser that I'm actually on the business end of things. It's my invisibility cloak.

"Nah, I'm just new to the Saints and curious. I love 'Head in the Sand,' but I'm not sure what to think about—" I wave at the stage, where Hannah's still torturing the mic. "This whole show, to be honest."

Minnie groans. "I wish you'd seen them play a year ago. They were a different band back then. You would've shit your pants."

"That good?"

Her eyes brighten. I was right—that's some zealous love right there. "They were electric. Oozing talent and tragically underappreciated. I was a freshman at Cal State when they were seniors, and I swear, I knew the first time I saw them play that I was witnessing magic. And no offense, but 'Head in the Sand' is for fair-weather fans. You need to go back to College-Educated Idiots, their first album. That's my favorite."

Onstage, the band launches into another new song, this one as bleak as the first. Roger was right. He'd told me the sample they'd sent of their new material wasn't working, and that, on top of their out-of-control behavior, required an emergency intervention.

I nod at Minnie. "Here's what I want to know. What's the deal with their new direction? Where's it coming from?"

A deep voice answers me. "They've fallen off the wagon. Literally and figuratively." The tattooed bartender slides our drinks across the bar. "Minnie's right. The Saints used to put on a good show. Hannah was born and raised here in Bonita Vista. Kind of a hometown hero. Everyone in town roots for her. That's why Aki, the owner, still says yes whenever her label reaches out to book them. I warned him if he let the band come back, they'd just crash and burn like the last show. And yet here we are."

"Any theories on why they're spiraling?"

"No theories necessary," Minnie says, sipping her neon-green cocktail. If memory serves, it's a kamikaze, the drink of choice for nineteen-year-old college girls. Minnie seems to be clinging to her college years in a lot of ways. "It's obvious, right?"

"It's not—" A weird thought pops into my head. "Because their manager passed away?"

Minnie's eyes widen. "Of course it is."

The timing does line up. I'd read that the Future Saints' previous manager died unexpectedly around ten months ago. There wasn't much coverage, just a couple of RIPs on fan pages, and Roger hadn't even remembered until I asked. Ten months is about the length of time the band has been phoning in their tour gigs and getting wasted and belligerent onstage, according to our venue reps. It's certainly the length of time the Saints have failed to produce the new album they owe us.

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.