Chapter 8
“ H ey.” I remove my new earphones from my ears and push away from the wall outside Peace’s bedroom when she appears. “Been waiting for you.”
After breakfast, I showered, splashed on my favorite cologne, and got dressed in record time. I don’t want to waste a single minute apart that would be better spent with her.
“Hi.” She blushes as she steps into the hall, her journal under her arm.
“You look pretty,” I observe, noting the pink turtleneck she paired with jeans. Her golden hair is down, and she’s no longer wearing her candy-cane-stripped pajamas.
“Thanks.” Her blush deepens. “What were you listening to?”
“‘I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing’,” I reply. “It’s one of my favorite songs.”
“Can I listen?” she asks.
“Sure.” I crook my finger. “We’ll listen together.” That way I have an excuse to put my arm around her again.
“’Kay.” Tentatively, she inches closer, and I remove the remaining space between us. My heart beats faster as her warm rose scent washes over me. I share one side of the earphones with her and let the music speak for me.
Touching her, looking at her, and listening to this song with her, I experience with all my senses how I feel about her. As the meaningful words and the emotional chords wash over me, I know having met her that I’ll never be the same.
“I love that song,” she whispers as the last note fades away.
“It’s Aerosmith.” I shrug. “What’s not to like?” But I love that she loves it too. That in so many ways, she seems like the missing part of me.
“It’s a ballad.” She wrinkles her cute nose. “My dad hates those.”
“Not my dad’s favorite either,” I confide. When it comes to Bryan, even our musical tastes clash. “He’s not a fan of any tune unless he can jam on his guitar to it.”
“Joe Perry is an amazing guitarist.” Her lids flutter with pleasure.
“He’s all right,” I mutter. He’s phenomenal, the type of guitarist I long to be, but I downplay it. I only want her to admire me.
“Do you want to go downstairs?” She points with her head. Her long hair slides over one shoulder, and my fingers tingle with the urge to sift through the silky strands. “We could watch TV in the living room.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “I was thinking of checking out your dad’s studio.”
“But our dads will be in there.” With her dusky lips flattening, she brings her journal to her chest. “Trying to come up with a song better than Brutal Strength.”
“For sure,” I agree. “Avery Jones showing up unexpectedly this morning has them even more fired up to write a big hit song to beat her band.” In my mind, that is even more reason to sneak into the studio. With a local charity concert in the works and the title of best rock band on the line, my dad will be more motivated to shred his guitar and that I need to see.
“We’re not allowed in his studio.” Peace’s gaze drops.
“Why the hell not?” I ask.
“Because of all the equipment.” She lifts her eyes, and I want to fall into the softness within them. “He says we might break something.”
“We won’t touch anything,” I insist. “And since I’m planning to have a band of my own one day, I need to see firsthand how the songwriting process works.”
“I don’t like breaking rules.” Looking almost convinced, her top teeth pierce her full bottom lip.
“C’mon,” I cajole. I’m taller than her and have to bend to bump my shoulder to hers.
“My dad is really serious about his rules.”
“We’re not gonna break his rule.” I reach out and tuck a long strand of this rule follower’s hair behind her ear. “Just bend it a little.”
“Okay.” She lets out a soft sigh that does stuff to me.
“Good.” I take her hand, threading my larger fingers between her smaller ones. I’m less angry and more settled, better than good when I’m with her. She makes me feel like I’m worthy. Like right now, in this very moment, I’m good enough for her just as I am. “We’ll pop in, then pop out. He’ll never even know we were there.”
Peace
My heart is pounding out of my chest. I’m going to throw up, but I go along with Bo as he steps inside the lounge connected to my dad’s studio. With my journal clasped to my chest, my gaze is drawn to the Tempest hurricane logo painted on the wall. The destructive force it represents seems like a bad omen. If my dad discovers I disobeyed him, I’ll be in big trouble. But there was so much longing in Bo’s gaze, I decided the potential trouble was worth the risk.
“Thanks for coming with me,” he murmurs, his eyes trained on the large glass window that reveals the soundboard and the entirety of the recording room beyond it. Bo grabs my right hand and his fingers flex within my grip as he stares at his dad, watching him play his guitar. “Fuck, that’s a good riff,” he says under his breath.
“Yeah,” I agree. Peering through the recording room glass like Bo, I see that Bryan’s body is bowed over the body of his Les Paul. His fingers are moving so fast they blur on the strings. Transfixed, I notice my dad step closer to his best friend. His head bobbing in sync with the music, he lets out a primal yell that raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I’m familiar with Warren “War” Jinkins’ unique singing style. Like everyone else in the world, I’m a fan of my dad and download Tempest’s albums as soon as they drop. The music they create is raw and raging. I feel raw and raging a lot of the time and identify with it. Listening to Tempest, I also feel connected to my dad.
“Wow,” I breathe. Watching the band practice is like witnessing magic unfold. I decide it was worth risking my father’s wrath to see him in action doing what he is meant to do, even if it takes him away from home a lot of the time. “There’s no one who can sing like him. He’s the best.” My eyes shine with pride.
“Yeah.” Bo nods. “Someday, I’m going to play my guitar like my dad. Better even. Maybe then he’ll accept me.”