18. You Flinched
18
YOU FLINCHED
FELIX
I Don’t Wanna Be In Love By Good Charlotte
I sink back into the bed, beads of water tracing cool paths down my chest as my fingers drift through damp hair. The pillow cradling my head is still infused with Maggie’s scent. A deep sigh escapes me, and I reach for my notebook, exhilaration blooming as the lyrics, fleeting and fragile, finally linger long enough to be captured on the page.
Fuck, I don’t want this to be about Maggie.
Who would’ve thought a day spent wandering the vibrant streets of Nashville would lead to the best night of my life? I can still hear the music echoing in my head, the notes like fireflies in the twilight. The memory of Maggie’s soft skin lingers on my fingertips, something I’m not ready to let go of just yet.
And to think I almost stayed behind.
A new song is brewing within me, its essence reminiscent of “Out of Reach,” yet there’s a different sentiment simmering beneath the surface—something elusive that I can’t quite grasp. It doesn’t feel like unrequited love—not exactly—but I’m not ready to admit that I might just be facing a bout of writer’s block.
With a resigned huff, I grab my phone—a distraction I know all too well. I decide to annoy my little brother, as it’s one of the best procrastination tactics I’ve got.
Gus may be younger than I am, but he’s certainly not little. The last time I checked, we were both six-foot-one, though I’m a year older.
“What’s up?” Gus greets, not even looking at the screen. All I can see is his profile and tatted arm working vigorously in the way it does when he’s sketching.
“Help me describe that feeling when you want something but don’t know why,” I blurt out, running a hand through my hair, the frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
His brows knit together as he finally looks up at me, confusion flickering in his steely gaze. “What?”
“I’m trying to get a song out, and the predominant emotion feels like a frustrating… conflict…” I trail off, the words slipping through my fingers like sand.
“What’s with the word salad?” he quips, a smirk playing on his lips.
“I’m blocked! Help me out,” I plead.
He shakes his head, returning to his drawing. “This is why I write Young Adult Fantasy. Way less complicated than humans,” he mutters with a hint of amusement.
“What are you working on right now?”
With a practiced hand, he smooths the paper before holding it up. The nearly finished sketch of an ice wizard comes into view, intricate and stunning, a testament to his creativity.
“Nice,” I muse, genuinely impressed. “But are you trying to tell me that Ryseph never wanted an ice fairy he knew probably wasn’t a good idea but couldn’t help himself?”
I read all of his work and brought a few advanced copies on tour with me.
“It’s fantasy,” he replies, a hint of laughter in his tone. “And being that it’s YA, the romantic themes are merely undertones to the main story. If two characters catch feelings, it’s always an external force keeping them apart, not their own messed-up, angst-riddled, underdeveloped prefrontal cortexes,” he scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “Like I said, less complicated.”
“Interesting,” I nod, leaning back against the headboard. “Sounds like you know a lot about these complicated emotions, yet you choose to write about something completely different.”
“Nope,” he counters. “You’re the one writing about an aggravating girl, not me,” he challenges.
“I’m writing a song,” I remind him.
“About a girl,” he replies, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The corners of his mouth tilt upward in a knowing grin. “Maggie still playing keep-away?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I fire back, my cheeks warming as I sit up to jot down ‘playing keep-away’—in my notebook.
“Sure I do,” he counters, an amused glint in his eyes. “She’s had an effect on you from day one. You were so hell-bent on not getting mixed up with any women and just focusing on the music.” He tilts his head, studying me with a satisfied smile. “She knocked you flat on your ass.”
That she fucking did, and now that I know what it feels like to kiss her, to touch her, to be inside her—I’m not giving that up.
“And?” He’s nailed my predicament, and I wasn’t even trying to talk about it.
“You know it, and she knows it.” He states matter-of-factly, his pencil stilling as he continues to observe me. “What you know and she doesn’t is that she wants you just as much as you want her.”
“You think so, huh?” I ask, feigning nonchalance, even though a flutter of hope ignites in my chest.
Gus sets down his pencil and looks at me, as if I’m missing the obvious. “Definitely. She’s crazy about you but won’t admit it to anyone, especially herself. It’s her way of keeping the upper hand.”
I lean back on my bed, feeling a mix of confusion and revelation swirling inside me. This is some good shit. I quickly jot down notes as he continues, the ideas flowing like the rhythm of a song.
“So you play along, letting her think she’s getting her way, and that you’re okay with her using you…” he elaborates, picking up the pencil, twirling it between his fingers as he gazes past me, lost in thought.
“You’re even more help than I thought you’d be. It’s like you’re speaking from experience.” I know exactly who’s playing keep-away with him. Gus may act like he’s not interested in angst-riddled conflict but I know of a certain someone that keeps him awake most nights.
“The only question is what’s going to happen first?” he muses, tapping the pencil to his lips as he turns in his chair. “Her realizing the feelings you know she has for you? Or your fucking head exploding?” His pencil snaps in half, fragments flying. “Shit.”
“I didn’t expect you to get so passionate about helping me write a song, but I love the commitment,” I point out, amusement dancing in my eyes.
He looks back at the screen, then at the broken pencil in his hand, and with a dramatic flourish, he chucks it off-screen. “Happy to help. Just don’t let Maggie’s shit send you into an early grave.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” I smirk, preparing to sign off. “But tell Thea I said hi.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he echoes, his middle finger raised cheekily as my phone pings with a message from Bash.
Bash: So, the whiskey tour didn’t quite go as planned.
He sends a pin to their location.
Nashville General Hospital.
What in the actual fuck?
* * *
“Someone explain to me how this happened?” I look around the room. Now that I know Dex is going to survive, I have the urge to punch his lights out but I just pinch the bridge of my nose instead.
Dex, still in his hospital gown, leans forward in the bed, narrowing his eyes at Bash.
“You flinched!” Bash jabs an accusatory finger at Dex, his voice rising in indignation.
“When you come at me with a needle, of course I’m going to flinch,” Dex fires back.
“What needle?” I interject, stepping between them.
“Technically, it was an EpiPen,” Bash explains.
A headache pulses at my temples as I try to piece together this absurd puzzle. Gunner steps forward, his expression a mix of amusement and indifference.
“Let me dumb it down for you. This idiot,”—he gestures toward Dex—“decides to get stung by a bee.”
“I didn’t decide to get stung,” Dex counters.
“When the tour guide says don’t go off the path, you don’t go off the path!” Gunner barks, his tone leaving no room for argument. Dex clams up, the fight visibly leaving him.
I motion for Gunner to continue, curiosity piqued.
“Idiot number two,”—he points at Bash, who glances back with a sheepish grin—“tries to be a hero and jabs idiot number one in the balls with the EpiPen.”
My mouth drops open, a mixture of horror and disbelief washing over me. “Why in the fuck would you stab someone in the balls with an EpiPen?” My own balls recoil instinctively, as if to get out of harm’s way.
“You think I wanted to go anywhere near his balls?” Bash retorts.
I shake my head, scanning the room for hidden cameras. This must be a prank.
“You were trying to pull my shorts off!” Dex accuses.
“I thought it was supposed to go in your ass! Not like I wanted to be in that area either, but I stepped up when this guy,”—he points to Gunner—“froze up.”
Gunner shakes his head, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, unfazed by the uproar.
“You should be thanking me. If I weren’t there, you’d probably be dead.” Bash crosses his arms over his chest.
“I still don’t understand how the needle ended up in your balls, but I don’t think I want to know any more.” I shake my head, the absurdity of it all making my head spin.
“I was in a panic, and I rolled onto my back just as this asshole jabs me with the needle,” Dex points at Bash.
Bash shrugs, nonchalant. “Shit happens in tense situations.”
“You owe me a ball sack if this one stops functioning,” Dex barks, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
“Stop being a drama queen. The doctor said your balls are fine,” Bash retorts, waving a dismissive hand.
“You better fucking hope he’s right,” Dex grunts, the tension thickening around us.
A nurse enters the room, glancing between us, and shakes her head. “I’m getting your discharge paperwork together, so your friends can take you home,” she says, unhooking the monitor from Dex with practiced ease.
“Are you sure I should be leaving? There’s still a numbing sensation in my,”—he lowers his voice—“right ’nad.” He says it like it’s the technical term for his ball sack, and I suppress a laugh behind my fist.
“That’s the medication wearing off that you insisted we give you,” she replies, her voice weary. “Your testicles are fine.” She plops a bag filled with his clothes onto the bed. “You can get dressed now.”
“Is there anything I need to know post-discharge?” he asks, attempting to impress her with his newly acquired medical terminology.
She places a hand on her hip, her expression bored. “Sure. Your release instructions are to keep the area clean and don’t stick any more EpiPens into your balls.” She offers him a saccharine smile before turning on her heel and leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind her.
“The bedside manner here is lacking,” Dex grumbles, pulling out his clothes from the bag. As he bends over in his hospital gown, we all groan and cover our eyes.
“I’m fucking blind!” Bash yells in horror.
“You wanted to see my ass when I was having an allergic reaction to the bee sting!” Dex shoots back.
“Again, I thought that’s where it went, and I was sacrificing myself to save your life,” Bash fires back. “I’m rethinking that decision.”
I lean over my thighs, trying to catch my breath through fits of giggles.
“This is not funny,” Dex grumbles, but both Bash and Gunner join in.
“Remind me never to have a medical emergency around the three of you,” Dex barks, his irritation only making us laugh harder.
As I finally manage to regain my composure, I turn to the door. “Alright, let’s get you out of here before I lose more brain cells,” I declare, waving my hand for them to follow me.
“Just don’t hit any bumps on the way back to the bus, okay?” Dex pleads, as he struggles to pull up his pants, the hospital gown flapping comically.
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want your ‘right ’nad’ to go rogue on us,” Gunner chimes in.
“Just think, next time we do press, we can add ‘bee sting survivor’ to the list of stories,” I tease, throwing a sideways glance at Dex.
“Yeah, because nothing says ‘rockstar’ like a trip to the ER because of a bee sting,” Gunner says.
Bash chimes in, “We should get a t-shirt made. ‘I survived the sting, and all I got was this lousy EpiPen in my balls.”
“Oh fuck off!” Dex says, climbing into the passenger seat.
* * *
“Where the hell have you been? I heard Dex was in the hospital,” Maggie says, rising from the table, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity as we approach. I can’t help but smile at the sight of her, a warmth blooming in my chest.
Dex leans heavily against me, his weight shifting awkwardly as if he’s broken his fucking leg.
“Get off,” I shake him loose. “Your legs are fine.”
“That’s not the point,” Dex whisper shouts, “I need to lay down. I feel dizzy.”
I roll my eyes, exasperated, but my gaze lands back on Maggie, who watches us with a mix of amusement and horror.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Trust me when I say if I explain, I’ll lose a few IQ points,” I reply, shaking my head as I gesture toward Dex, who narrows his eyes at me in mock indignation.
“Well, as long as he’s okay,” Maggie concedes, her voice softening as she watches Dex struggle to wrap his arm around Gunner, who holds out a warning hand like a traffic cop. “Can he still play?” she asks, genuine worry creeping into her tone.
“So long as he doesn’t hold the sticks with his balls,” I quip.
Maggie wrinkles her nose in disgust, and it’s adorable. “What?”
“I’ll tell ya later,” I laugh softly, feeling the weight of the day’s absurdity lift slightly as I drop down onto the bench across from her. There’s an impulse to reach out, to take her hand, because it’s maddeningly difficult to be this close and not touch her. As I lean forward, she tilts her head, a beautiful smile gracing her lips.
My hand hovers halfway across the table toward her when Dusty approaches, breaking the spell.
“Ready, Maggs?” he asks, his tone impatient.
“Ready for what?” I glance between them, disappointment flickering through me as I retract my hand. The hospital visit has stolen most of the morning, and with Dex acting like a baby, I doubt we’ll manage to rehearse this afternoon. I want to spend the evening with Maggie, but it seems she might have other plans.
“Dusty’s letting me tag along on an errand,” she explains, rising from the table. I can’t help but notice the slight wince as she stands.
“What do you need in town?” I lean back with amusement.
“Nothing important,” she lifts her chin defiantly, but when I arch an eyebrow, she adds, “Female stuff, if you must know.”
Dusty exhales a huff of impatience, and I chuckle.
“What am I gonna find under my pillow this time?” I tease.
“It was a thank-you present for letting me stay in your trailer,” Maggie replies.
Fucking hell, this girl.
Dusty shakes his head, shifting impatiently. “You coming or not?”
Maggie nods, trailing behind Dusty as they make their way toward the exit, walking a bit slow even for her short legs.
“What’s the matter, Sass, did you hurt yourself?”
She turns, and I’m met with the middle finger, a defiant gesture that makes my heart skip. “Fuck off, rockstar!” she shoots back, and I can’t help but laugh.
I’ll give her today, but tomorrow… she’s fucking mine.