14 - Sage
Sage
The van coughed whenever Melvin pulled away from a red light, the radio turning to static mid-guitar solo.
Classic rock was the only station it picked up, blasting through speakers that crackled if you nudged the volume too high.
The old tape we shoved in there four years ago still lived in the deck, hostage to a machine that refused to play it or spit it back out.
Classic rock radio or nothing. Those were our options.
I usually punched the thing when I was in the van, but today I needed the noise. Mike and Big Rich arguing in back, Melvin singing along up front. Ramona’s thigh vibrated with the bass line thudding through the seat, and she absently tapped one foot to the beat.
“I call that side going back,” Big Rich said. “You always make me sit on the cymbal case, when you know it’s torture with the way Vinnie drives.”
“Don’t bring my driving into this,” Melvin piped up, then went back to whining out the instrumental section of a Guns n Roses favorite.
I checked the sideview mirror again.
Aiden’s truck stayed a few car lengths behind us, steady. Windows down. One hand hooked over the steering wheel. Casual, as though he were used to following punk bands around on a Sunday before noon.
“You didn’t have to invite the hockey player,” I said, eyes glued to the mirror.
Melvin frowned at the interruption to his aria. “He saved this gig. He should be allowed to see it play out.”
“You’re the one who called him in the first place.” Ramona bumped her shoulder into mine. The sneaky smile she wore told me she’d picked up on something I’d gone to great lengths to keep secret.
The radio squealed when Melvin drove under a set of power lines, and I focused on that instead of the heat crawling up my neck.
“I didn’t call him,” I said, feeling weak and stupid. “I texted.”
Ramona’s mouth curved. “Semantics.”
I looked back at the mirror. Aiden’s truck rolled through a yellow light just as it flipped red, engine growling low as he caught up. For a guy I wanted nothing to do with a few days ago, his number sure came up fast when I was pushed into a corner.
SOS?
What the hell was I thinking?
The speaker cab had split open like a rotten pumpkin that morning, back panel hanging by a screw and stubborn hope. Icy Veins would’ve missed their first paying gig in months. The first one where they wouldn’t have to argue with a bartender about drink tickets as compensation.
And when the wood gave out, when Melvin cursed and Rich kicked the tire of the van hard enough to dent it, I didn’t scroll through contacts. I didn’t debate. I texted Aiden.
Because I knew what he could do.
I’d been in that storage unit, and seen what his hands were capable of. Those same hands that had pinned my wrists to his workbench and left my breath tangled in my throat.
I dragged my gaze off the mirror as Melvin turned into the parking lot.
Aiden’s truck followed us in.
The sign out front read Serenity Bridge Retirement Village in looping blue letters, the kind that tried to convince you this was a choice and not a deadline. Flower beds flanked the entrance. White fencing. A banner tied between two poles announced Community Barbecue, Sunday at Twelve.
Melvin parked close to the side gate to decrease the distance we’d have to lug everything. The engine died with a shudder. In back, Rich shoved open the doors and sunlight poured over a tangle of cords and battered cases.
Aiden pulled in two spaces down. He cut his engine, stepped out, and scanned the building, the sign, the banner. He looked back at us as if we might reveal a second, hidden venue behind the hedges.
“You sure we’re at the right place?” he asked, walking over.
I closed my door and faced him, enjoying the way his eyebrows pulled together. “Yep.”
He glanced at the sign again. “Retirement village.”
“That’s what it says.”
“And Icy Veins is playing here.”
“Right again. You’re on a roll, big guy.”
Behind us, Mike dropped a cable coil and swore under his breath. Melvin hauled the newly resurrected cab toward the gate, grinning like this was Madison Square Garden.
Aiden ran a hand over the back of his neck. “They’re a very punk, very rock band.”
“They contain multitudes,” I said, biting back a smile.
He stared at the banner, then back at me.
I let him sit with it, and offered no explanation.
It was fun watching him try to reconcile distorted guitars with lawn chairs and potato salad.
It felt good. Petty, maybe. But I’d earned a sliver of satisfaction after watching him accept Melvin’s invitation just because it would piss me off.
I bent to grab two mic stands from the van floor and thrust them into his hands before he could argue. “Just because you’re VIP doesn’t mean you don’t help carry.”
He adjusted his grip automatically, metal clanking together. “I’m so confused right now.”
I laughed softly, feeling him fall in step beside me as I headed for the side gate, arms full of gear, the gravel crunching under my boots while the band hauled the rest of their stuff behind us.
The gate creaked open and I stepped through first, gravel giving way to trimmed lawn that stretched wide behind the main building.
Flower beds bordered the fence line, bright with petunias and marigolds.
Picnic tables dotted the grass under wide umbrellas.
Along one side, a row of barbecues hissed and popped, lids propped open while volunteers in paper hats worked tongs over burgers and sausages.
A folding table sagged under bowls of potato salad, plates of pre-lunch snacks, and pitchers of lemonade sweating in the heat.
The place looked less like an institution and more like someone’s backyard on a holiday.
Behind us, the guys filed in with amps and stands. A few residents turned in their lawn chairs. Then more. Applause started near the patio doors and rolled outward as they recognized instruments being carried toward the far end of the grass where a low platform waited.
Aiden paused beside me, mic stands still balanced on his shoulder. He took in the umbrellas, the red, white, and blue balloon arch near the drinks table, a cluster of white-haired women already clapping in rhythm to a band that hadn’t played a note yet.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said.
“Why’d you think I was kidding?”
He looked at me, then back at Melvin guiding the newly fixed speaker cab into place. “Last time I saw you guys, someone crowd surfed into a dartboard, somehow without spilling his beer.”
“Paid actor. The band likes to initiate viral moments for their seventeen Instagram followers.”
A laugh broke out of him before he caught it, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be having fun at this.
We set the mic stands down near the platform. Mike crouched to plug in cables while Rich adjusted the drum stool. Ramona gave me a look that said ‘behave’, and went to tune up her voice.
Aiden wiped his hands on his gym shorts. “You’re enjoying this.”
I turned toward the grills where a volunteer was fighting it out with a stubborn flame. “Who doesn’t love a good, old Texas cookout?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I took a plastic cup from the drinks table and filled it with lemonade, handed it to him without answering. The cup left condensation on his fingers. He glanced at it, then at me, suspicion still there but thinner now.
We walked between tables while the band finished setting up.
Conversations floated past us about blood pressure and gooseberries being in season and whether the potato salad needed more mustard.
A breeze lifted the edge of the banner strung near the patio, and for a few minutes I let myself exist inside something uncomplicated.
Sun on my shoulders. Music gear clicking into place behind us.
The low murmur of people who’d come out because it was warm and there was food.
Aiden nudged my elbow. “Just so you know, I’m not misconstruing this as some kind of fucked up amends or sign that you’re into me, or whatever.”
“Good to know.” My words snagged on the lump in my throat but he didn’t catch it, thank God.
We had just stepped around a table of women comparing bingo cards when a man near the fence straightened in his chair and squinted at Aiden.
“Well I’ll be,” he called out. “You’re number forty-seven, aren’t you?”
Aiden stopped. His posture shifted before his expression did, shoulders pulling back as if someone had tugged a string.
The man waved him over. “Henry Collins. I’ve been a Surge fan since the first games, about twenty years ago now.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“I’ve got every roster memorized,” Henry went on, tapping his temple. “Starters, benchwarmers, all of you. Folks around here don’t pay attention, but I do.”
Aiden’s jaw flexed at the word, but his smile never wavered. He had way too much practice for that to happen.
I stepped up beside him before I could talk myself out of it. “If you’re keeping track, you should know he’s been getting a lot more ice time lately. Not exactly glued to the bench anymore.”
“I saw that. McAvoy finally giving you your due.” Henry pointed a finger at Aiden’s chest. “Keep your head up, and remember... Takes the whole team to lift a cup. Depth wins championships.”
Aiden nodded. “That it does, sir.”
Henry settled back, satisfied, already turning to tell the woman next to him about his run-in with a sports star.
We moved on.
The band struck the first chord behind us. It was one of their quieter songs, the one Melvin usually saved for closing. Today, it opened the set. Ramona kept her volume restrained, Mike swapped sticks for brushes on the snare, and even the lyrics were scrubbed clean where they needed to be.
I glanced at Aiden. The smile he’d worn for Henry had faded into something neutral.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He took a sip of lemonade. “Nice guy.”
“He meant it as a compliment.”
“I know.”