Take It From the Top

PROLOGUE

“HOLD ON, FELLAS — I’m going to need to see some ID.”

The bouncer holds out a hand, and Max and I dig into our pockets for our wallets. He hands Max’s ID back right away, but when he looks at mine, he stops, staring at it for a long time and then checking his watch.

“It’s still five minutes to midnight.”

Max turns on the charm, leaning against the doorjamb with his thumbs hooked in his pockets, a slow grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “Come on, man. We live around the corner and we walked a little too fast. He’s just excited, that’s all.”

The bouncer sizes me up, pale blue eyes in a face carved out of granite. Finally, he sighs, handing my driver’s license back to me. “Happy birthday, kid.”

With a whoop, Max grabs my arm and leads me into the bar, and I follow, watching his skinny shoulders in an oversized Misfits T-shirt that has been washed a thousand times.

The bar isn’t too crowded for a Tuesday night, but the speakers are blaring some Springsteen song anyway.

Max plops down on a barstool, and I sit beside him.

“What are you gonna have?” He leans over to shout in my ear, and I shiver when I feel his breath on my skin. “Anything you want, it’s on me.”

I look over at the bartender, who is waiting to take our order. “Um, a Pbr?”

“Dude, it’s your birthday.” Max rolls his eyes, chuckling at me, and yeah — I guess the favorite beer of crustpunks everywhere isn’t exactly a celebratory beverage. He turns to the bartender. “Two Pbrs and two J?gerbombs, please.”

While we wait, he turns on his barstool to look at me, and somehow I don’t know what to say.

Max is my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and I know every bit of him, from his shaggy hair to the smudged eyeliner he started wearing when he decided he wanted to be the next Billie Joe Armstrong to the frayed bottoms of his baggy jeans.

But sometimes when his brown eyes meet mine, there’s so much intensity there that I forget everything I ever knew, every reason I’ve ever had to keep a lid on my stupid heart.

And I’m floating, off in some alternate universe where Sam Dove isn’t a fucking coward and Max Finley can actually see what’s right in front of his face.

Thank god the bartender comes back with our drinks. I can’t afford to do anything stupid. Not when we’re leaving for tour in three days and Max and I are going to be spending every waking moment together.

Max picks up his shot of J?ger, holding it over his glass of Red Bull, and I do the same. “Sammy —” he begins.

The giggle that slips out of my mouth is much higher than I intended. “You haven’t called me that in ages.”

He shoots me a look. “Will you shut the fuck up? I’m trying to have a fucking moment here.”

“Okay.” I sit up a little straighter on my barstool in my best impression of a model citizen, trying with all my might to bite back a smile.

“Sammy. Babe. Asshole. Love of my life —” He clears his throat. “Just — happy fucking birthday, dude. And thanks for being the best thing that ever happened to me.”

We drop our shots into our glasses and chug our drinks, the slightly medicinal candy tang making my eyes water.

When my glass is empty, I slam it back onto the bar and reach for my beer, emptying about a third of it to get the taste out of my mouth.

Max laughs, and I’m glad it’s just the two of us, that we didn’t decide to make tonight into some big thing. Somehow, it feels right.

He wipes at a bit of the condensation on his beer can, then looks over at me. “I keep thinking — just three more days —”

“And then three weeks on the road in the van with Roxie and Blake,” I cut in.

“Three weeks of putting up with all of those little lists you make for me so I don’t forget stuff —”

I give him a little shove. “And your eternal obsession with Red Vines —”

“And sleeping on basement floors —” he adds.

“And gas station coffee —”

“But no gas station hot dogs,” he grimaces. “I think we learned our lesson last time.”

We stop to sip our beers, and I know we’re both shuddering internally. Finally, he clears his throat.

“Longest tour we’ve ever been on. Do you think you’ll be sick of me? When it’s all over?”

I snort. “Let me see — three weeks touring the country and playing music and partying with you? Sounds pretty fucking great, actually. Nothing is gonna come between you and me.”

Because I’m not an idiot. Because I’m not going to throw away twenty years of Max’s friendship for a stupid dream that won’t ever come true. Because I know where I belong, and how to protect myself.

I’m going to be okay.