Your Biggest Fan

13. ROXANNE

Chapter thirteen

“Well, damn. Here goes nothing,” I tell myself while adjusting my cymbals to the perfect height. “Either I’ll turn into some kind of rock god, or I’ll make a complete ass of myself in front of the whole freakin’ world.” I exhale, my tongue caught between my lips. “It’ll be fine. Totally fine .”

Ah, screw it. It’s gonna be a wild ride no matter what. After all, if life throws a Noah your way one day, you make... Noah-ade ? Okay, that sounded way better in my head. The point is, when the universe throws you a bone like this, you might as well make it count.

Leave it to him to secure a storage space that has all the bells and whistles, like fans and electrical outlets. Honestly, I didn’t know storage units could come with these perks. Though the white walls and the single dangling light above give it more of an insane asylum feel at the moment. It’s in some definite need of posters if I have to get creative in this concrete box.

How does he afford a space like this?

Dumb question.

Noah can probably afford to rent out the whole place if he wants. I should convince him to turn it into a full-on hotel and hook up a mini fridge, stocking it full with Pepsi while we’re at it. He does kind of owe me, anyway.

After I finish setting up my drum kit in the back center of the unit, wiping the dust off the pearlized navy blue finish, I sit on my stool, cracking open a Pepsi I got from the vending machine out by the front office.

The clock on my leather strap reads 5:45 PM. Deep breaths.

I arm myself with a strong dose of resilience (and caffeine) as I brace myself for the ride that is my first practice with Noah fucking Jackson.

A slight smile ghosts across my lips as I close my eyes and take a sip of the cherry soda. The sweet, bubbly taste is what I imagine victory tastes like.

One win . All I need is one Battle of the Bands win. One win to change everything.

My heart’s starting to race in my chest, the giddiness of it all coursing through me like liquid lightning, and I take another deep breath, attempting to not squeal out loud like a little kid as I imagine that win.

The look on Iron Fillings’ faces when we blow them out of the water. Riley’s scowl when I prove to her a heavy sound always wins. The sound of my bedroom door when I slam it shut for the last time. Never having to see the evil snake bush again.

Damn, I’m so ready for this.

By the time I finish imagining my dramatic exit out of Bellpond, I’m two cherry sodas deep and dizzy from spinning on my stool for an hour, memorizing every crack in the gray floor. Where the hell is Noah? Did I not make it clear enough that when I said practice after school I meant right after school?

I run through our conversation in my head again.

Yeah, definitely said after school.

Twisting my lips to the side, I stop spinning and plant my feet against the concrete. I swear if this asshole isn’t coming and this whole thing really was some huge mean, nasty joke... I might kill the guy and dump his body in the pond.

I take a deep breath, running my tongue along my top teeth as I start to tap my foot impatiently, twirling a drumstick between my fingers. My drummer face is on, as usual, and I’m getting more pissed by the second. I glance at my watch again.

7:52 PM.

Over four hours since school let out, and still no sign of Noah.

My drumstick starts clacking against the hi-hat, foot tapping in time. I’m trying to channel my jitters into the kick drum instead of the floor, but every time a car rumbles by, I jerk up, sticks pausing mid-air and expecting it to be him rounding the corner. It never is. I don’t know why I think it is, knowing full well that he rides a dirt bike.

I shouldn’t have taken his invitation seriously in the first place. This has to be some prank to get the lonely drum nerd’s hopes up just to stand her up and laugh about it later. God, I’m so gullible. Now I’m stuck in this storage unit with nothing but my drums and an increasingly caffeinated temper.

Would he really go to the lengths of renting a storage unit to screw with me? It must be that elaborate of a scheme to get back at me for The Incident.

The smell of car exhaust and the lingering heat of the summer sun wraps around me as I stare at the closed blue garage doors across the way, my eyes wandering around the rusty key locks on the two I can see. Hope whoever uses those has their tetanus shots.

My gaze starts to dart around the bare walls of the unit I’m in, but nothing I see is Noah Jackson walking in here. Gripping my sticks tighter, I continue my relentless tapping.

If he meant it, I wouldn’t care if he had to cancel. But there’s one thing that pisses me off most in this world—wasting my fucking time. Time is too valuable and mine is rotting away waiting for this guy when I could have stayed longer at the diner to hang out with Harley, or taken an extra shift at the record store. Not only is personal space something Noah’s missing, but courtesy is not in his dictionary since he doesn’t have the basic decency to inform me of the change of plans.

Relax, Roxy. He’s probably running late.

It’s not like he has your number.

Perhaps his dirt bike broke down. Perhaps the universe finally answered my prayers—sent him careening into that scummy pond to be fish food. Hell, for all I know, there's a massive bagpipe ceremony blocking up Main Street, forcing him on a two-hour detour down some back road.

Maybe he decided that you’re a shitty drummer.

Too many scenarios are running through my head now. Most of Noah sitting in some burnout's basement, laughing his ass off about how he toyed with me. They're all piling into a van right now, cameras ready to capture my pathetic rejection for their entertainment.

That’s the one that makes me toss my sticks down onto the floor in a fit of rage. That two-faced bastard strung me along, never intending to make me a part of this band.

I crack my knuckles, drummer face set to murder now. Picking my sticks up, I shove them inside my boot, hissing when the wood scrapes roughly against my ankle. The pain just feeds the inferno of my anger. I’m a fucking idiot to think that I could be part of something special again.

As I disassemble my kit, I start packing up my cymbals, each clash echoing through the empty unit. The imaginary soundtrack in my head switches from upbeat punk to raging heavy metal.

My temper is still fuming as I cram my drums into the back of my car, shifting the bass drum with a grunt into its customary place in the center of the floor. I can’t believe him—I can’t believe me . I knew this guy was an asshole, but I didn’t think he was going to be this big of an asshole. And I didn’t think I was dumb enough to believe that he was interested in me, the instrument I can play, or the ideas I have.

I slam Kevin’s trunk shut, offering a brief pat of apology against the warm metal before I climb into the driver’s seat, huffing out an irritated breath as I slam that door too.

Fuck. This. Guy.

I tap Kevin again. He’s seen me in worse moods and knows this isn’t directed at him.

This place is past downtown, which means I’ve got five minutes until I’m home, so I crank up my music loud. Wild Child screams out my rolled-down windows as I flick on my right blinker and reach the stop sign across from Primal Vinyl. The skatepark to the left is noisy as always. Even over Ann Wilson’s wailing their music is thumping from a boombox, smelling like chemicals and markers while all the smokers hang out.

While I wait for a pedestrian to make it through the crosswalk, I see one of the smokers trying to jump up and down on their board. I always wonder what they’re talking about every time I drive by, and how the weed smell isn’t getting them in trouble. Maybe that’s what the spray paint smell is for. Maybe all they talk about is skating. Sex. Hip hop. Girls. Maybe they’re debating another pressing question like, “If you farted hard enough, could you fly?”

Today’s riveting topic is probably: farts, boobs, or the proper spelling of the word “boobs.” It’s always something dumb like that. Most days, I make a mental bet with myself when passing by and I’m 3 for 3 so far.

These dudes are nothing if not consistent.

My foot shifts to the gas pedal at the same time my eyes snag over to the left, and that’s when I see it. That stupid red jacket I’d recognize anywhere, draped over the vine-covered fence, right above the black dirt bike, where the white bold ‘Dominator’ letters catch the gleam of my headlights. My blood pressure skyrockets.

Noah you-fucking-asshole Jackson.

Who's casually puffing away in the middle of the skatepark, by the way. He’s shirtless, too, perched on his board with his back turned towards the entrance, elbows resting on his knees while a cigarette dangles from his lips. I imagine how hooded his eyes must be, his posture all relaxed as he chats with the three others gathered around him. Everything about him exudes that ‘I’m hot shit’ aura that makes my fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I mumble as I stay frozen at the stop sign, my blinker still doing its gentle tick-tick-tick .

After sweet-talking me over eight hours ago, here he sits. Half-naked and indifferent.

He was playing me the entire time.

A terrifying cackle I’ve never heard myself make escapes my mouth as I watch him. If I thought I hated him then, I really, truly can’t stand the sight of him right now.

Every fiber of my being wants to storm up to him in front of his posse and embarrass the shit out of him, but there’s no way I’m going to let him know he’s ruined my day. My life.

Unfortunately, I still have to drive by the skatepark to get to where I’m heading, and I’m faced with only two choices: ignore or confront.

My fingers tap on the steering wheel as I work through it in my head. The least I could do is give him a good angry stare-down before moving on to my exciting evening of algebra homework. Sure, I may have a fiery temper, but I’ve got a code of conduct too. This asshole left me hanging, so he deserves the same frosty reception.

“We ignore,” I announce to myself, inching the car forward.

With that, I ignore the laws of traffic and drive straight into the park, not parking on the side of the road, but making a hard left and speeding right through the open gate.

My vehicle lurches forward as I slam on the brakes, fishtailing before screeching to a stop and leaving skid marks like a fucking crime scene. I sit here, shaking with rage, blinding the group of delinquents with my high beams. Then I rip open my door and slam it shut, with no time to pat at Kevin as I march forward with my fists clenched at my sides, and absolutely no idea what I’m planning to do.

I know I have to do something . Communication is key, or whatever. Even if I am a piece of raw meat walking into a lion’s den.

Noah is already turning around on his skateboard, a hand up above his brow trying to shield the lights from my Blazer. I watch as confusion morphs to fear in his cold eyes the moment he realizes it’s me.

That’s right. Me, the one he left hanging, standing before him with an intensity that turns his spine from the shape of a half circle into a straight line. I like to imagine there’s a clap of thunder and a bolt of lightning sparking behind me as he looks up at me. Something like a body tingling climactic moment from a horror flick.

But rather than being proud of myself, my stomach sinks further. This confirms what I’d already known.

He did ditch me and is sitting here with his friends laughing about it.

I shake my head bitterly, scowling down at Noah. He’s holding a nearly empty bottle of red wine, and I cross my arms as I flick my eyes over to his friends. They’re all staring at me, and even Daniel looks at me in terror, his mouth hanging open. Before anyone can say something and I let Noah get the first word, I look down at the cigarette between his lips and stick my hand out.

“Give me one.”

“You... want a cigarette?” he asks, confused. When I saw Daniel’s face it dawned on me I never actually decided what to say. I guess this is why they tell you not to drive angry.

Once his friend with the pink hair asks if I’m the soda fountain girl, Noah’s aware of his surroundings again. He pulls a cigarette out of the red pack in his back pocket. “They’re bad for you, you know.”

“I know.” I glare at him while I snatch the offered one, jamming it between my lips. “Light.” I punctuate the command with a snap of my fingers.

Noah looks to Daniel, and his friend scrambles for his lighter, dropping his skateboard as he pats down his jeans pockets in search of it. He finally produces an orange Bic, his hand shaking as he extends the lit flame toward me.

I lean into the flame and suck, anger mingling hotly with nicotine in my chest. It tastes awful because it’s not menthol, but I’m going with it now.

“Where the hell have you been for the past two hours?” I demand, looking back down at Noah.

“Where I wanted to be,” he replies, staring right back and making it real fucking clear he’s not intimidated. He shifts his legs until the skateboard is in between his ankles, bringing his elbow back down to the knee as he takes a drag from his cigarette. “You’re lucky I’m not gone for the next twelve.”

Wisps of smoke curl up around his dark hair, and even through the haze I still see his intense blue eyes, the tint of black that surrounds each of his irises.

“And why is that?” I ask, feeling the tension between us get thicker, and his friends’ stares get wider. That still doesn’t hold back the smile that breaks out on my face as I step boot toe-to-toe with his Converse, towering over him for probably the first and last time ever.

“Tell me, Noah, what were you doing today that was so much more important than our first band practice together? A band that you were up my ass about joining?”

They all blink at me, but Noah is the first to look away. The sight of his jaw clenching makes me beam because oh yeah… he knows he’s busted.

“Oh, I’m sorry…” His voice drips in insincerity as he turns up to face me, smoke flowing from his smirk. I follow it rising and dissipating in the night air. “Did you miss me?”

I bark out such a loud, deranged laugh that my body sways forward.

“You’re so right, I did. I sat over there all night imagining all the things that you could’ve been doing. Maybe there was a girl you were busy with tonight.” I cast an exaggerated leering glance down his lean frame, stopping at his palm dangling near his knee. “Or maybe it was just your hand.”

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes at my jibe. He laces his fingers together between his knees, taking a slow drag. Those disgustingly perfectly defined lips hold the filter in place as he exhales, keeping that stare right on me.

When one of his friends interrupts with a loud ooh as if he's part of a live audience, Noah jerks his head in his direction, making the guy turn his attention up to the sky.

He’s grinning when he looks back to me, slowly turning into something more daring.

He’s seeing if I’ll react or back down.

I don't budge an inch.

That only cranks him up a notch. He silently sets the glass bottle down, rises from his seat on the skateboard, and creeps closer to me. And the way he glares down at me with that cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his hands sliding into his pockets—it’s scorching me under the late summer heat.

Instead of cowering like I normally would, I’m still pissed enough to keep standing my ground. I dig in my heels and tilt my chin up, officially close enough for me to smell the strong combination of his sweat, smoke, and cologne.

At least I’m standing my ground.

I drop my burnt-out cigarette to the concrete and cross my arms tightly against my chest. My nostrils flare as I inhale sharply, keeping my eyes on him as I consciously steer clear of everything above his belt buckle and below his collarbones. Especially those arms speckled in tattoos that I’d never dare to get caught staring at.

I stay focused, blinking up at those dark powder blue eyes with black flecks beating like hearts underneath his eyebrows. Eyes that are a lot more terrifying this close too, like they’re dead inside despite their breathing color.

Dammit, even this guy’s eyebrows are prettier than mine. All thick and long, while I can never get mine to match. So much unsettling beauty staring right at me.

That smirk still plays about his face as he takes a puff. “Did you miss my hands, Roxanne?”

The can inside me bursts wide open when the smoke coils from his parted mouth—but I still don’t back down.

Of course he wants to make it a flirty thing. It's all for his buddies when he takes another prowling step forward, playing it up for his friends as he exhales a stream of smoke, his head tipped back to reveal the cords of his throat. I hold my head up high, refusing to let him see the match he’s lit in my face as he takes another step, using his height as a weapon to leave me feeling like I’m being hunted.

A curl falls into his eye as he tilts his head down. Those blue orbs dig deep into me, and now all of my thoughts of what an asshole he's been disappear from my mind.

What just happened?

Why is my attention on his stare, and not his shitty behavior? He must be using some kind of mind control trick on me.

NOAH JACKSON IS A VAMPIRE TALLY BOARD:

I

I take a deep breath and start mentally chanting garlic garlic garlic .

“Noah, enough with this,” I sigh, imploring him to find some other poor girl to prey on. “We were supposed to have practice after school today, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember all right. I thought maybe we’d skip practice tonight, maybe catch up on some lost time.”

If looks could kill, Noah would be at the bottom of the lake. Then his curls that look styled by woodland nymphs, would be tangled with algae. And his long lashes, casting shadows on his cheekbones, would be encrusted with mud.

“Lost time?” I suppress a laugh. This guy is pissing me off and his games aren’t doing anything to improve my mood. “Well”—I step closer until we’re toe-to-toe again—“I only had time for this practice. Practice that I thought we were taking seriously but you, on the other hand, seem to have other things you’d much rather be doing.”

His mouth opens slightly, the cigarette bobbing up and down, but no words come out.

I wait for a few seconds, my impatience growing at his silence until it finally snaps.

Fuck this.

“Nice knowing you, Noah Jackson.” I plaster on an overly friendly smile as I pat at his sticky shoulder, then turn to leave. My boot steps are heavy, drumsticks rattling against my calf as I start to march back towards my car with his sweat on my fingertips.

I don’t slow when I hear his wine bottle tip over, or his footsteps slapping against the ground as he hops over it. I only slow when his voice rings out, sounding oddly surprised.

“Whoa—Roxanne, wait!”

My nose wrinkles in irritation as I stop, but I don’t turn around. “It’s fine, Noah. Go away because we’re done here.”

I would have preferred to have been filmed of my embarrassment I think. It bothers me that I found him here, smoking and not caring that he’d wasted my time.

“Come on, Wishmore. Give me a second—” I hear behind me, and I have little time to react when sticky warmth wraps around my wrist and tugs at me, spinning me around and colliding into the hard planes of his chest.

“What are you doing?” Noah asks, his tone flipping from playful and confident to serious and pleading. The fact he really just asked me that is what makes my lip curl as I stare at the muscle jumping in his jaw.

“Get your hands off of me.”

He steps closer, the smell of his cologne filling up my lungs once more and making my stomach cramp. How the hell can I smell it still? He’s only wearing jeans and has to of sweat off all that odor by now.

My eyes widen when I realize what I’m smelling might literally be the smell of Noah Jackson.

“Please, Roxanne. I need you.”

“ Excuse me ?” My eyelids pull further back into my head as I tilt my chin up to get a better look at this idiot.

This oughta be fucking good.

My gaze drops back to his fingers around my wrist, those long, nimble digits with that stupid black ring band on his index. I try to yank free, but the fucker's holding on too tight.

He's got guitarist's hands, no doubt about it. He's treating my wrist like some fretboard, the roughness of his skin brushing against my own between the bands of my bracelets. That middle finger's especially worn, which tells me a story of long hours playing guitar.

If I'm honest, I could slip through my bangles and get away easy, but some masochistic part of me wants to hear what he's got to say. Even if he did treat me horribly tonight.

Please, Roxanne. I need you.

I keep staring at his hand to avoid looking into his eyes, making a big show of wrinkling my nose at his general stinkiness. I’ll be damned if I get swept away by him again. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice? Not happening.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice low and commanding.

No way in hell.

He flicks his cigarette to the ground, the sizzle of it loud in my head as his hand comes up, gently tipping my chin up with his finger. Determined to get his way, apparently.

“Now please, let me explain.”

The focused heat in his eyes makes my lungs constrict tightly.

“Well?” I take a shaky breath— why am I shaking? —and tilt my head further back until his finger isn’t touching me. “Let’s hear it. And it better be good because I sat in that garage for two hours waiting for you.”

“What can I say? I lost track of time.” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, hand still hovering underneath my chin. “Honestly, I lost track of everything tonight. I promise you won’t have to wait for me like that again.” The corner of his mouth tilts up into a tiny, apologetic smile as he drops his hand to his side, but keeps a hold of my wrist with the other. “I’m... I’m sorry, alright? I fucked up tonight and that’s on me.”

At my thoroughly unimpressed look, he rushes on. “Truth is, I haven’t been thinking of much tonight, and I’m sorry for making you wait.”

Something in his eyes softens, and he looks down, releasing my wrist. The skin there tingles and my hand flies to my bracelets to rub it away.

“Do you even want to be in this band? Because it feels like you don’t.” I step back, my fingers now prying at the button on my flannel. “I’m really trying to do this. I need to do this. I need to be able to play, to make music, to win—to do something that my—” I choke off, taking a breath. He doesn’t need to know about my dad. “It’s important to me that this band works out and to work with someone reliable. I need reliability. And I’m sorry, but you need to get your head out of your ass and take it seriously.”

Noah huffs, scratching his elbow with a chagrined look. “Yeah, I know, okay? You’re right, Wishmore. I’m sorry. I’ll do better, I swear.” He meets my eyes, mouth twisting into a wry smile, and I can feel my damn self softening. Especially when he deals the final blow, looking deep into my eyes and murmuring, “I promise. Give me one more chance.”

My pride may as well be shredded up at my feet.

“Why should I?” I snap, but the sharpness lacks bite. “How do I know you won’t flake out again?”

“I know I screwed up. But the music is important to me. Trust me when I say I can’t see myself doing anything else to get me through this year.” He glances up at the sky, hesitating before slowly adding, “I need you to help me make it.”

“Why do you need me so bad?”

“Are we friends?” he asks simply, and I frown.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then I think we can both agree to keep our noses out of each other's business and not ask any personal questions about each other’s lives, right?” I twist my lips and nod. I can’t argue with that logic, because I certainly do not want Noah digging into my life. “Which is exactly why you can’t ask me things like that, or what happened tonight that made me skip out on practice.”

I stare up at Noah, his puppy dog eyes begging for my forgiveness. Generally, second chances were not something I readily handed out, not with my iron-willed grudge-holding, and turning people into stone when I felt like they crossed me. I hate feeling like a doormat, even if they apologize and promise it'll never happen again.

They always do.

But... there’s something in Noah’s voice. Something genuine. Something vulnerable as he so easily admits he screwed up. Something that tugs at my hardened edges. Something that has me rolling my eyes, tilting my head back to curse at the heavens, and reluctantly groaning out those fateful words.

“Fine. One more chance—that’s it. I swear, if you miss one more practice without telling me, so help me god , I’m done. I won’t ask about where you were or anything about what happened. But…” I let the word dangle for emphasis. Noah leans in, clinging to every syllable. “Only if you promise to stay sober. I’ll need you lucid for practice, not wasted."

His smile is so large, it makes me want to be a dick and take it all back. Now I’m irritated by how persuasive he is rather than how much of a jackass he had been. I bet he could get away with murder.

At least he looks genuinely apologetic, which is a vast improvement compared to the cigarette on the skateboard Noah, but I still don’t really know if I can trust him to keep his word.

“A promise I can keep. It won’t happen again.” He takes a small step backward, then pauses and takes a deep breath before adding, “I actually need to talk with you about that.”

Oh, great . “What is it now?”

I’m already mentally listing new lead singers I can audition.

“Do you still have my number?”

“No, but I bet you’re dying to tell me it again.” I wiggle my hand up in the air, pretending like I didn’t spend the last day scrubbing my palm clean. “Soap works in mysterious ways.”

“Yeah, real magical. You know, I can always tattoo it down for you—”

I shoot him a sharp look only to see his smile widen. His voice turns sweet as he finishes, “But I will write it down for you instead.”

I roll my eyes and press my lips into a thin line as he whips a marker out of his back pocket. Really, he just carries those around? He takes my hand, curling my fingers into his palm, and the marker dries on my skin as he writes his number down again, this time on the top of my hand.

“Move it to something more permanent this time,” he says, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip. “I want you to call me if something ever comes up and I’ll do the same.” He releases my hand and holds out the marker, motioning for me to write on his. “I’m gonna need yours too, Wishmore.”

“Do you always keep a marker in your pocket?”

“It’s a great self-defense weapon,” he replies, jabbing the air as if it were a knife.

“Why do you need so many defense weapons?” I ask, grabbing it.

“The streets of Bellpond can be a dangerous place.”

“I doubt a small town of about six thousand people can produce quite so much danger that it requires a marker to survive. Unless all of your crazy fans start to tear off my hand for this number.”

Noah merely grins that reliable grin. “Yet you still want my number. Clearly something about me has convinced you to take the risk.”

To keep myself from slapping his face, I grasp his wrist and yank him closer, hoping to maybe pull a muscle in his arm if I’m rough enough. My head ducks down as I start writing on his palm in large, messy strokes.

“That, or I’m desperate for a singer.” I raise my eyes to meet his and he looks slightly crestfallen at that… before he smiles again.

Yuck .

My attention returns to the marker, its scent not strong enough to overpower Noah’s rich-people-everlasting cologne. The tendons running down his wrist flex as he steadies his arm for me, forcing me to acknowledge the faint blue veins running underneath his skin, my eyes following them until they disappear behind the ditch of his elbow.

Considering I’m so close and my hair’s a curtain that blocks his face from me, I figure there’s no real harm in allowing my eyes to wander further up to the melting smiley face tattoo, right below the thick double barbed wire wrapped around his bicep. The pair of wires cross, one solid black, the other just an outline. There’s a faded flower along the side of his elbow too, though I can’t tell what it is.

“I hope you know your behavior could get you killed one of these days,” I mutter, slightly shaking my head at the inked face smiling at me. The ink is drying on his hand, and when I write the dash, I try to write slower and neater.

“We both know I won’t allow myself to perish until I’ve broken at least two hearts and earned a few scars from many fights.”

I turn up at him with a raised brow. “I’m guessing you’ve already broken several hearts?”

His hand flexes against my palm as he slides the other into his front pocket. “It’s not the hearts I want to break,” he murmurs, glancing down to watch me. “I want to be the guy that someone remembers for the rest of their life.”

Noah blows a slow breath out his nose that ruffles my hair as if he was weighed down by that small confession. For the next ten seconds, all I hear is the scrape of skateboard wheels on pavement while something shifts in his thick skull. When he flicks his eyes back up to mine, his blues are bright and shining.

“I'm sure I’ve broken a few hearts,” he continues, shrugging. “You know I’m not exactly a saint.”

“Please don't give yourself so much credit. You couldn't break my heart if you tried.”

He laughs, clearly amused. “I'll work on it then. You did look fairy annoyed with me earlier, and now you're going to hang out with me of free will.” He grins, glancing down at his hand again. “I'd at least chalk that up to a few cracks in the armor.”

“This could not be further from a hang out,” I snap, rolling my eyes skyward. “My armor is in pristine condition, Jackson, thanks for asking.”

His grin widens. “Still calling me by my last name? You're in love with me already.”

“As if,” I retort. “I would sooner love a skunk.”

He laughs deeply at that, the sound vibrating through his arm and into my hand. “As long as you're aware that your armor's not going to protect you from me. I'll get under there eventually either way.”

I shake my head, exasperated. “You're delusional as ever. I think not a saint is an understatement since your name will be right next to the definition of 'scumbag' in the dictionary one day. Not to mention that some people think you're pretty much the devil.”

“What's your take?”

“Pretty much what I've said,” I grumble. “A scumbag who has no respect for girls. The band is only an excuse to surround yourself with groupies, and while I like to believe that no one is beyond redemption, I think you're pushing it.” My eyes narrow to slits as I look up at him. “You're a menace to society, one serious hazard to the community with a personality disorder and delusions of grandeur.”

“Damn, you didn't hold back an ounce there, did you?” Noah stands a bit straighter as a slow, terrible smile crawls across his face. His free hand reaches out, catching a stray strand of hair that keeps blowing across my face. “Glad you know who I really am then.”

I frown at the pride in his voice. Does he really get off on his bad boy rep that much?

My gaze drops to his hand to see my number written there—and heat rises in my cheeks. I must have been too busy arguing with him to notice I'd finished.

After underlining the number over and over to piss him off, I start to clear my throat when I notice the curious tilt of his head, ears perking up a little as Tall, Dark Handsome Stranger starts blasting from behind me over the lowered windows of my car.

I’m met with a sly smile, his eyes flashing in the glow of the headlights. “I wouldn’t peg you as a Heart fan.”

I shift awkwardly as Ann Wilson croons about her mysterious bad boy stranger. The song choice feels like a sick joke now. There goes a favorite ruined.

“Heart,” I murmur, thumbing at the tab on the marker cap. “Yeah... I like Heart.”

Noah keeps staring past me as if I've got Christian Rock coming from my car. I wait, gaze flicking between each of his wide blues, the tense silence building until finally I can’t stand it anymore.

“Is there an issue with it? Should I have put something else on?” I turn my head to see what’s so fascinating about Kevin. “Maybe some Boy George?”

“I’m not shaming.” Looking back, I realize I’m still clutching his wrist, and he’s holding up his free hand in a placating pose. “You do look like you’d be into Magic Man.”

I snort and let go. “Magic Man has nothing on this album. Their whole catalog is gold, but 'Brigade' is one of—if not—the fucking apex.”

“Alright, hot shot... What’s so good about this one?”

My lips part, thumb digging deeper under the marker cap, but my vocal cords stay motionless. A million words and phrases to describe how much I love this album swarm my brain, each one more passionate than the last, but they all refuse to move past the tip of my tongue

His eyes are two hot coals, searching for my answer, waiting, judging . The heat of them is a spotlight, and Kevin’s headlight makes it so I’m actually in one.

My throat starts to constrict.

You are a musician goddammit, we don’t have stage fright.

“Aren’t we not allowed to ask questions?” I blurt out, and Noah crosses his arms like a smug prick.

“Is this really that deep of a question?”

I bite my tongue, forcing a smile. “Yes, alright?”

At the look on his face, that lick of irritation lights up inside me again. The passion starts to color my vocal cords, heating them as the song’s chorus pick up.

“Okay, fine. I mean, I feel pretty lame saying I love the lead singer’s voice, but it's damn beautiful. It's like... it's got this dark, sexy vibe we've never heard from them before.” I pause, but I don't need to think—I live and breathe this album, soaking myself in the lyrics once a week.

“Then you’ve got the lyrics that are fucking incredible, the drums that keep the whole album moving. Every song is powerful, and you can hear it in their voices—not just in the words, but the emotion behind them. It's like they're confessing dark secrets, sharing forbidden desires with so much raw feeling, not just passion, but this deep sadness and longing too. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to capture all of that emotion in words, but the music itself is enough.”

My chest is on fire, rising and falling faster and faster. “The whole album paints this story from start to finish, of darkness, wanting, love and loss. It's not even music—it's a fucking experience. I've never heard anything so... sexy and depressing at the same time.” I smile, feeling a little dorky. “It's like they tapped into this night-time energy and just went with it. I could go on about the vampire themes too, but... yeah. It's easily their edgiest, sexiest body of work. Totally different from their other stuff.” I suck in a deep breath, my voice warm but no longer heated. “It's my favorite.”

As I blink my eyes open, I see that Noah’s no longer crossing his arms. I don’t know how long he’s been staring at me as I word-vomited all over him, since I shut my eyes the second “fine” flew out of my mouth, but I know my face turns red, realizing I’d gotten carried away.

He blinks down at me and, when he does, his eyes shine with something I’ve never seen before.

Not even from Harley.

“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His blues sweep me up and down slowly like I’m in a floatie against a wave. “Do you always talk this much?”

He’s teasing me now—fuck. It was all too honest, too raw. I didn’t mean to spill my guts out in such great detail. Now I’m confused by the realization that no one’s ever bothered to ask me about my opinions on music.

When did talking about music with Noah Jackson become the highlight of my day? And more importantly, why am I not entirely hating it?

I don’t answer him, only pull my flannel tighter around me as I stare down at our shadows. Turning to the side, I keep my eyes off him and look out to his friends sitting around on their skateboards, still staring at us.

“Are you always this infuriating?” I finally reply, to which Noah grins widely and toothily at me, clasping his hands together at the back of his head.

That’s when I notice another tattoo. A chicken riding a skateboard on the inside of his right bicep.

“Oh, I’m just getting started. I can be a lot worse if you want me to be.”

He’s not bluffing. I know he could be.

“Why are you like this?” I drag my eyes back from the ridiculous chicken to his, fighting to keep a straight face and not laugh at the dumb tattoo or snap back at him. He’d win every time this way, and I’d turn into more of a bumbling mess than I usually am.

I stick the marker at his face. “Here. We done?”

Noah waves his hand. “Nah, take it. I’ve got all the ones that matter anyway.”

“That means I can go home and be in peace now?”

“You can go home and be in peace.” He nods and starts to back away, but then his brows pinch and he brushes my upper arm with the back of his palm. “By the way, you didn’t finish your sentence earlier.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“What are you talking about?”

“Earlier, when you said that you want to be able to jam, to make music.”

Oh, that .

I bring a closed fist to my mouth and clear my throat. “Are we friends?”

He smiles at me knowingly. “Absolutely not.”

“Then you can’t ask me questions like that.”

“What if I don’t like to follow the rules?”

“Then you can shove your question up your ass, and don’t forget the soap.”

“You’re a rebel angel.” He shakes his head and laughs, throwing a hand up in the air as he spins away. “Never change, Roxanne.”

Oh believe me, I have no intention of changing for you.

I start to walk away, Ann's voice still soaring through the night air.

“Hey Wishmore!” Noah's voice cuts through the music. I pause, not turning around. “Practice on Saturday. Don't be late.”

I flip him off over my shoulder without looking back. “Fuck you, Jackson. I'm never late.”

My fingers are on the door handle when the night air carries the whisper of skateboard wheels. Against every logical neuron firing in my brain, I glance back.

Noah's on his board, and the street lamp lights up his back as he glides away. Beads of sweat constellation his arm as his hand sweeps through his hair, each droplet a fleeting star tracing the geography of his shoulders. He turns to look at me, time slowing as our eyes lock and he up-nods, his lip twisting up into that lopsided smile I've seen a thousand times before. And when I turn away, I roll my lips into my mouth to hide my own.

Goddammit.

A dangerous question blooms in the dark corners of my brain: How long has he been that pretty?