Your Biggest Fan

14. NOAH

Chapter fourteen

“I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be torture, but I’ll do it for Wendy,” I say, fiddling with the cuff of my shirt. “It’ll be worth it.”

Daniel’s voice crackles through the phone. “It might not be the best time of your life, but you got this. Just be cool, be nice to the parents, and you’ll get through it. And don’t stink up their bathroom!”

I laugh and run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you loud and clear. I just don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“You won’t, man,” he reassures me. “Just be yourself and you’ll be fine.”

Be myself? A little hard considering she wants me to be the opposite of myself.

The plastic of the red phone presses into my neck as my hands fumble with the top button of this stiff, unfamiliar shirt. I’ve dragged the phone cord all the way from my bedside table to the mirror. Why am I doing all this for a girl I’ve only been talking to for two weeks? I guess I really want to prove something to her. Even if it means being someone I’m not for the night.

It sounds silly, but I want to prove I’m worthy. That I can be some knight in shining armor. It’s a new challenge for me—and damn, do I love those.

I’ve been busting my ass to impress her since day one, and this is no different. When she demanded I dress up, I’m pretty sure she meant, ‘please cover yourself up so my dad doesn’t think you’re a degenerate.’

I’m going for a look that says “I’m a respectable guy” to appease the masses. I’ve opted for a crisp white long sleeve button-down and my best pair of light Levi 5150s, both neatly ironed with no damn wrinkle in sight. Checking myself, I push against the sleeves, making sure none of my tattoos are visible through the fabric as I cross my arms. I spent hours ironing this fucking thing and perfecting every hair in place, my fingers still cramping from the grip I had on the iron.

Looking at my reflection now, I look… normal.

Hiding who I am isn’t usually a big deal, not when I do it every time Dennis is home. I get it—some people are closed-minded assholes and it’s easier to avoid any cause for conflict. And even though I play it cool, I don’t miss a damn thing.

I’m hyper-fucking-observant.

More observant than Daredevil with his radar sense, but my vision captures the minute details of the way adults look at me in disdain from yards away, gossiping about me when they think I’m out of earshot. I’ve heard them question how Dennis “tolerates” my tattoos, seen their disgusted faces when I’m riding down sidewalks on my skateboard. Most adults in this town run the other way when they see me coming because they think I’m in some gang. All because of some ink and wheels.

That’s my favorite rumor, though. Me, the tattooed teenage cult leader, corrupting the youth of the town with my satanic skateboard. If only they knew I was a normal dude, crazy about a girl I can’t seem to impress no matter what I do.

It’s not all adults, at least. Nope, only the ones that live in my neighborhood. The ones I see all the time through Dennis’ work. Lucky fucking me.

Their judgment is harder to ignore when it’s spoken directly to my face, which is what I’m assuming Wendy is trying to avoid tonight.

I don’t care much personally. Sometimes it’s entertaining.

Despite hiding myself, Wendy is still reason enough to sacrifice my Saturday morning, running around town and dropping a hundred bucks on this new shirt. I have plenty of dress shirts from when Dennis would insist I cover up for events like this, but since I’ve shot up half a foot in the past three years, I had to get a new one.

And maybe the idea of getting my dick wet is more than enough motivation to go through with it.

“You definitely don’t want to be the guy who leaves a little surprise in the bathroom at your girlfriend’s father’s function,” Daniel says, dragging me back in.

“I’m thinking Mayor Turner has probably dealt with worse. He’s got to have a reason to hire all his cleaners. Ain’t a problem for him.”

“You might be onto something there.” He laughs over the line. “How are you gonna split up your time tonight? Don’t you have band practice too?”

“We’re not meeting until 7, and if all goes well, I’m going to dip out early so I can beat Roxanne there.” I pause, smirking to myself. “Dani boy, you know you’re supposed to be there too, don’t you?”

“Oh, right, I almost forgot. So, listen, I actually got something to ask you...”

“And what’s that?” I fix a loose hair in place, sensing a storm-a-coming. The last time Daniel asked me something so dramatic, it was to attend his goldfish’s funeral.

This goldfish, Jeff, had the privilege of gracing Daniel’s life for a whopping three weeks. Daniel actually requested that I dress in all black for the occasion. As if that wasn’t enough, his mom held the burning candlesticks and I held the boombox playing Heaven by Warrant while Daniel buried poor Jeff in a shoebox in the backyard.

“I need a huge favor.”

Oh, boy.

I lean against my dresser. “Hit me with it.”

Whatever it is, it has to be something big, and, judging from the lack of his voice, it was not something he was taking lightly.

“l know it’s the first real practice, but I’ve got this big situation that’s come up and I was kind of hoping you could cut me some slack.” Daniel clears his throat over the phone, and I picture him adjusting a fake bowtie nervously. “I really need you to do your magic and hook me up with Roxanne’s friend and I think that magic of yours would work best if I was not there so you can talk to her. And I was hoping that you can tell her I’m at home sick.” He takes a moment to suck in an enormous gulp of air, relieved to have finally spilled the beans. “Whattaya say, man?”

I snort loud enough for him to hear, my reflection in the mirror unchanging as I stare at my frown. The thought of being alone with Roxanne makes me twitch a little, because the last time I really saw her was the night she almost ran me over in the skatepark. Now he wants to lock the two of us alone together?

Is he out of his fucking mind?

Daniel is my friend and my idea for our bassist, so his skipping will somehow get thrown on me and I’ll be the one taking the blame.

Yeah… this is a bad idea all around.

“You want to skip practice to leave me alone with a girl who almost tore out my jugular earlier this week so I can find out if Stephanie is into you?” I deadpan. “Roxanne would freak out dude, and you know it.”

If I somehow don’t get condemnation from the mayor tonight, Roxanne might do me in instead.

Daniel groans loudly in my ear. “I admit my plan is a little flawed, but I was hoping if she saw you being all noble and selfless then she’d consider and want to help a brother out.”

My body tenses and I laugh out loud. Is this guy for real? Lying? Practice? Alone with Roxanne?

“Is this a serious request? There is no way I’m spending any more time alone with that Little Miss Vampire than I need to.”

“Hey, you’ve got a thing for girls who bite. You never know what might go down, bro. But don’t forget me, a loyal friend, needs Stephanie.”

“I’m going to ignore that first half, but how loyal is it if you’re skipping practice for some girl?” I shake my head as I reach for my ring, sliding it down my finger. “I get it, you like Stephanie or whatever, but have you met Roxanne? ‘Cause I don’t think this plan of yours is going to work. She’s too stubborn.”

“You don’t understand, man! Stephanie is a smokeshow and I can’t stop thinking about her ever since I put my eyes on her. She is my dream girl. You have no idea how important this is. Please help me out?”

My head falls at the desperation in his voice, the chuckles dying in my throat. I can envision him sweating on the other end of the line, fake bowtie now drenched in it.

Roxanne is gonna have his head on a platter, but Daniel has never once shown any interest in a single girl, let alone asked for me to be his wingman. He did stand solemnly by Jeff the goldfish’s shoebox grave last month…

I can’t deny him his wish. Damn you, Daniel.

After the third ‘please’ over the phone, my sourness has receded.

I’m already headed behind enemy lines to have dinner with the mayor who probably thinks I’m a juvenile delinquent corrupting his town. I’m sure I can manage squeezing this onto my plate.

“Alright, alright, goddamn. You wanna be with Stephanie, I’ll help you get with Stephanie.”

“You are my pond brother, for real.”

“Don’t thank me too much. You’re gonna owe me big time for this.”

“Of course, anything you need, I’ll be there.”

What I need is for you to come to practice.

“Yeah, yeah. I gotta go.” I start detangling the spiral cord from around my ankle and reaching for the phone hook. “Don’t worry, D-bone. Stephanie will be all yours.”

With one last look in the mirror, I place the phone in its cradle and delicately twirl the front strands of my hair around my finger, letting the curls fall before I dart out my bedroom and hop down the stairs.

Jumping onto the tiled floor from the third step up, I grip the dome ball at the end of the handrail and swing around toward the kitchen. I’d been contemplating stealing a bottle of wine from the fridge, thinking that if I downed some of it, it would make the evening easier. But my mind likes to remind me of my promise to Miss Vampire about staying sober for practice. That outweighs anything.

Despite keeping my promise, my interactions with Roxanne have been rather limited. The only time we talked was Thursday morning in class, but our conversation revolved around planning to practice today and rearranging her work schedule to permanently work in sessions on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

Things have been tense ever since the night she showed up at the park. I was scared she might baptize me with more soda. Instead, I saw a different side of her fury up close.

Witnessing her anger was the same as watching a ferocious kitten trying to intimidate a Great Dane. Like seeing Halley’s Comet back in '86, a giant light in the sky that was only visible to the naked eye so often and left me… I don’t know.

I do know it was cute, but in a “wow she’s got some serious spark” sort of way.

I snag the keys to my mom’s sedan hanging on the hook beneath the Communication Calendar. The box for September 1st marks my parents’ second day of being gone for another week-long business trip.

Thank god for it.

Things in my house have not exactly been the best since that same day and I've been walking on eggshells trying to avoid Dennis’ presence. It’s a war zone and I’ve resorted to desperate measures, such as spending entire nights outside, lingering in the driveway while puffing on a cigarette, and only coming inside once I see the lights switch off, or avoiding home entirely until I’m sure he’s asleep. It’s an art form of mine now. The latter mostly included busying myself with music and hiding out.

At this point, the storage garage has turned into my cave, where I’ve started to stash my cassettes and vinyls that I’ve purchased with all the guilt money they leave me. The walls are decorated with band posters, ranging from Cinderella and Scorpions to KISS and Heart—the last ones for Roxanne’s benefit. To add a cozy touch, I’ve hung a few tapestries, stuck some lamps in the space, and Daniel insisted on a lava lamp—and a Vanilla Ice poster.

I couldn’t deny him those things either.

His mom gave us one of her couches from the basement. It’s a worn-out, really fucking itchy, little green plaid thing. It may not be perfect, but, you gotta start somewhere.

I wasn’t the only one sneaking into the storage unit. Last night, I couldn’t help but notice that Roxanne had returned her drums to the space. Part of me was tempted to give them a little tap, but I had a feeling she’d be the type to set up some sort of trap. Like the dad in Ferris Bueller with his lock of hair.

Better to admire it from afar, and admire I did. The whole space was put together, and it gave me that warm cozy feeling that sits in your stomach and sinks into your ass.

I meant what I said too when I told Daniel that I plan to dip out early. I know that Wendy wants me to meet her dad so that we can finally get together, but meeting with Roxanne on time and showing her that I am serious about this feels more important today, even if I did drop money on a nice shirt.

Yeah, I really said that. Who the fuck was I now?

Locked and loaded with the car keys in my hand, I stick them into the ignition. I’ve only got a one minute drive since the mayor’s house is conveniently located a few blocks away, perched on a hill near my neighborhood. Opting to borrow my mom’s car seemed to be the wisest choice, as I didn’t want Mayor Turner to catch sight of me on my dirt bike or skateboard. The last thing I need is a panic-induced exodus because the “cult skate boy” arrived.

I glance at my watch.

4:55 PM.

I have exactly two hours to get through this major dinner while I attempt to make it to practice on time. Piece of cake.

I pull up to the white stone mansion at the top of the hill, the grounds cascading down behind it. The sheer enormity of the place makes it feel like a real-life fairytale castle. It’s even complete with an actual functioning fountain smack dab in the middle of the roundabout driveway. People with flesh and blood actually live here, not holograms or cardboard cutouts.

I gulp, palms sweating against the steering wheel.

This is really happening.

Parking at the end, leaving enough room behind the car in front of me should I need a quick escape, I knock on the front double doors. Once it opens to the Turner house, I come face to face with a short, wide set heavy man in a black suit. Someone who’s definitely not Mayor Turner.

His mouth pulls into a taut line, those eyes staring into my soul, and a part of me starts to feel really fucking insecure.

“Hello,” I say, drawing out the last syllable and sticking my hand out.

“Winston, he’s with me!” Wendy shouts from somewhere inside the house, popping out from behind the fiftyish suit man.

She’s beaming brighter than the sun glinting off the fountain outside, and oddly touchy when she moves past him in her light blue dress, the fabric swaying against her thighs as she lurches forward and kisses me right on the mouth.

My eyes explode open when peaches surround me and I instinctively wrap my arm around her waist to catch her. Winston’s nose behind her tall, blonde ponytail wrinkles like he smells something rank.

“I know this is a big deal, meeting my dad and everything,” she whispers softly against my lips, squeezing my upper arm. “But I’m so glad I have you by my side. I don’t know what I’d do without you tonight.” She pulls my other arm to her body. “Remember to behave, act as innocent as possible.”

Oh yeah, I will so do this for her.

She looks back at Mr. Stone Face. “May I introduce Noah, my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Winston asks out loud at the same time I blurt, “Boyfriend?”

We’re definitely going to need to talk about that but… not now.

“We’ll be inside,” she tells Winston as she breezes past him, reaching out to drag me in behind her.

I glance over at Winston, still holding the massive door ajar, eyes narrowed with that look of distaste again.

“Nice to meet you, sir!” I manage as we sweep past him.

I train my face to smile so I don’t look like a complete dick. These people don’t exactly scream friendly. I follow Wendy through the foyer and put on smile #2 (the nice, sweet one) for her parents and everyone else to see.

Showtime , baby .

She leads me through the grand entryway and into a large kitchen on the right, trotting through the room quickly as she pulls at my hand. The room looks straight out of the game of Clue, with its ornate decor, checkered flooring, and huge windows overlooking gardens.

As we pass through, I catch a glimpse of a counter with cold poached salmon, surrounded by a salad that has been invaded by mushrooms, all arranged on pristine white plates with workers garnishing the dishes with some fancy green herb and indulging in every kind of rich-people fetish food you can imagine.

My stomach growls. I made a grave mistake by not eating before coming here. There’s no way in hell I’m subjecting myself to that fucking meal.

This guy needs his carbs and ketchup.

Our steps halt and I bump into her back, too busy staring at the snails covered in butter when she slides open two wooden doors that lead into a large living room, tugging me through the threshold before sliding it shut. I don’t have a chance to take in my new surroundings before she’s yanking on my wrist again, and shoving me up against a wooden bar in the corner of the room.

Wendy smooths back the top of her hair, gazing up at me through her dainty lashes. “Thanks again for doing this. It really means a lot that you want to impress my dad.” I swallow as she leans in closer, all peach perfume and glistening lip gloss. “Who knows, if it goes well, maybe we can finally have some real alone time,” she purrs, fingertips dancing down my thigh.

Shit . My nerves switch from panic to filthy anticipation.

“Wait here,” she instructs, her words barely registering before she disappears as fast as she brought me in here.

The large living room definitely fits right in with the home. The bar holding up my elbow is a work of art itself, with its beautifully carved dark wood, and I feel bad for even touching it. There’s large art on the white walls, and either the person who owns this place is a virtuoso pianist, given the giant white grand piano, or they want to show off their auction-winning trophy. Either way, I can tell this is the lair of a rich politician.

The party seems to be in full swing, too. It’s crowded, smoky, and noisy, with a bunch of adults crammed together on the blue and white floral print couches, legs crossed so tight while gripping what I bet are some very dry martinis. Their poor offspring are banished to the sidelines, standing awkwardly and sipping on fake Shirley Temples.

In the middle of it all, I spot short blonde hair on the right. It’s Hayden, staring out of a window, dressed in a black blazer and looking bored as shit while picking at the white fabric of the curtains.

“Good evening, would you like a drink?”

I pay the bartender little attention as I add my voice to the noise. “A water is—”

My words fall off as I notice a shock of bright red hair to my side.

It’s her— the damn redhead who stole my moves and lead spot from Iron Fillings.

What the fuck is she doing here?

My mind goes into overdrive, conjuring up wild theories about her being the mayor’s other daughter since I didn’t fucking know about the first one.

I only hope I don’t get thrown into another Iron Fillings concert and that’s why she’s here. That might actually drive me to the edge of insanity.

She doesn’t say anything or turn toward me, but I still have trouble getting over her long lashes blinking, freckled arms, and pink nail polish. All of which is covered with the straight red hair falling down her back where her emerald green dress lies.

My god, she’s actually pretty.

Gross .

“A water would be great,” I say, my voice strained as I resist the urge to stick a snail in her drink.

Everyday I try to push aside the memories of my time with Ian and the gang, wanting to move forward and leave it all behind. It’s not that easy. Not yet at least.

I know myself well enough to understand that I can’t always trust my filter when I’m feeling an intense emotion, so the last thing I want is to get caught staring at her and say something I can’t take back. The last thing I want is to let anyone in Iron Fillings know that I’m pissed, and I certainly don’t want to explain why I feel that way either.

Shaking my head, I turn to the handheld cameras moving among the room, the news crew making their rounds. I squint as a quartz light pops straight in my face, blinking my eyes a few times and clearing out the spotty vision before I see Hayden clocking me.

“Damn, look who got an invite.” Hayden slides up between me and the redhead. “Slumming it with all us common bureaucrats tonight?”

I keep smile #2 on, taking the water from the bartender. “Peterson. What are you doing here?”

“The same thing you are. Looking for someone interesting to talk to,” he laughs. “It’s kind of a borefest here, isn’t it?”

“If you consider being surrounded by overpriced food and plenty of alcohol a ‘borefest,’ then yeah,” I reply, smirking. “What I’m seeing more of is a case of sour grapes.”

He snickers, the sound grating on my nerves. “If you find a bunch of rich politicians and their trophy wives entertaining, then you’re even more boring than I thought, Jackson.”

“I don't know, Hayden. The woman of your dreams could be standing right next to you, but you’re too busy scoffing to notice.” I take a sip of my water, aiming to take a dig at both him and Red.

She must have been listening because her eyes round at my remark, and she looks sideways at Hayden.

“Yeah, Hayden,” she purrs, giving him an assessing up-and-down glance. “I would never be so quick to dismiss the man of my dreams. If I was standing next to the most beautiful man in Bellpond right now, I would certainly know it.”

If Hayden was a fire, this girl threw gas onto him.

“Oh, fuck off, Riley,” he snaps.

Riley, huh? Guess that answers the question of whether these two know each other already.

Their raised voices draw the attention of everyone else in the living room. I bet this is the most excitement these stiffs have had all day. I hide my face behind another gulp of my drink. No better way to wipe that look off his stupid face than implying he’s not God’s gift to all women.

Riley smiles sweetly at Hayden and mumbles something under her breath. It must’ve been one hell of a zinger because Hayden throws his arms up in the air, and the two start going at it like cats and dogs. My eyebrows shoot up as I catch the colorful language they’re tossing around.

“What are they arguing about?” A voice asks me, and I nearly jump out of my skin, sloshing my drink.

“ Jesus —” I exclaim in a whisper, and the shortstop beside me smiles.

Christ, when did he get there?

“They have different takes on which one is the most beautiful in the room,” I reply, jerking my head toward the direction of their argument.

The stranger slides closer, squinting as he leans in to listen. His hand on the bar inches towards my back, and his hair is so close it’s brushing my chest.

“Who are you?” I ask point blank, trying to maintain some composure despite this guy standing on my dick.

“Oh, shit.” He takes a huge step back, wiping his hand on his slacks before holding out his palm. “I’m Chuck. Sorry, didn’t mean to get all up in your space there.”

My eyes flick from Chuck to his open hand, giving him a smile and an upward nod. “Pleasure, Chuck.”

While Chuck pumps my arm, I size him up. Khaki pants, with white sneakers underneath. He is the definition of preppy, and a bit goof. He’s never touched a wrinkle in his life and is the kind of guy who jumps at his own shadow. His curly, dark red hair sits atop a face that bears a slight resemblance to a chipmunk. And he’s wearing what I know is a $200 navy suit that doesn’t exactly fit his body.

“And you are?” Chuck asks, with his chipmunk-like face.

I gently extract my fingers from his grip. “Noah. You a friend of Hayden’s?” My eyes drop to the small pink and white stripes on his tie. This guy doesn’t seem like the typical elite circle jerk squad.

Chuck shakes his head, making his over-gelled curls bounce. “Oh, no. My parents make me come to these things.” His green eyes light up. “What about you? You here with Wendy? I spotted you two sneaking in together.”

I nod slightly as I witness the ongoing bickering between Hayden and Riley in my peripheral.

“Yeah, but it seems that it’s going to be me and my water for the rest of the night at this rate.”

“You could always opt for something a little more... alcoholic.”

He offers me a gold flask that he is hiding inside his jacket, and I glance up at his innocent baby face. I hardly know the guy, but chipmunk Chunk seems like the last person on Earth to be a bootlegger.

“I like the way you think.” I reach out to clap him on the shoulder. “But I can’t tonight, unfortunately.”

Curse Roxanne. But damn if this kid isn’t starting to grow on me.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Applause starts to erupt as Mayor Turner and Wendy make their grand entrance from the top of the staircase. Mr. Turner extends his arm in a high wave, his other elbow locked with Wendy, face splitting into a smile.

Chuck nods towards them, eyeing me. “Good luck with that. Her father is as tough as nails.”

Awesome .

I look at him helplessly, because yeah if only he knew the half of it. Instead of offering me any sympathy, he cocks his head, bursts into laughter, and disappears into the living room crowd. It’s fine. I’m too busy switching my face back into smile #2 as Bellpond’s leading family, arm in arm, descends the steps, heading straight for me.

This must be what being caught in the path of a tornado is like, except this tornado is wearing Armani. My heart skips a beat when their voices draw nearer, and I swear the room drops 10 degrees.

I try to keep my smile up to play it off.

But then she introduces me.

“Daddy, this is my boyfriend Noah.”

Boyfriend . The word still sends disconnected alarm bells blaring in my brain even the second time.

“Uh. Lovely to meet you, Mr. Turner,” I stammer, holding my hand out to shake his.

I realize now that I should have wiped off the condensation from my glass before attempting this handshake as Chuck did. It’s too late now. Mr. Turner doesn’t reach for it—he eyeballs it, his gaze scorching off my skin cells.

Awkward silence ensues.

Now I know why people buy handkerchiefs. They’re for future encounters with intimidating fathers.

I quickly pull back, trying to smooth my hair and straighten out my shirt, hoping to present a more polished appearance than reality allows.

Look approachable. Not hostile.

I start to slowly grin. Like an idiot.

Mayor Turner squints, darting between me and Wendy, then nods. Whatever answer he’d wanted from me, he had already found. It didn’t feel like a good one.

The fucker probably saw right through my disguise. He saw the calloused fingers, sensed my jeans hiding scars and scuffs from skateboarding incidents, arm tattoos underneath my dress shirt. God forbid my cigarette found a way to cling to my hair.

“Noah, is it?” he asks. “Say, aren’t you Dennis Ward’s son?”

I grimace. “Yeah, that’s right, sir. I am.”

A light sweat starts breaking out under my arms. With a smile I think appears nice, I tilt my head slightly to counteract the intimidating pull of his strong brow.

The stress is real.

Approachable. Not hostile.

“I hear you’ve been spending a lot of time with my daughter Wendy.”

If fingering your daughter behind a skatepark and only talking at school counts as “quality time” that is.

My face starts to burn. I nod my head. “Yeah, we have been seeing each other.”

Another long silence stretches between all three of us. I’m pretty sure Hayden and Riley are staring me down now.

“Now that I know you two are involved, I think it’s important that I trust the young man she spends time with, so I hope we can get to know each other better.”

Mayor Dad keeps staring at me. I clear my throat, my collar choking me while I wait for him to speak again, but nothing comes.

Finally…

“And where do you plan on going to college once you complete school?”

“I—Well...” This is a totally fair question to ask of anyone dating his daughter, I guess. How exactly do you explain the chronic lack of motivation to apply to any college ever to the rich and powerful father who probably sits on multiple university boards?

“I’m not sure I can answer that quite yet, sir,” I admit quietly, resisting the urge to shove my hands in my pockets like a guilty child.

I know the answer he’s looking for, and if I don’t say I want to go to an Ivy League like Wendy, she’ll dump me faster than I can say goodbye. But no way am I going to lie to Dennis’ boss, lest I want it to get back to Dennis.

“Daddy, Noah hasn’t decided yet on what college to go to.” She turns up at him with a cute little smile. “It’s a hard choice to make, you know? He might not even want to go.”

Mr. Turner’s eyes snap wide open.

“Is that so?” he asks, left eye twitching. “Then what is it that you do, Noah?”

My tongue shrivels up and my mind goes blank. Every single possible lie I could construct is incapable of running through my mind.

To put it simply: I have no fucking idea what to tell him.

To put it more simply: If I said I was in a cover band here and there he’d probably throw me to the curb along with his daughter.

Wendy looks at her father with a pleading expression, begging him to give me a chance, but Mr. Turner remains firm and unrelenting. She interrupts before I can say anything.

“Noah is an artist, he does paintings and spray art. It’s very nice work too!”

If possible, her father looks even more shocked. “Spray painting? You know it’s vandalism to spray paint without permission?”

“Yes, but—”

“No, no!” Wendy waves her hands as if to erase his objections. “Noah only spray paints property that is abandoned or old. He would never graffiti someone’s personal property and destroy it.”

Mr. Turner scrunches his face up, like he’s holding back a few choice words. “Is that true?”

“Well—”

“He gives tattoos, too!”

Christ .

I look at Wendy and raise an eyebrow, silently telling her to abort the mission which she misses entirely because she’s still beaming. She put her damn foot in her mouth with that one.

Mayor Dad looks about ready to blow a fucking gasket, bushy blonde brows knitted fiercely, and I see the vein in his forehead coming to life.

“You... you do tattoos now?”

Well, there’s no point in lying now. Why couldn’t I have met her mom instead? The moms always like me.

I nod and smile slightly. “Yeah, sir. It’s actually a big hobby of mine.”

Wendy smiles as she looks at her father. “You see Dad? Just because a boy has some tattoos and dark clothes doesn’t mean he’s not kind and talented inside too.”

“You’re an artist then?” His eyes roam up and down my figure, probably searching for ink. “You really have no true direction? No real plans or goals for your future?”

My face has to be fire red by now. He’s clearly disappointed in who she brought tonight.

The real answer is that I want adventure—to hitchhike across the country, ride my bike to any city, maybe join the next Allman Brothers band. At 18 years old, there’s nothing truly stopping me—except for the obvious that I want to take my diploma with me. That’s ten months from now though, and in the current timeline, I’m caught with my pants down and have to think fast.

“No, sir, you’re completely right. I’m going with the flow right now and it’s taking me to...” I hesitate, trying to really sell it. “Not the best places.”

Wendy’s jaw drops slightly at my comment and I guess that I made the wrong choice of words again. I try to recover.

“But I’m hoping to change that.”

“Change that how? Are you actively trying to improve your life? A steady job is one of the most important parts. Can this painting and tattooing of yours provide for you financially?”

The moment is starting to slip from me.

I was confident up until the first question. Now I’m losing him by the second. I look at Wendy, hoping she’ll step in and try to save me, but she’s been quiet for some time now.

Dammit.

Anger is starting to flood through me like a slow moving river. I’m in over my head, and the heat starts to burn in my chest, spreading through my veins until my fingers twitch. My blood pumps behind my temples, matching the rhythm of that damn vein on his forehead and the too-neat mustache perched above his tight, toothless smile. His endless questions, criticisms, and being dressed down like an incapable child in front of everyone is making it hard to play polite.

Approachable. Not hostile.

I have to say something—anything.

Approachable. Hostile.

He needs to hear me. Someone does.

Approachable and hostile.

I breathe and set my water down behind me.

“Mayor Turner,” I begin, my voice steady but firm. “As an artist, I have a great deal of creative passion that drives me to pour my heart into every piece I create. I take pride in what I do and am constantly learning and refining my skills. Just because my plans don’t necessarily involve the traditional college path doesn’t mean I don’t have a direction or future. I’m someone who isn’t afraid to take risks, and I’m pretty confident in my ability to forge a path for myself as an artist.”

Mr. Turner is really holding back that explosion of emotion now. At least I feel damn good.

His face twists into that same one of pure disappointment that I get from Dennis, and his eyes turn cold. He glides his hands down the front of his suit, delicately adjusting the blazer. With measured composure, he inhales deeply, his chest rising and falling, before speaking with a practiced patience.

“Wendy. In my office, now.”

Fuck.

I swivel towards Wendy. Maybe she’ll back me up, but her silence speaks volumes as she simply readjusts her posture, offers a curt nod, and proceeds down the hallway.

Another lump that makes me feel a thousand times shittier settles in my gut as she leaves me high and dry. Fear, frustration, loneliness, confusion... they all fill my body as Mr. Turner puts his hand on his daughter’s back.

I’m about to lose her.

There’s no point in taking any more scrutiny from everyone near the bar. Shoving my hands in my front pockets, I walk over to where the Turners are sitting inside the office.

I don’t care if it’s a little gross that I’m about to listen in on a private conversation, especially one that pertains to a topic of me, which is likely setting myself up to get hurt by their shit-talking—I don't care. I’ve gotta know what’s going on and the door has a minuscule crack already, so... fuck it.

I want to know what’s being said.

“Tattoos, Wendy? This gets better and better. He’s an artist with no concrete plans for himself, and he gives tattoos. What’s next, he robs banks in his free time?”

“Dad, listen—”

I press my back up as close as I can against the wall without making any noise, breathing slow and careful.

“Look at him, for heaven’s sake! He gives tattoos, he’s spray painting walls, and all he gives you are excuses about where he’s going in life. Are you willing to throw away your future and everything we’ve provided you with, all for this boy?”

“He’s a nice guy, dad.”

Those words feel nostalgic—a ton of memories of when Dennis would assault my scarred skin with his belt fighting for space in my mind. It’s the only thing that makes me fight off the powerful urge to kick open those doors and tell the Mayor he’s wrong.

All of it makes me feel so guilt sick, like I’m going to throw up all the garbage that I’ve been stuffing down while alone the past weeks.

My image in the brass, emerald-shaped mirror across the hall is another reminder that I can never do anything right. The tears in my eyes make my face seem weak and no matter how hard I try to be myself, my failure is obvious with a single glance. My reflection is an example of what failure looks like, and its starting to look like another fucking critic waiting to tear me down.

I’ll always be so far from what everyone fucking wants me to be. Only walking on this Earth to leave a trail of pain behind my footsteps.

At least I can deliver disappointment right on schedule. It’s what I excel at.

“He might be nice to you, honey, but he’s anything but nice based on his actions. I’m not even talking about the fact that he’s trying to lead us on a wild goose chase on where he’s heading in life. That boy is nothing but trouble, Wendy, mark my words.”

Mayor Turner continues on, but I can’t hear him anymore. White noise fills my ears as I press my palms to my eye sockets until colors explode. All the thoughts Dennis has in his head, all of them coming out of the Mayor’s mouth… Never would’ve thought he could have formed such a low opinion about me so quickly and the way that I lead my life.

I lean over to peek through the crack, and see Wendy’s shoulders hunch. Her head drops slightly, looking equally defeated as well.

“I know, dad, I really do. But—”

“No buts, Wendy. I’m not even going to pretend like his actions are excusable. They aren’t, in the slightest.”

He’s still shitting on me, and it’s enough that the guilt rolls the acid in my stomach, threatening to actually make me sick with it.

I am sick of it.

Having heard enough—too much, really—I step away from the door. The best course of action right now is to leave without being noticed. The earlier I am to practice the better, and being here isn’t worth feeling like I’m dog shit at the bottom of someone’s shoe that they can’t wait to scrape off on their doormat. I don’t want to hear Wendy’s responses to his disapproval of me either.

If this is what it takes to impress a girl, if my grand strategy for romantic success involves spending $100 on a shirt only to end up with a bruised ego and an angry parent, it’s time to throw in the towel.

She was ashamed of me, and it’s my fault I couldn’t stop going back to her after every defeat, driven by the fucking chase. I wanted it to be worth it, but I should have accepted the truth from the very beginning when she kept scanning parking lots every time she was with me.

Wendy Turner isn’t my type, and I definitely wasn’t hers.

I climb into the sedan, done playing pretend gentleman for the royal court. I already know exactly who I am—and who I’ll never be.

Two hours later, after strumming along to whatever my headphones blasted into my ears, I'm almost human again. The only problem now is that I'm spiraling down another mental rabbit hole, and I don’t want to go down it, but I might actually be in over my head.

I've been so busy going at it with impressing Wendy that I forgot how much I want—no, need —to prove to Roxanne that I am serious and committed to this band. The only thing is that it never crossed my mind that we could be on two entirely different pages.

What if our sound clashes? What if I can’t keep up with her drumming? She’s probably used to someone a lot more competent than me and I’m starting to doubt if I can really offer something meaningful. I don’t want to be the weak link.

What if I disappoint her?

I shake it off as best I can and keep tuning my different strings. Can’t spiral into self-sabotage now. Roxanne will be here any minute to scrutinize my commitment firsthand.

With my guitar perched on my lap, I strum at a few chords every now and then while lounging on the couch, my feet resting on top of the amp. I stare at the marker dot on the toe of my Chucks in between songs on my Walkman, a Twizzler hanging out of the corner of my mouth while I spin my tapes around on a Bic pen, trying to rewind them.

I’ve got this. I’m totally in control. I’m acting like I don’t even care about what Roxanne will say when she gets here... I’m cool, I’m the picture of cool. I’m—

There’s the noise of the garage door rumbling open and sunlight starts to creep into the room. I spring into action and yank the headphones off my head, tripping over my own cables to reach the microphone like a goddamn startled gazelle.

“Roxanne...” I half-sing, half-drawl The Police once she comes into view.

I’d been planning this while waiting for her, even the part where I knew how annoyed she’d be by my audacity to beat her to rehearsal.

I think I might even keep being the first here from now on to drive her nuts.

“What are you doing?” The girl stops a few feet from me and crosses her arms against her chest. Even when she’s barely over five feet tall, she’s still a fury.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing, just like you said to.” The satisfaction of being the first one here still has me grinning ear to ear. “You’re late.”

“Please don’t bring up the stupid line from that song again,” she says blankly.

“Good luck with that. I will most certainly reference that line every time I can.”

She glares at me like she’s contemplating ways to silence me. That, or get rid of me entirely.

Unable to contain my amusement, I point my limp Twizzler at her. “No nicknames, no talking, and definitely no songs that coincidentally mention your name.” I take another bite, chewing slowly. “My, my, you really are no fun.”

I’m eyeing her drumsticks again, the ones that are gripped tightly in a fist underneath her crossed arms, with blue pen doodles all over them. I can’t make out any of the drawings—though it’s not for lack of trying—because when my eyes run up the blonde wood they start to dance around her.

They land at the oversized Levi jacket that covers her, slowly working down the black tights that disappear into her black and white high tops. She doesn’t respond back to me, or notice me staring, but she does look around the unit, her brows pinching together.

“Where’s the bass player?”

I nod over to Daniel’s empty stool. “He’s sick today. Said to come up here and wing it with no bass.”

“Great. That means we’re not actually going to get any practice in then.” She shakes her head. Not a happy look on her face.

Fucking Daniel.

“What? Are you afraid to wing it?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Guitar Hero, I’m on drums so whether or not we have a bass player makes no difference to me. But for you, a bass is pretty important.”

I shoot her a look that says: I’m not happy you’re still pissy. This is not how I wanted this day to go either. And could you relax for like five minutes? ’

When she squints her eyes up at me, not getting the memo, my fingers start plucking at the white electric guitar, playing the riff from Roxanne again.

Roxanne huffs, as pissy the first time. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

A smile tugs at the edges of my mouth when she rolls her eyes, her arms falling to her sides while she growls something about being a sadist as she stomps over to her drum kit.

After she gets all the drums and cymbals set in place, she motions for me to start singing with a wave of her stick. I stare at her, a little puzzled, but I have zero desire to fight with this drumming diva.

“What, you want me to sing whatever pops into my head?”

“Yes,” she sighs, as if it’s obvious. “I want you to sing whatever pops into your empty head.”

Oh, she’s gonna make this difficult.

“Whatever song pops into my head?” I chuckle and look up to the ceiling in thought. “Is this gonna be some kind of trick and you’re gonna give me shit for what I choose?”

My eyes drop to her, watching.

“I’m gonna make fun of you now for being so scared.” One corner of her mouth lifts. Then she situates herself on her stool and starts to tap out a beat. “Come on. Let’s hear your best song and get this over with.”

The sound that comes out of her is fast paced and starts to make my eyebrows crawl up. Surprisingly, it’s not half bad. I wonder if she’s got something specific in mind, if it’s a song I can recognize, or if she’s toying with me and testing my ability to improvise. It’s possible she may grace me with a sprinkle of kindness if I nail whatever song she’s thinking of.

Taking a step forward, I position myself in front of the mic, gripping it with one hand while trying to gather my wits. I suck in a breath, ready to let it rip, when she cuts me off and suddenly the DSL booting up noise goes off in my head.

“Yeah, no, I changed my mind. I don’t wanna hear you sing.”

I look back at her, brain still making that godawful sound. This chick, man. She really knows how to be a meanie, doesn’t she?

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine?” I tell her, irritation bleeding into my tone. “What exactly do you want me to do then? Dance? Juggle flaming torches? Recite Shakespeare in pig Latin?”

“No,” she draws out slowly. “I don’t want to get started on anything until I get to hear what you can do on that guitar.” Then she spins back to her drums like she’s said her piece and that’s that.

My left eye twitches while glaring at the top of her head. Wasn’t that what I was about to do?

A few more seconds of total silence until my brain boots back up. While I hold the neck of my guitar tightly, I lean over toward the couch and grab my yellow pick. Adjusting the guitar strap on my chest, I do a double strum on the E chord before turning my chin over my shoulder.

“Alright, now I play, right? Or do you wanna jerk me around a little more first?” Not that I’m not jumping for joy at showing off, but it feels a little like a monkey behind a glass wall being tapped at to do something.

“I think you know the answer,” Roxanne says, still not looking up. She’s tapping out a rhythm on the snares. Probably the same thing she’d tap at a zoo animal. “Now play.”

“First song to pop in my head?”

“First song to—”

My fingers find the strings quickly and strum the opening chords to He-Man Woman Hater . The notes flow from my fingertips, and my eyes shut when I hit a particularly sweet chord progression. When I open them again, her eyes flit up to me, all pissy that I cut her off, but I soften her down with a quick wink before I move back to the center of the mic as the intro winds down.

Blowing a curl out of my eye, I start to sing, pressing my top lip across the microphone and really getting into it, feeling the grates dig into my bottom lip as it drags across it.

It’s my voice, my amp, and a whole lot of attitude. Then the sound of her drumsticks rattling against the ground.

My head snaps over, watching her lip twitch, picking her sticks back up before throwing me an awkward thumbs up. If I wasn’t singing, I would be pressing the smuggest fucking smile against my mic, my heart beating from how I was able to make her fumble.

Not long after, and perfectly timed, she starts to come in and... fuck. There’s no denying it.

We sound good .

Her drumming and my riffs are so incredibly in sync—our musical sparring just as natural as our verbal.

The slow rhythm of our sound throbs through my skin and shakes my bones, each deep vibration burning me alive. The collar of my shirt is clinging to my neck, drenched, but I couldn’t care less as I let my eyes fall shut, feeling my lids pulsing along with her drums, my heart already racing from the rush—the purest musical drug.

And I'm fucking high.

Riding the euphoria, I unleash a whammy bar squeal in time with Roxanne’s cymbal crash. It isn’t until I get to the guitar solo that I think to look back at her, tilting my face to give her the most appropriately insane, cat-like, and menacing smile.

This is my #3 smile. The ‘I told you so ’ smile.

The look on her face is priceless. Eyes wide, cheeks glowing pink, lips downturned in a pure frown, like she found out her favorite band broke up. The streaming sunlight casts the entirety of her in a warm glow, making her look totally pissed off and excited that we sound good.

One song isn’t enough for me though. I put her through a series of tests, seamlessly jumping from one song to another. She doubted my skills, so it’s only fair I get to test hers too. Boy, did she fucking deliver.

It’s bizarre to finally hear her play, not that I ever really doubted her, but I can’t believe how insanely good she sounds. Why would her band have thrown her out in the first place? The energy rolling off her is so raw that it touches me at my spot at the microphone.

We tackle every song that pops into my head, from Whitesnake and Night Ranger to guilty pleasures like Toto and Poison. We’re halfway through our fifth jam when I hear her sticks come to a halt, her fingers putting a death grip on her cymbals like they’re about to fly away.

Blessed by the rock gods or something, I didn’t fuck up once.

And neither did she.

“You’re...” She takes a deep breath, her cymbals sparkling lightly through the air as she lets go. “Okay, so you can play... I can play... maybe we can be a pretty solid team after all,” Roxanne says, trying her best to make it still sound sarcastic. It doesn’t work. For once there’s this thread of sincerity that she can’t hide.

It makes my chest warm and I want to hear her say it again. I was half expecting her to rip into my playing, to tell me I sound like shit and that she’d tolerate it. But the look on her face? She really thinks we’ve got a shot at this partnership thing.

I give her a small nod. “Maybe we can.”

The words that spill from her next are a frantic murmur of: “I mean, I still hate you, but you might be okay.”

“I’m glad you could come to that conclusion.” My eyes look her way. “That’s a maybe though. I still have work to do to win you over? Is that what you’re telling me here?”

“Careful. ‘Cause this maybe could fall off if you don’t behave.”

I laugh hearing her threat. “Do you hate all guitar players? Or is it just me?”

“It’s just you, sunshine .” A deep dimple emerges as she smirks and taps out a rhythm on the snares again. “I honestly think we have potential, but there’s only one way to find out.”

I do a double take, blinking at her fingers tucking hair behind her ear. Thank god I wasn’t mid-strum or else I would have dropped the pick. Did she say “we”?

“That way is?”

“By getting our first gig.” She gives me a loaded look from over the top of her drum set. “First, let’s go for a couple of rehearsals and see if I can stand to be in the same room with you for more than five minutes. If we work, then I’ll consider being less of an ass. Maybe.”

“And if it doesn’t work, you’ll be a pain in my ass until the end of time?”

“Now you’re catching on.” She grins, saluting me with her right middle finger. “Now enough dicking around. What song are we going to do?”

“Mm, something that makes me want to get lost along the devil’s highway.” I pause, tapping my fingertips over my guitar string. “What’s your favorite song?”

“One Night In The City,” she blurts out then slowly glances over. She’s looking for any sign of judgment, but I wouldn’t do that to her. I might make jokes about a lot of things, but I wouldn’t make fun of her for something like this

“It’s a good song.” I tilt my head, noticing her fingers digging out her necklace between her jacket. My eyes linger, stuck on her chewing on her bottom lip, bringing me out of my little trance when she brings the R pendant to her mouth. “It’s a good song,” I repeat. “I’ll never understand how it didn’t hit the charts.”

“And you?” She drops the necklace from her brown lips. “What’s your favorite?”

“That’s like asking me to pick my favorite child.”

“Do you have children?”

“No.” I grimace. “But when I do, you better believe I’ll love them all equally.”

She rolls her eyes at me for the tenth time. “Okay, then you can definitely pick what your favorite song is.”

“Do I have to pick right this second?” I eye her, starting to fold up the sleeves of my shirt. Despite it being sixty degrees outside with our fan running, it’s getting hot as shit in here.

“Noah, you’re in a band. There must be at least one song you think of when you hear the word ‘music.’”

I tilt my head back, a lock of hair falling over the corner of my eye. “We’re really doing the favorite song thing?”

“You started it, so yes, we’re really doing the favorite song thing,” she says a little frustrated, crossing her arms and legs. “Just think of the first song that comes to mind, and then tell me it.”

“It’s a very closely guarded secret.”

“God, I hope it’s not, like, a Beatles song or something.”

I barely hold back a laugh. “I’ll have you know, I’m very versatile, thank you very much.”

“Oh my god,” she groans, dragging both hands down the side of her cheeks. “Okay, Mr. Versatile, are you going to quit stalling and spit it out?”

I shoot her a warning glare, but all I get is a sassy smile back. This girl truly boggles my mind sometimes. Even if I made this bed, I’m not about to lie in it.

“I dont know—”

“First one to pop in your head—”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes—!”

“Father Figure,” I successfully manage to scream while keeping my tone low enough to avoid rattling the garage door, while also resisting the urge to bash my head against the wall. “I was obsessed with the song when it first came out. There, happy?”

My cheeks are fucking burning. I’ve always kept my love for WHAM! and George Michael under wraps. There’s nothing wrong with it, but people love to point and laugh when someone’s into “cheesy pop,” and the day twelve-year-old Hayden Peterson caught me jamming to Club Tropicana on the playground, I, specifically, became the target of those jokes.

“Interesting.” Roxanne hums. “Not exactly the hard rock I would have expected, but interesting.”

My shoulders shrug and I keep staring at the marker dot on my shoe. “I dig it. Makes me feel good. Plus... that opening riff always gets me. I like how that song captures the pain in the lyrics, but it’s still a catchy bop all the way through.”

I finally look up, and there’s Roxanne, giving me that look. That tilt of the head, arms crossed, legs stretched out like she’s settling in for a round of ‘let’s psychoanalyze the weirdo’. The only thing that’s weird about it is the slight frown spoiling her face.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “I have a song or two I relate to on that level.”

“As much as I’d love to dissect our musical traumas, we can’t exactly bring that song to a Battle of the Bands,” I mumble, my eyes now obsessed with her kick drum. If I stare hard enough, I think I can find a new subject to talk about written for me there.

Surprisingly, inspiration strikes. I snap my fingers, pulling her attention to me.

“Have you heard the new Queensr?che?”

The look on her face says it all. “You... know who Queensr?che is?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard them before. Empire’s a solid album. The songs they have on it are probably some of my favorites.” My mouth starts to widen when I realize that she knows the album I’m talking about. We’ve found our common ground. I lean my shoulder against the wall, hooking my thumb in my pocket. “You’re the first person I’ve mentioned them to who actually knows who they are. You into them too?”

She responds without skipping a beat.

“Um, Empire might literally be the holy grail of Queensr?che albums now.” Roxanne being Roxanne, swiftly masks her enthusiasm. “But yeah, they’re not exactly a household name. I’ve got that one, though.”

I’ve seen that look before, when someone’s talking about something they love but don’t want to let on how much they’re geeking out about it. Nah, she’s into them, alright. She’s just not ready to let the music nerd in her compare notes and admit it. Not with me, anyway. Not yet.

“Is this the start of something beautiful between us?” I purr, mockingly though, let’s get that straight. And unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, I think I spy a little blush on her cheek.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she mutters, her expression flat. “But... there’s at least the start of a mutual interest.” She looks me dead in the eyes, hands on her hips. “Now, are we playing Empire or what?”

I huff a laugh and wipe at the sweat on the side of my neck.

Alright, straight to business, then.

“We should do something off of there, yeah. It’s new and fresh, and it goes pretty hard. Best I Can could be a really good crowd pleaser too because we can have the crowd shout back during the chorus.”

She nods. “I like that. It’s an easy enough song too if something goes wrong. Easy to recover on.” She starts to tap out the beat. “Just need a name...”

“I’m still holding out for Noah’s Ark.”

I can’t resist.

She groans, shaking her head at that. “I’m already dreading having to say that to people.” Then her eyes drift down to her drums, and she takes a quick breath, picking at the chipped paint on the side. “If you get to throw Noah’s Ark into the ring, then I’m tossing in Roxanne’s Revenge.”

“I don’t know, sounds kind of like a band name for a group of pissed-off punk grandmas.”

She laughs out loud, and I feel a wisp of relief she didn’t bite my head off.

“You know...” she muses, a glint in her eye. “That’s more terrifying than you think.”

“Between a biblical flood and an army of angry grannies, we might have cornered the market on apocalyptic band names. But maybe our third band member should get a vote.”

“Well that’s unfair,” she grumbles. “He’s obviously going to vote for yours.”

“I’ll have you know, Daniel is a discerning gentleman with impeccable taste. He might surprise you.”

“Puh- lease . His ‘impeccable taste’ probably extends to which flavor of his own ass he prefers to lick.”

I gasp, clapping a hand over my heart. “How dare you, madam! Daniel is a refined connoisseur of only the finest posterior delicacies.”

She stares at me, her face caught somewhere between disgust and reluctant amusement. “You’re so fucking weird,” she says finally, shaking her head. “I can’t believe I’m actually considering being in a band with you.”

“Aw, come on, you know you love it,” I grin, waggling my eyebrows at her. “Admit it. I’m growing on you. Like a fungus.”

“More like a tumor.”

“Whatever you say, Foxy Roxy.”

She chucks a drumstick at my head, but I dodge it easily, laughing as it clatters against the wall behind me.

“Guess it’s settled then,” I smirk, nodding like it’s already a done deal. In actuality, I couldn’t care less what we call ourselves, and I know Daniel won’t give a rat’s ass either. “Roxanne, I’m telling you. There is a name to end all names, and it’s right in front of your face.”

“Ha. Ha,” she deadpans. “Noah’s Ark. What a stupid name. I like it.”

I laugh, striding across the room to snatch my guitar from the couch. Slipping the strap over my head, I sneak a glance at Roxanne, catching a glimpse of something rare: a smile. A real, honest-to-god smile that she tries to hide by ducking her chin. A smile I don’t think I was supposed to see. It makes me feel like I’m flying, wondering what could’ve possibly crossed her mind to make her look like that.

Something about that little upturn of her lips makes my heart do gymnastics in my chest. She’s warming up to me.

I clear my throat, my fingers finding the strings again. “Now, for my first act, I’m going to play this song while doing the best that I can.”

And we do play, for a while.

We lose track of time as whatever the hell we decide to call ourselves takes its first breath. The energy improved with each run through the song, and surprisingly, it looked like Roxanne was enjoying herself. The perpetual knot between her brows relaxes. Her body loosens from its rigid posture. A smile—another toothy smile!—cracks her usually pinched face as she tosses her head.

That ever-present stick seems to have vacated the vicinity of her asshole.

When I check the time I notice we’ve been at it for two hours before we stop for a break. I carefully set my guitar down and stretch my cramping fingers out, unbuttoning the top few buttons of my shirt to cool myself off.

Heart pounding, I fish a cigarette out of my back pocket and wipe my sticky lighter against my jeans. As I light up, there’s this energy in the room that’s telling me the show’s almost over, and my smile turns to a look of dread when I remember my promise to Daniel.

Fuck, I’m running out of time. I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to bring up Stephanie, so I can only assume this is going to end up being even more awkward than I’ve already imagined it.

“I have something I need to ask you. And I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” I say, leaning against the wall as I raise the cigarette to my lips.

Roxanne arches an eyebrow with her Pepsi can halfway to her mouth.“Should I be scared?”

“Have you talked to your blonde friend recently?”

“Um,” she draws out the word, thinking as she takes a sip. “You mean Steph? Yeah, why?

I shrug, trying to play this down. “Danny’s been asking about her.”

“Ah.” Her mouth wrinkles with a secretive smile. She swallows quickly before swirling her soda around, saying, “Has he now? Why oh why ?”

“I believe the words dream and girl were used in the same sentence.” I press a hand to my chest. “Being the amazing wingman I am, he asked me to give you a nudge and put in a good word for him.”

“Daniel’s got the shakes for Stephanie?”

“Got it bad,” I confirm. “He’s completely infatuated with her.”

“And you want me to play matchmaker?”

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” I tease, exhaling a mass of smoke. “Yes, I want you to play matchmaker.”

“Why don’t you do it? You’re the smooth operator here, after all.”

“That I am…” I snort, smoke streaming from my nose as I flick the filter away. “But I prefer to watch romance rather than create it.”

“I prefer to stay out of romances entirely—they’re messy.”

Why do I get the sense she’s only saying no because she doesn’t want to do me any favors?

“Messy can be fun sometimes.” The grin that’s on my face is pure trouble wrapped up in a pretty package. I take a step toward her, and her breath catches in her throat when my eyes lock with hers. “Sometimes the mess is what makes it memorable.”

Her nose wrinkles. “I know you think you’re the king of the hill, but I think I know a little more about the nuances of romance than you do.”

In half a heartbeat, I’m invading her personal space, leaning in close. “Do you now? What makes you think that?”

She narrows her eyes, swiveling away from me to face her drums. “Call it women’s intuition.”

“Sounds more like avoidance to me.”

“I just think there’s more to it than physical attraction,” she says, her tongue coming out to swipe a drop of soda from the corner of her lip. “You have to feel the spark or else it’s all for nothing.”

“On that, we agree,” I concede, pulling back when she starts to fiddle with her necklace. “And it’s all there when it comes to Danny and Stephanie. Even though the two have barely spoken two words to each other, there’s chemistry between them.” I move in again, my fingertip lightly tracing around her cymbal. “I worry they won’t notice it in time.”

“Then… I guess you better make sure they do because I’m not doing this.” She side-glares me. “I. Don’t. Play. Matchmaker.”

“Do I have to beg? Because you know what’s next.” My eyebrows raise as I tip my chin down, my eyes wide and voice lowering as I pout my bottom lip. “Pretty, pretty please?”

Her gaze darts around, bouncing from my lip to the floor to the ceiling and back again, like a pinball bouncing off bumpers.

She doesn’t stop staring. The five seconds of silence could’ve filled up a whole world. Entire civilizations rose and fell, dinosaurs had time to evolve into birds, and still, she stares.

“ Fine ,” she huffs, fussing with the sleeve of her jacket—though it was never messed up. “I’ll do it, but only because you’re being a brat. You have to tell him that he can’t go all stalker-ish trying to get to know her. If Steph unleashes her inner demon and is rude to him, he can’t come crying to me about it. I’m only putting in a good word, that’s it.”

“Your kindness knows no bounds.” I give her jacket a playful tug, purposely messing it up. “You’re going to be the ultimate wingwoman, but please, no dates in the woods or the back of a car.”

“I’ll make sure to keep them away from trees and cars,” she teases and looks up at me with a subtle grin. “But answer me this. What is your love life like?”

“My love life?” I bark out a laugh. “Why would you want to know that?”

She shrugs. “Enlighten my curiosity. I want to find out if that aligns with your cocky attitude.”

Wow. She really is a little shit stirrer.

“Is this a trick question, or are you actually interested in finding out more about me?” I ask, wetting my lips as I lean back against the wall, crossing my ankles.

“Don't flatter yourself. Sometimes I like to understand how other people operate, especially the ones I'm forced to spend time with. So spill. What's your deal?”

I don’t know why she feels the need to try and get to know my inner thoughts and feelings. It irritates me, and I can’t tell if she actually cares or is poking a lab rat with a stick.

That little frown is on her face again, the one that means she’s focused on trying to decipher the inner workings of my mind to whatever end she’s after, but she’s listening to me now. Which is good, hopefully. I’ve never met someone who wants to know my favorite song so badly, who wants to learn me—or who wants to clinically assess me for being a pain in the ass.

Must be the charisma today.

“You mean you want to know how many girls are beating down my door? If I’m really as smooth as I let on?”

I toss her my most roguish wink. She doesn’t crack a smile. Tough crowd.

The smile slips from my face when thoughts of Wendy sneak back in. I glare at the damn pebble by my foot. For a couple of blessed hours, I’d been so wrapped up in the music and Roxanne that I’d forgotten about her.

But I’ll be damned if I let it piss all over this moment. I take a deep breath, imagining myself stuffing those thoughts into a mental trash can and slamming the lid shut. They can fester there for all I care. Right now, my attention’s on my drummer.

“I’ve never had a problem finding a girl to spend a few hours with. Nothing ever serious though. They mostly like me because of the way I look.” I gesture down at myself. “Because I’m... mysterious and edgy.”

Roxanne blows a raspberry. “You don’t strike me as very mysterious, in fact, I think I can read you pretty well. And edgy? In that getup?” She rakes her eyes over my button-down, unimpressed. “Please. You look like an accountant with a band tee thrown over it.”

My face scrunches up at that. I’m no fucking accountant. I’m not lame .

“Okay, just because right now I’m dressed in a way that doesn’t match your typical punk style doesn’t mean I’m not,” I argue, tugging at my collar. “I mean, hello? Tattoos? But if you can read me so well then by all means, read me to filth. Lay it all out on the table.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Roxanne gives me a side-eye. “You got tattoos, and yet you dress like you’re in some silly Christian band. You must be a real hit with the youth group.”

I scoff and give her a pained expression, amping up the theatrics as I cry out, “Christian rock is very cool.”

It sounds even dumber coming out of my own mouth, but I’m in too deep to back down now. I’ll be damned if I admit that a girl forced me into playing the role of a clean-cut yuppie today to meet her daddy dearest. Time may have been on my side, but I was not about to waste a single second of my punctuality bragging rights to run home and change.

“Christian rock is the epitome of lame!” Roxanne cackles, hands clasped around the can in her lap. “Oh man, it makes me cringe having to think about you rocking out for Jesus.”

“I dress this way to get out of stereotypes,” I insist. Insist on fucking lying . “I’m supposed to be a singer in some black leather jacket, but no one ever expects a white button-up.”

That was a good line. Even I almost believe it.

“Is that why you always wear a red jacket instead? Because you think you’re Michael Jackson?”

“It’s called making a statement, Roxanne. People recognize me by my signature red. And”—I take a deep breath, moving my hand to my chest because she’s giving me fucking palpitations—“red is my color, thank you.”

“Right, because nothing says ‘breaking stereotypes’ like dressing as a stereotypical office drone. You’re hilarious.” She wipes the corner of her eye, inspecting her finger before dabbing underneath her bottom lashes. “Maybe if you dressed in a way that actually reflected your edgy side, you might attract girls who are into more than just good looks. Girls who want to know the real you, not some superficial idea of who you are. Not being able to love, that’s one thing. Not having any depth is entirely different.”

Those words are a challenge and condemnation all at fucking once.

Goddamn, why does she always have to go for the jugular? I stab a fake knife through my heart and tilt back, sucking in a deep breath as if in physical pain.

Kind of am, though.

“What I’m doing right now is having some fun,” I say, covering that literal stab in the chest. “Are you saying leather and ripped jeans is what it takes for people to have depth? What’s so wrong with wanting to look put together and not like I’m about to go rob a bank?”

People seem to think that’s next on my to-do list anyway.

“You wouldn’t even know how to rob a bank,” she volleys back.

I’m starting to see her argument, even if I don’t like it. I’m not some hot, edgy guy trying to appear mysterious, I’m a fraud. If someone took a deep enough look they would figure it out.

I take a deep breath and hold it. Act chill. If I’m careless enough, then she has to let it fucking go. She needs to before I throw my pick at her.

“Look, forget about the shirt. It’s a damn shirt. Let’s not make a federal case out of it.”

Why is she harping on my clothes so badly? Was she hoping I’d be stripped down to my skivvies? And why is she bundled up like we’re in the North Pole when it’s been a sweaty 60 degrees all evening?

“It’s a boring shirt,” she insists. “You dress like an accountant named Jerry Smith.”

I harden my stare, crossing my arms. “This shirt isn’t boring. It is clean and pressed.”

Am I actually getting defensive about a fucking shirt? I glance down at the offending garment again before looking back at Roxanne in her oversized jacket.

“I’d like to see what masterpiece you’re hiding.”

“That shirt is straight out of the JCPenney catalog, and you know it,” she laughs. “Who even says ‘clean and pressed’ unless they’re a housewife showing off her starched linens?” She pauses for a moment, looking decidedly unsorry about it. “And you don’t want to see what I dress like. I’m not putting on a fashion show for you, Noah.”

“Why shouldn’t I want to see what you’re wearing?” I quirk a brow, bringing out that shit-eating grin saved for when I really want something. “Got some deep, dark secrets hiding in there?”

“Don’t push it. I’m not a piece of meat.” Her nostrils flare, which is kind of cute, honestly—but that’s what I would say if I liked the person flaring them. “I have plenty to hide. I’m actually three raccoons in a trenchcoat, and they might escape if I take it off.”

“Three raccoons? Wow. That must be a very cramped trench coat.”

“Yeah, not the most spacious, but I still won’t be letting you see.”

She brings her Pepsi up, takes a gulp, and then pulls her jacket tighter around her. It’s unnecessary because whatever she’s hiding underneath couldn’t even be found by space satellites.

Her big, evil green eyes look up at me. “You really like to argue with people, don’t you?”

“You started this thing about my shirt, and now you’re giving me grief about giving you grief? Pot, meet kettle.”

Okay, maybe I am being a bit of a dick. But she started it!

“I only like to argue with people that I think deserve it,” I clarify, shooting her a wink to soften the edges of my lighthearted threat. “You look like you can dish it, so hopefully, you can take it too.”

“Well, let’s call a spade a spade here.” Roxanne sips more from her can, then swivels on her stool to glare at me, and I try—and fail—to not find the glare hot. “Let’s recap. You buy your clothes at JCPenney and dress like you’re about to sell me insurance. What else do you do? Stamp collecting?”

Man, she doesn’t let up. Even if her shit talking is kind of hot.

“For someone who claims to hate JCPenney, you sure seem to know an awful lot about their menswear department.” I sigh happily, my shoe scuffing against the floor. “You’re making it sound like you shop there.”

I kick off the wall and rest my forearm against the top of her cymbal stand, sliding my free hand into my front pocket with a smile.

“As for what else I do… I sing. I sell weed, and sometimes kiss beautiful girls.” I lean in a bit more. “Sometimes even in cramped garages like this one.”

And when Roxanne blinks up at me from under those heavy lashes, those deep greens rolling skyward, warmth spreads through my chest. Time to get under her damn skin a little.

“Okay, first of all,” she gasps in a faux-affronted voice, pointer finger out in the air. “I don’t shop at JCPenney. But you do, you little nerd.” She laughs to herself again. “Do you think you might be overcompensating by hanging with all those girls, Noah? Compensating for how you feel about yourself?”

My eyes flash at her, grin freezing in place. “I don’t have anything to compensate for. Where do you get off assuming all of this shit about me? You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Except that you shop at JCPenney,” she smirks.

I can’t believe I’m getting made fun of for this fucking shirt again.