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“You’re arguing,” I deadpan, going for my Strat. “That’s a good start on the road back to Stella normal.”
A smile tugs at her lips but she’s fighting it. “God, you know how to push my buttons.”
“You are my button.” I blow her a quick kiss.
Stella laughs and flips me off. But she comes over to where I’m tuning my guitar. “I think you should just play me a song.”
“I’ll do that too.” I kiss the tip of her freckled nose. “If you’re good.”
Sticking her tongue out at me, she wanders off and flicks a cymbal on Whip’s drum kit. A tiny hiss rings out over the room.
“Go ahead and try them out,” I say.
She startles like a kid who’s been sneaking around and just got caught, and tucks her hand behind her back.
“Seriously, Stells. Whip won’t mind.”
Shooting a shy glance, she eases onto the low stool and picks up a set of sticks. Whip has stores. She gives the snare a soft tap.
I blow a raspberry. “Weak. Whale on it, babe. That’s what it wants.”
Stella makes a face but then rolls her shoulders.
“Give it your rage,” I tell her.
She starts off slow, barely making contact, but something in her snaps, and she goes at it with all the wild vigor of Animal from the Muppets. I grin at the spectacle. When she’s finished, her hair is mussed and she’s panting, but there’s a gleam in her eyes. “That was fucking awesome.”
“You weren’t half bad,” I tell her, clapping.
“I was awful.” She brushes a lock of hair back with the tip of a drumstick and smiles. “But it was fun to bang the hell out these drums. I totally get Whip now.”
“He’ll be glad to hear that.” I wave her over. “Now, get in my wheelhouse. We’re going to sing.”
Muttering about cat-cow sex, Stella stomps over, recalcitrant and leery. I nudge her with my shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“Or you’ll run away screaming,” she says darkly.
“Have I told you how much it turns me on when you’re grumpy?”
“No. But you’re a twisted individual, so I’m not surprised.” She rests her head on my biceps and looks up at me through long, red lashes. “What are we singing?”
“Whenever I want to feel safe or melancholy, I do a Beatles song. If I want to tell the world to fuck off, I go with Nirvana.”
Stella watches me. “Why those two?”
“My mum barely listed to music, but she loved the Beatles. It reminds me of being a child and seeing her smile.”
Stella moves closer, lending me her heat. “You never talk much about your mom.”
I shrug. “There isn’t much to say anymore. I grew up, and she didn’t like the man I became. Thing is, I realized I didn’t much like the woman she was either, so …” I shrug again. “My family now is one of my choosing. And I’m all right with that.”
Slowly, she nods. “And Nirvana?”
My smile is easy. “Kurt is my idol. He was gone by the time I discovered Nirvana, but I still felt close to him.”
“You have a lot in common,” she says softly.
Except I survived and he didn’t. My hand grips the neck of the Strat hard enough to bite into my skin.
Stella kisses the curve of my biceps. “I meant the way you both love music and don’t seem to care about the establishment.”
“Well …” I quirk my lips, “there is that too.”
She sets her shoulders straight and a look of determination fills her eyes. “Nirvana, then.”
It hurts to know she needs to scream at the world right now. I still want to hunt down that asshat of a father and pound him into the pavement. But Stella needs me more.
I practice a few chords. The guitar is tuned perfectly now. “You know ‘Heart-Shaped Box’?”
“Yeah, but not enough to get all the lyrics right.”
“How about the refrain?”
Her nose wrinkles in concentration. “You mean the, ‘Hey, Wayne, I got a new complaint’ part? Sure.”
“It’s, ‘Hey, wait’ but, close enough.” I play the opening, and she jumps a little when the sound of my guitar rolls rich and strong around the loft. “I’ll sing the main verses, and we’ll both do the refrain. Good?”
Looking nervous but excited, she nods. I feel myself growing lighter, surer of every move. That’s what music does to me; I’m hoping it does something pure for her too. “Really bring it. Yell into the mic. It’s just for us here.”
I begin to sing, and Stella squeals, tugging the bottom of my shirt in happiness. Her antics have me laughing through part of the lyrics, which only makes her laugh along too. Nearing the refrain, I smile down at her and wag my brows in encouragement. She takes a deep breath and then lets loose.
She wasn’t exaggerating—she can’t sing. At all. Oh, but the way she gives into the song, her curvy body shaking with energy, is a beautiful sight. I love singing with her, watching her get into it. When I get to the power solo, Stella jumps off the stage and dances around, her arms wide, body spinning.
