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“That’s us.”
“Bloody hell.” He points at me. “That first album of yours—the guitars were huge. Proper live drums too. No click-track shit. I respect that.”
He taps two fingers against his chest.
“And that track, Need More? Jheeeze. When the last chorus starts with the whole group vocals, it took me straight back to being nineteen, packed into a van with three idiots and every amp we owned.” He grins and shakes his head.
Pride settles hot and solid in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say. “That means a lot. We’re putting new stuff out soon, actually. Trying to get back to that feeling.” I nod toward the stage. “You guys fucking rock, man. I’m so happy Bea invited me.”
John nods, then his face changes. He looks at Bea, and his voice drops.
“Bea. I’m so sorry, love. About your dad. We all miss him terribly.”
The happiness drains gently from her face.
My hand flexes at my side with the instinct to reach for her.
“Yeah,” she says. “Me too. I hope you’re looking after yourself, John.”
He has the grace to look slightly caught out. He reaches up and takes the cigarette from behind his ear, looks at it, and puts it back. Then he coughs, and Bea glares at him, and he puts it in his pocket instead.
“I’m trying,” he says.
“Hmm. Try harder. Future doctor’s orders.” She pats him on the arm.
“Yes ma’am.” He returns his attention to me. “Her dad was a legend. Proper musician. Loved this one like nothing I’ve ever seen.” He nods at Bea. His British accent is charming. “She’s special. I hope you know that, son.”
Bea groans. “John—”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do, sir.”
John nods once, satisfied, and claps me on the shoulder hard enough that I take a small step sideways. Then he pulls Bea in again, kisses the top of her head, and disappears back through the side door.
The door swings shut behind him.
Bea stares at the sidewalk after he leaves.
I don’t ask whether she’s okay. She’d say yes, and we’d both know it would be bullshit.
I rest one hand lightly against the small of her back.
She leans into me.
We go back inside for the second set.
Neither of us mentions the kiss.
We don’t need to.
Every time Bea looks at my mouth, I feel it again. Every time her shoulder brushes mine, my hand remembers her waist beneath it. During one slower song, she stands close enough that her hip rests against mine, and I spend four minutes thinking about dragging her back into the alley.
By the final song, I’ve had two more drinks, and Bea has finished another one and a half. When the lights come up, we step outside into air cold enough to clear some of the heat from my blood.
Not all of it.
“Let’s get a cab,” I say.
