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I keep everyone—my friends, my sister, my mom—at a distance, because I started to believe that no one could really like me for me. That’s why I had to change. And any attention my family or Ten gave me was simply them pretending.
That’s why I loved Misha so much. It wasn’t distant. It was close and real, and it felt good.
But good things are still around me, despite what I’ve done to keep them at arm’s length. They’ve been around me the whole time.
Ten pulls away and picks up the bottle again, grabbing the shaker and turning around to look at me. He studies me up and down, twisting his lips to the side.
“What?” I ask.
He jerks his chin at me, a smile playing on his lips. “Spread your legs.”
Huh?
“Come on,” he teases, shaking the salt. “I want to see what you taste like.”
I snort, widening my eyes. “Absolutely not.”
“Pleeeease?”
“No!” I burst out, nearly laughing at his sad face.
No way in hell! I am not doing that.
Not a chance.
Malcolm beats through the fill, the kick drum vibrating under my feet, and Dane eases in, playing the transition while I keep time on the guitar, backed up by Lotus.
Belting out the lyrics, I feel a high hit me as I close my eyes.
Bookmark it, says the cheerleader
I promise we’ll come back to this spot.
I have shit to do first. You won’t wait a lot.
I can’t make her stay,
and I can’t watch her go.
I’ll keep her hellfire heart,
And bookmark it ‘fore it goes cold.
Malcolm is razor, keeping the energy up, and sweat glides down my back as I savor the rush of playing again. Sticks, a favorite Thunder Bay hangout, has been closed for renovations for over a month, but the owners are still great about letting us use the space when we need to practice without an audience.
Dane’s guitar whines as he cuts off the note and stops playing. “Alright, stop, stop, stop!” he interrupts. “I think we should break it up at the point, add a riff.” He points to Malcolm at the drums. “You back me up with something creative, before we dive back in with vocals.”
“Keep it high-energy,” I say.
But he just sneers at me, like duh. “Yeah, I know what you like.”
“Alright, count it off,” Lotus calls out, but I hold up my hand, pulling the guitar strap over my head.
“I need a drink.”
I step off the stage and walk to one of the tables, taking a swig out of the water bottle.
A girl stands behind the bar—one of the owner’s daughters, I think—her chin resting on her hand as she looks at me. She’s about my age. Maybe a year younger.
