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Letting her drag me to my place, I take in the situation. Koko is covering for me. She knew I went out, but obviously she also knew it wasn’t to make a phone call. Was Zane arguing with Dylan about me?
Feels weird to be the focus of this little theater act. To be the focus of Zane’s, the whole damn Brotherhood’s, concern.
After all, I’m the one who rescued Zane from the downhill slide back when we were at school, and together we took care of the others. Together we opened Damage Control and took in the Damage Boyz. I’m one of the founders, the protectors of the Brotherhood. I can’t break apart.
I won’t. I’ve got this.
Settling on my stool, I nod my thanks to Koko, expecting her usual wink and whispered ‘you owe me’, but instead I get a frown. In her eyes I see the same worry I saw on Z-man’s face.
Awesome. I so don’t need this right now. If they wait for me after the concert for a group hug, I’ll break out in hives.
Making a mental note to jump off the stage and disappear the moment the music stops, I grab my drumsticks and make one last-ditch attempt to empty my mind.
Zane and Dylan step away from the stage. Riley, Luke and Quinn are looking at me expectantly. Koko grabs her mike and fluffs up her wild, dark hair with her other hand. Her combat boots squeak on the floor.
“Ready?” she asks.
In reply, I bang my drums and the crowd whistles and applauds. I think I recognize the voices of our friends—Zane, Dylan, and Tyler, Tessa and Erin, the boys from the shop—Micah, Jesse, Seth, Shane and Ocean. I haven’t seen Ash and Audrey, but last I saw her she was so big with the baby, she probably needs her rest right now.
All is as it should be. All is great. I take a deep breath and drumroll into the first song.
Showtime.
As the first notes from the bass hit the air, as Koko’s powerful voice fills the hot, still air, as the guitars strum and whine, the world narrows. It’s a return to a primitive state of the mind, where I’m alert in the dark, blind of sight,
immobilized and highly aware of sounds and vibrations.
A rustling. An animal roar. The crack of a twig. The sound of distant thunder.
Beware, a whisper thrums through my head. Beware.
Koko screams her rage into her mike, her mane lifting with static. Quinn growls into his own mike and bends over his guitar. Riley throws his head back, then his hair flops over his face again as he caresses the bass.
Shadows shift over the stage like passing clouds. I hit the bass drums, hit the tom toms, work the pedal, work in drumroll after drumroll as Koko’s voice rises in a crescendo. The floor trembles in time to the beat. A rat-tat, like shooting bullets. Like emptying a magazine into a man’s chest.
Blood. I blink at the sweat dripping in my eyes. No. Sneering faces. People. Have to remember I’m the one producing the sound, causing the havoc. I’m in charge.
I’m in control.
The song ends with a bang, and we roll into the next one. Softer, harsher, louder, softer, the beat accelerating, my pulse quickening, matching the drums. I’m one with the music, one with the rage, the howling inside my head a counterpoint to Koko’s voice.
I hit the cymbals, and end the song with a double drumroll.
And then a jolt goes through me.
She’s here.
Megan. She wasn’t here before, I’m fucking sure of it. I can somehow sense when she’s in the room, as if a sixth sense is telling me so.
Fucking laughable. But when I scan the crowd, sure enough, there she is, raven-haired, sleek and beautiful, still dressed in her beige coat.
My mouth goes dry, my pants grow tight, and my senses go haywire. Suddenly my pulse is in my ears, booming.
Not a trigger, I think randomly. This isn’t fear. It’s need. My whole damn body comes alive at the sight of her. What is it about this girl?
And why the hell can’t I stop it? She’s not free, not interested in me, and even if she was... Even then, it’d be a fucking bad idea.
Koko turns and snaps her fingers at me. “Rafe.”
