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With a sigh, he explained. “He wrote a song about you, you know, about how he saw you singing up there on the karaoke with Jodi. Jesus, you’re in the band now, why don’t you know about this song?”
“Oh, I don’t know; maybe because you’re talking utter bullshit. No song like that exists. Trust me, I’m familiar with all of Non-Castrato’s songs.”
“No. I really don’t think you are. You should look into that.” I opened my mouth to disagree some more but he straightened and glanced behind me. “Incoming.”
“What?” I glanced back and nearly peed my pants when I found Asher almost upon us, lugging a case of alcohol. He heaved the box onto the counter and extracted two bottles before telling Ten to do something with the rest. Then he popped the caps to both and handed me one.
“To our best performance yet,” he toasted.
Warmth flooded me, making me forget everything Ten and I had just discussed. Had tonight really been the band’s best performance? Oh God, I loved hearing that.
I tapped the neck of my bottle against his and took a tentative sip, only to lift my eyebrows in surprise. “Holy shit. This isn’t half bad.”
Asher laughed. “I know. I’ve become addic
ted to them.”
He slid onto an empty stool and motioned to the free seat beside him. I glanced around for Jodi, only to spot her sitting at a table with Galloway...on his lap as he stuck his tongue down her throat. Eww. I wasn’t sure where Holden had disappeared to, or if he was even still in the building. Since I didn’t know anyone else and I couldn’t think up a good reason to refuse Asher’s invitation, I sat on the stool next to him, even though it kind of felt like I was deceiving him to play all buddy-buddy like this.
“So how long have you been playing?” he asked, drawing my attention back to him. I liked his hands—long, slender musician’s fingers—and how he always kept them busy, like the way he was idly spinning his bottle on the countertop in the puddle of its own sweat ring. It was as if he had this pent-up energy inside him and he had to use his fingers to expend it.
A shiver and hot trail of lust curled through me, imagining much more productive ways he could put his fingers to use.
God, I was awful. Concentrate, Remy. He asked you a question.
I shrugged. “For as long as I can remember. I grew up next door to Jodi’s parents, and they owned a music store, not like a place that sold records and CDs either, but an actual music store that has pianos and clarinets and flutes and guitars and such. They always played the coolest eighties music every time I went over there. My family played nothing outside mariachi music, so it was like a whole new exciting world to visit the Maleskys’ house.”
“And I assume that’s where you bought your first drum set.”
I winked. “Oh, you know it.”
As he grinned, I nodded my chin at him. “What about you?”
“Oh...” He shrugged and picked at the label on his bottle, peeling it free. “I don’t know. I’ve always liked to sing. I think it was an only child thing to help keep myself company. And then, when I moved in with my uncle when I was seven, he was gone a lot, so...” His shoulder lifted again, telling me he wasn’t too comfortable sharing his story. But he kept talking anyway. “I found an old guitar in his closet one day. It had this instruction booklet with it, and that was that.”
I blinked at him a good five seconds before saying, “Wait, you taught yourself how to play?”
An adorable, rueful expression crossed his face. “I had plenty of free time to practice.”
I was still amazed, and I’m sure my jaw hanging open made it obvious. “Shut the front door. You freaking taught yourself to play the guitar?”
He finished the rest of his Angry Orchard in one long draw and then sighed in one of those refreshed ways as he tapped the bottle against the bar top and motioned to Noel that he needed another.
When he turned to me, I could tell he was totally going to change the subject.
That intrigued me. A lead singer of a band who wasn’t interested in talking about himself. Weird. And not only that, he seemed more embarrassed than puffy-chested and proud that I was impressed by his self-taught skills. Fisher would’ve been eating up any praise that came his way and making sure I knew the whole story behind his greatness.
Not that I was comparing the two. There was no reason for me to do that, other than, you know, they were both singers in a band.
Still, I really liked Asher’s more humble approach on being so awesome.
“So, who’s your favorite band?” he asked, almost making me grin because I’d been able to read him well enough to know he’d steer the conversation away from himself.
I snorted and made a face. “As if I could narrow that down to one group.”
He laughed. “I know, right?”
“But if I had to name, say...my top ten or so,” I went on, curious if he had similar tastes. “I’d go with Metallica, Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, The Stones, Incubus, Rush—but only because of Neil Peart.”
