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I knew Gally was going to say something else totally uncalled for, and I was fully prepared to come down on him for it, but at the last second, he closed his mouth and smoothed up his Mohawk, which was green today. “Hell, why doesn’t gay boy here just decide everything?”
“Honestly,” I said. “I already had an order planned, and yeah, the first song I put down was ‘Ceilings.’”
Sending me two thumbs-up, Sticks mouthed, Good one.
I had to glance away to keep from grinning, which I had a feeling would send Gally into an even moodier pout. So I read off the complete list I’d planned. Everyone had their own input, so we tailored it until most everyone was happy. By the time we actually got to practicing any of the songs, I was so ready to drown myself in music I picked the most vocally challenging ones that forced me to put everything into my voice.
By the time we finished, my throat was a little sore from the workout, but I felt better than ever, achieving a high that only came when I sang.
“Shit, man,” Sticks said in awe. “You sure can belt out a melody when you want to.”
I grinned at him, amused with the way he’d phrased his compliment. “Not so shabby yourself, drummer boy. You weren’t lying when you said you did a good rendition of ‘Hot for Teacher.’”
“Oh, Jesus.” Gally groaned. “I’m leaving before you two start complimenting each other’s purses and hair ribbons. Go shopping at the mall together or something, and get it out of your system already. Fuck.”
With that, he flung his guitar strap over his shoulder and stomped from the garage.
“He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t get his way,” Holden said in his deep, quiet voice.
“That or it’s just his time of the month,” Sticks agreed.
I laughed. “Well, I think we have a decent list to play on Saturday, despite his mood.”
“We totally do.” Sticks stood and stretched his muscles. “We are so going to rock the fuck out of that club.” He returned to the box of music sheets and receipts, picking up where he’d left off in his self-appointed task of organizing.
I packed my guitar, and Holden did the same, waving us goodbye before silently slipping out the opened bay door.
Sticks glanced my way as I found a more comfortable place to sit than the bicycle seat and hiked my ass onto the top of an old scarred nightstand table.
He frowned. “You don’t have to stick around here just for me. I’ll close the door when I leave.”
“It’s fine. We have to pad-lock it too, and I haven’t gotten you a key yet. So, yeah, I kind of do have to stick around.”
“Oh.” He stood abruptly. “Shit, sorry. I can go then. I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“No, really.” I waved him back down. “I’m in no hurry. I don’t have to be at work for another hour or so. And this...” I motioned to the notebook I was writing in. “I can do here just as easily as I can at home.”
He gingerly reseated himself on the floor where he’d been sitting with his legs crossed. “Well, if you don’t mind... I think I’ll finish organizing this shit then, or it’ll drive me batty.”
With a laugh, I waved him on. “Knock yourself out, man.”
So we worked in companionable silence for a while until he suddenly said, “All these songs are written in the same handwriting.”
“Yeah.” I glanced up curiously. “Was there a question in there?”
“No, I just...” Sticks looked down at the sheet music, then a couple other pages. Then he whipped his head up to gape at me. “Wait. Did you...?”
I arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
Finally, he blurted, “How many of the songs for Non-Castrato did you write personally?”
I cocked my head to the side, confused. “All of them. Why?”
“All....all of them?” he squawked. “Get out. Even ‘Ceilings’?”
Unable to help myself, I grinned. “Yeah. Wh
y? You like that one, don’t you?” I knew he did. It was the only one he ever requested.
