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“Want to come along?” Rone asks me.
Axl moves between us. “No, man, she is underage.”
“Hey, you all are,” I reply, crossing my arms.
Rone smiles. “This bar is not like the ones back in Nash. Here, people don’t care two shits how old you are,” he says, winking at me.
Gunner and Axl both shake their heads. Always the peacemaker, I tell them, “You guys go. Have a great time. I’m going to head back in. I’m tired from the drive anyway.”
“Night, sis,” Gunner says, putting an arm over Axl’s shoulders and dragging him toward the porch before sticking out his tongue at me.
Axl gives Rone another stern look—and I pretend not to notice.
Navarone grabs my elbow and guides me out of sight. He takes a step toward me, and brushes a stray lock behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my heated cheek, and my heart rate picks up. I wet my lips. He lowers his eyes and I melt under his intense stare.
Navarone rubs at the back of his neck, and with a, “You’re going to get me into a lot of trouble if I stay here any longer,” he turns around and leaves me standing alone on the beach.
Closing my eyes, I swear I still feel his fingers on my cheek as I walk back to my room.
The next few weeks go by in a blur. I spend my time either swimming, reading, or walking on the beach. Jesse and Dad are in the studio all the time with the boys, playing their guitars and singing. I listen and watch them work on different songs. Jesse explains to me how his recording console works, turning up the guitar sound or vocals, his fingers moving over the controls with an expert touch.
I had always loved to watch Dad fine-tune the songs he had recorded when I’d come home after school. He had taught me how to record on tape; it hadn’t mattered to him that artists didn’t want to record this way anymore. It was because of the cost, but also the fact that using Pro Tools on a Mac made it easier to pick the parts of the song you liked and stitch them together. Dad still believes tape is going to make a comeback. I hope he’s right; the whole storage room is filled with stacks of reels, and they don’t come cheap.
Having Jesse give me his own tips is special. Time flies by, and I fall in love with recording, listening to Rone and his father playing Jesse’s old songs, Navarone’s fingers moving over his acoustic guitar with years of practice.
No one knows I’ve been writing my own lyrics. They are coming along. The couple I’ve finished aren’t great—in fact, they are bad—but I love writing and getting my thoughts on paper.
“Don’t give a fuck about anyone telling you how to live your life. You are unique; live your life accordingly,” Jesse tells me one day in the studio.
Balancing the guitar on his knees, Rone chimes in, “And whatever you do,” he says, smiling at his father and winking at me as they both finish in unison, “Don’t be fucking boring, never give up, and always have a good time.”
“Amen to that.” My father drawls from his seat on the leather couch.
Sitting behind the big drum kit in the studio, Axl laughs. “I think you have that one covered, Dad.” He smiles and shakes his head at the same time.
“Can you shut my son up?” Dad jokes.
Axl begins with a drum solo, showing us his pearly whites, and we all laugh.
“Yeah,” Gunner snorts, leaning against the wall. “It sure as fuck wasn’t boring growing up.”
“Still doing it, son,” Dad hollers back.
We spend the rest of the morning in the studio listening to new songs Jesse has been working on. After a while, I get a sandwich from the kitchen and walk over to the garage.
I’m checking out the motorcycles when someone walks up to me. I turn around and I forget to breathe. Rone has his shirt tucked in the back of his black jeans, leaving his upper body exposed.
I take in his sculptured chest and the trail of hair moving into his pants. The V-shape and his flat stomach distract the hell out of me.
“You want to ride?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. “The guys are taking a break. Thought I’d head out to see the sun set.”
My cheeks warm while I try not to stare at him. “I don’t know. I’ve never ridden before.” My voice is small.
“We all have to start somewhere,” he says, walking toward me while pulling on his shirt. “Here,” he says, handing me a helmet.
I take it from him, not knowing what to do.
“I think I have a jacket for you to wear somewhere,” he mumbles, scanning through boxes piled to the side of the garage. “This should fit.” He pulls out a vintage leather jacket and hands it to me.
