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“Cool, thanks,” I say, picking up my guitar case and heading out of the main office. “Which room is mine?”
“All of the advanced classes are at the end of the hall. You’re in room 12A. Last room on the left across from the piano studio.”
I nod my thanks and head to my assigned room, weaving through mentees and their instruments, keeping my head down to avoid being conspicuous. Being six foot five with dark red hair and all the tattoos sometimes makes that impossible, but I make it to the room without interruption.
Inside the room, running through scales, is Ethan, the kid I met the other day in the office. He’s flying over the fretboard of his acoustic guitar. Each stroke of the strings is crisp and clean, and not a single mistake note-wise. Then he hits some power chord riffs to show off. It sounds pretty good. His technique, however, sucks ass.
“Not bad,” I say, nodding, setting the files on a nearby table, and laying my case on top to get my guitar out. “But you’re going to tire yourself out by the fourth song.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks, a note of defiance in his voice. Good. I like that he’s proud of his playing. It’s a hard thing to come by, especially at his age.
“Well, a couple of reasons,” I say, sitting across from him and resting my guitar on my knee to demonstrate. “First, if you keep playing with your whole arm like that, only bending at the elbow, your right bicep will be huge, and you’ll be slightly lopsided.” He at least chuckles. “Try using your wrist instead, which leads to my second point: your alternate picking is uneven. When you use your whole arm, the down stroke is much more pronounced than the upstroke, which makes everything unbalanced. If you use your wrist, you’ll have more even pressure on the strings. And you won’t tire as easily.”
I copy the scales and chords he played, showing how I keep my arm steady and only move my wrist. He studies me and repositions himself to try it out. It’s awkward initially, and he misses a few notes, but it’s not horrible.
“It’s harder than it looks,” he says, his face reddening.
I pat him on the shoulder, trying to encourage him. Change is always hard. “Only at first. You’ve probably played that way for a long time, right?” He nods. “Well, it’s time to get rid of bad habits now because later on? Forget it.”
“I guess.”
“Look, even though I’m here to mentor you, far be it from me to tell you how to play your guitar, you know? There are a ton of great guitar players out there with shit technique, right?”
He laughs a little and nods.
“Shit. Are we allowed to swear in here?” I glance back over my shoulder at the door to make sure the language police aren’t hovering around. That’s the last thing I need.
“I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“Okay, deal.” We bump fists to solidify our pact. “Then get back to your fucking scales, man. And try to throw in some minor pentatonics along with those majors. You’re boring me to death.”
His head snaps up to me, concern all over his face. “Really?”
Shit. This kid is sensitive. I might need to be more careful with what I say in these classes. I forget these kids are here to escape whatever’s happening in their regular lives. Ethan might not take any criticism well. He might even think everything I say is personal. I need to watch that.
I grin. “No, I’m fucking with you. But do try some minors. Do you know those modes?”
We get lost in the different modes of pentatonic scales, and before long, another student is knocking on the door for their own lesson. Ethan packs up his gear with a promise to practice hard before our next lesson.
As I walk him out and open the door to let in the next student, I glance across the hall, and my gaze lands on Sloane Castle in the doorway across from me. We both freeze as if seeing the other person was completely out of the realm of possibilities. My feet root to the floor. The world narrows to just her. For a heartbeat, everything else fades away except her. For a split second, I can swear there’s a glimmer of something in her stare, something that is happy to see me and makes my chest tighten. Of course, I’m hallucinating. Of that, I’m incredibly confident because she doesn’t acknowledge my existence before ushering her next student inside and shutting the door to her classroom. Not even a nod of recognition. It was as if she didn’t see me at all.
Of course, I didn’t do anything either. I just stood there like a fucking idiot. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Smile? The woman hates my guts; why would I smile at her?
“You okay, Cooper?” Ethan asks, glancing between me and Sloane’s closed door. “She really hates you, huh?” His question is tinged with satisfaction, but he looks almost concerned.
“Yeah, she’s not my biggest fan,” I agree, rubbing at the stubble on my chin absently.
“That’s okay, I am,” a girl with long brown hair beside Ethan says quietly. She’s the student who just left Sloane’s room, but I’d hardly noticed her before she spoke. She quickly moves as if to grab Ethan’s hand for comfort after saying something brave but stops herself awkwardly before making contact.
I flash her my patented smile saved for fans and the press. “Why thank you, ma’am. I appreciate that.” Turning back into my classroom, I give them a wave goodbye and make a mental note to make sure I come to the doorway in between every class.
Little does Sloane Castle know I enjoy nothing more than getting under the skin of a pretty woman. As a matter of fact, it’s my specialty.
As I close the door, my eyes automatically drift across the hall. Sloane’s door is shut, and I feel an inexplicable pull to be near her again.
What is it about this woman that captivates me so completely? She’s beautiful, but I’ve been with plenty of hot girls before. No, it’s more than that. Her fire and passion for this place and these kids draw me like a magnet.
When our eyes met earlier, however brief, it was electric. I saw a spark there. I know it. Did she feel it, too? Is there a flicker of attraction under all her disdain for me?
