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CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Abandoning my guitar against the wall, I ignore the voices calling out to me as I hop down from the stage, and shoulder my way through the crowd.
He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.
It’s an incessant chant in my head.
One I try to tamper with, It might not be him. Relax. Be cool.
But…it is. It is him. I know it is. I know it as certainly as I know that I just fucking killed that song. It’s way more vocal heavy than most of what we play, but hell if I wasn’t determined to nail it. Roughen it up a bit. Make it mine. Ours.
My heart pounds with the familiar rush of performing—of singing and playing music I actually enjoy, for a crowd of people who are just as infected by the music pouring out of me as I am, and aren’t just sitting about with placid looks of judgement on their faces.
It’s a fucking high I never realized I craved, not until these last couple months as Shawn, Waylon, and I went from hiding and jamming out in my mom’s basement, to making a little studio of our own beneath this bar, to actually playing for people.
Handfuls at first—lingering regulars.
Then slowly, slowly, and all at once, to playing for wall to wall crowds as word got out about us—the Lost Boys. A name that started as a sort of dark humored joke, prompted by Waylon—a call back to his obsession as a kid, before I moved to town—and eventually just…stuck.
Before we started playing here, Gavin would invite the occasional band or solo act to play on weekends. But never, never did it draw this much attention. Especially not from the younger college crowd.
O’Leary’s is just some small-town dive bar after all. The drinks are cheap, and it’s definitely easier to get away with a fake, I’m sure, but… it’s not exactly appealing to those looking to rage with their friends.
Well, that was until we started playing regularly.
Through the dense crowd of people, I see a shock of white, and something sort of just…stutters in my chest.
He dyed his hair.
It suits him.
He also cut it, and while once upon a time, that sort of thing hurt to see—knowing just why he did it…
Something tells me now it’s a good thing.
His back is to me, and I get the distinct impression he’s about to make a run for it. Why, I have no idea. But it brings a short laugh to my lips, knowing that despite how different he may appear on the surface—from his hair, down to his clothes—he’s still the same avoidant, skittish Jeremy I’ve always known. The one who always called to my protective instincts. The one who never failed to amuse me with how sneaky he thought he was, thinking he could actually slip away unnoticed.
And maybe a better person would see the tension rising in his shoulders, and be more tactful.
Maybe a less selfish person would not draw attention to the boy who never wanted any.
But I’m not that person.
And deep down, I don’t think he’d want me to be.
Hell, it’s all but confirmed as much a second later when I call his name out across the bodies separating us, and he freezes, his shoulders slumping, head hanging.
Some would say his sag is that of resignation at having been caught. At having all eyes drawn to him.
But those people don’t know my Jeremy. They didn’t grow up watching him try to fade into the background, as he sent longing, pained looks across the room, to where his sister happily and easily commanded the room.
Sure, he was content to hide.
Content, because it was safe.
They don’t know that now, in a room full of people, pulled out of his comfort zone, that a tiny part of him is relieved.
Relieved not only because yes, JJ, yes, I see you, you are seen…
