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“Yeah.” I lift my sticks, tear my gaze off Megan, and launch into the next song, forcing my brain back on track.
But it’s hard—the pun very much intended—because I can still see the small oval of her face, her dark eyes, the swell of her breasts. No need to remember or imagine her. She’s right in front of me, and no matter how I try, I can’t stop my gaze from returning to her, again and again.
If only I could…
Dammit. I bang the drums harder than I should, letting the tortured sound fill the bar.
Not gonna happen. I’m as far from normal as can be, and she deserves someone nice. Someone good. And she’s probably got him already.
Someone who doesn’t dream every night of killing someone. Of killing the murderer, strangling him with his bare hands, sending him straight to hell, and then...
Then nothing.
***
My old battered drum set is packed in my black Mustang, and I’m ready to call it a night. I know the guys expect me to stay late, as usual, drink and joke with them—but not tonight, not for me.
My mind’s made up, so when Zane and Tyler grab my arms and drag me back inside ‘for one drink only, man’, I dig in my heels and tell them flat out I can’t.
“Come on, fucker.” Zane lets go, but looks pissed. “I’m telling you, we need to talk.”
And that’s the last thing I need right now. “Another day.”
“Just one drink,” Tyler says, raking his hand through his short, dark hair. “It’s tradition, man.”
Fuck. I know it is. Koko will sulk for a month if I don’t stay.
Shit, I’m making everyone suspicious. They already think there’s something going on with me, and if I just say fuck it and blow this pop stand, they’ll be banging on my door in no time, demanding to be let into my apartment and my wretched life.
“One drink,” I say, and lift my hand when Zane grins. “Just one. Then I’m going home.”
“Jax is still up, and you wanna go to bed?” Tyler teases, turning and following us back inside. “How come a four-year-old stays up later than you on a Saturday night? Last I checked you were nineteen, not ninety.”
“Check your facts,” I mutter. “Four-year-olds have a lot more energy than nineteen-year-olds like me. Playing the drums for a punk rock group is hard work.”
And I haven’t slept well in what feels like months. So yeah, nineteen. Old and cranky and sick of life.
Zane opens a path to the bar, and I follow the blue Mohawk. Let him think he’s leading, let him feel better. As long as we don’t have the Talk.
He points at a miraculously free stool, and I take a seat, swallowing a sigh.
Patience.
A blond girl with a micro skirt sidles up to me. “Aren’t you the drummer of Deathmoth?” she asks. At least I think that’s what she asks, with the level of noise in here. Good thing I can read lips.
I nod, and accept a beer from the bartender.
“Are you free?” She presses herself to my side, and a whiff of her perfume hits me—eye-watering, laced with patchouli, or some shit like that.
Holding my breath, I check her out. She’s not bad-looking. Good body, too. But lately I have no appetite—for food, or anything else.
“Sorry. I’m with him,” I say and point at Zane.
He flips me off and shakes his head. “Fucker…”
The girl’s eyes go wide, then she scowls. “No need to make fun of me, you know. A simple ‘no’ would be enough.”
“No,” I say.
