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“I know you have this rule about phones, but I’ll need mine for this s-song,” I stutter out. “T-the accompaniment…” What’s wrong with my tongue? “We need the extra tracks. We have the guitars, but we don’t have time to teach a drummer.” I’ll plug the phone into the aux input and pray it works out all right. If Jace wants a beautiful mess, a beautiful mess he’ll get. No problem at all.
Briar snaps her fingers. A minute later one of the guards shows up with my device. He makes me rifle through my pockets for my ticket, but I do get my phone back. The quick destructive motion of ripping the bag open floods me with a strange kind of calm. The voices fade into the background as I line up our supporting tracks. Jace hands me a guitar, and its weight in my hands steadies me more. When I look at him, Jace offers me a reassuring smile. I love it when he’s soft and kind, but tonight we’re all wrong. Razor-wire current flickers between us, a growing wall of mutual dislike. We’ve pushed each other harder than ever.
The atmosphere shifts as he picks up a microphone. A thick hush settles over everything. People exchange bewildered glances. Jace turns to me, exhales, and nods. My confidence doubles thanks to me knowing I’m not the only one losing marbles over this. Vindication lifts my spirits. Whether he’s terrible at singing or shy about it or something else, Jace seems to be out of his element after all. He grips the mic like his life depends on it.
I mash my thumb over the play button.
What happens next could only be described as my life flipping one-eighty, upside down, inside out, and over again. The whole calamity is caused by the fact that Jace can sing better than most people I know. For the first twenty seconds of the song, I cuss him out in my head, reeling from the unfairness of it—he can play like my dad, and he sings to boot.
And how dare he steal all thunder and lightning then sweep me into the moment with his heart-crushing vocals? I don’t last until the first chorus before nothing else remains but him and me and the all-encompassing, volcanic sensation of belonging in this element with him.
Jace can’t hold still for longer than three seconds. He sings by my side, stalks away, dances back, every motion, every note uninhibited and raw, matching the light metal mood I chose for our backing tracks. I thought I’d go harsh on him, but he beats me in my own game. He burns, and I’m on the verge of tears from how perfectly his voice meshes with my playing. I want to kick him in the knee for holding out on me all this time, and I downright butcher a cord when Jace hits the last line of the second chorus in a fry scream. Everyone I can see jumps to their feet and moves closer, cheering him on. Jace throws his hair back and seamlessly merges from a shriek that curdles one’s blood into the most sensuous lines.
I stumble. The closeness of the crowd suffocates me, and I stop playing. My safe little bubble has burst. We still have another chorus to go, but I can’t bring myself to go on. The accompanimentsaves me, for now, moving the song along through a quiet dip.
Jace restarts my mind by sauntering over and tapping my collarbone with two fingers. His touch electrifies me enough to notice his cocked eyebrow that seems to question if I’m going to survive. All I manage is the simplest melody while I race toward the finish line and reconcile this new reality where Jace is a singer.
In this whirlpool of music and emotions, the danger of losing myself rises with every beat. Everything that’s happened in the past couple months and everything that’s been smoldering tonight clashes in my mind, leaving no space for coherent thought. Emotions take over, basic and fierce, as faces blur in my line of sight no matter where I turn. The last chord hits my eardrums like a gunshot, giving me permission to escape. I came, I played, but that’s enough. The applause and cheering are sinking their claws into my memories, bringing back the images of demand and autographs and endless questions.
I try to remind myself this is not the same. These are Hal and Jace’s friends.
It doesn’t work. Hot, sickening dizziness claims me. I need everyone to leave me alone. That’ll never happen though, so I do what I hope will make them at least move away a few feet. I free myself from the strap and lift the guitar high over my head. It works like magic.
Track 23
Get Over Yourself
Jace
Laurel glowed through the whole song. She faltered when I threw in that fry scream, but the mood seemed to warrant a good shriek, and it helped me release a lot of the anxiety that had been building since I hit the first note. She kept it together so well otherwise. Until at the end of the song, when everyone got close to us, and she panicked. Her eyes are still wide and maniacal. The exclamations and praise keep washing over us, and my friends crowd me, preventing me from being able to reach out and comfort her.
Laurel takes a step back. One of the ground lights illuminates her hair just right, and I figure out that my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me earlier. Her hairisdarker. Thin ribbons of black blend into her naturally vibrant red in the inner layers, a reversed reflection of my hairstyle. I don’t get a chance to ponder the meaning of that discovery though. Something wicked takes over Laurel’s features. Something dark and sinister, framed and accentuated by her flaming hair. Then she hefts the guitar,myguitar, my baby, the first Venom Guitar someone ever paid money for, over her head. One hand rests on the base of the neck, the other under the body—
The crowd splits in two and clears the way. I’m not the only one who knows this stance. The whole world knows her dad’s signature move. My favorite guitar is about to become a pile of splinters.
“Laurel.” I push through the people and take slow, careful steps toward her. “Don’t.”
She sends the Venom flying through the air.
Gasps erupt. Shock and delight. I sprint after my baby. Luckily, Laurel didn’t throw it far, and I’m close and fast enough to dive for it. I land on my side on the edge of a paver-decorated path, which digs into my side, and the guitar body slams into my face, but I whoop in victory. A lot of people laugh and applaud my acrobatics. There’s a burning nightmare in my ribs and a sting in my right eyebrow and cheekbone. I heave myself into a sitting position, dizzy, the world darkening around me. Someone drags the guitar out of my hands.
“Just let it break, you idiot,” Shane grinds the words through his teeth. “I’ll make another one.”
“I don’t want another one.” That guitar is what made it possible for my loathing toward him to start to lessen.
“Are you okay?” Juliette grabs my chin and prods my cheekbones with her fingertips.
“I’m fine,” I lie. Pain flares in my side with every breath I take, but I won’t let it show. “Relax, everyone.”
Normal focus regained, I get onto my feet and scan the patio for Laurel. She’s gone.
My heart slams against my already aching rib cage.
She left, and I can’t shake the dreadful feeling that she left for good. I’ll never see her again. And nothing matters anymore. Not the guitar I didn’t need to save, not even the growing pain.
I look past the crowd to the edges of the property and finally spot Laurel rushing down another path that leads to the beach.
“I’m okay,” I insist one last time before abandoning my friends and following her. “Laurel, wait up. You slayed it!”
