Ellie pulls me from my chair, dragging me closer to the stage where a crowd of people are gathered, bobbing their heads and bouncing up and down. She pushes forward, squeezing us through bodies until we’re just a few feet away. Energy thrums through the speakers in front of me, making my whole body shake.
“What do you think? They’re good, right?” Ellie yells over the music.
I give her a thumbs-up. They’re giving me Blink-182 vibes but slightly less poppy. It’s not normally something I’d listen to, but they’re good. I’m not surprised, though. Ellie has an ear for finding underground bands I’ve never heard of. Before meeting her, I only listened to whatever mainstream stuff was on the radio. And Adele, of course.
My ears perk up when a second voice floats through them. This one is deep and smooth, the complete opposite of the lead singer’s. I scan the stage, feeling the room sway when my gaze lands on a familiar pair of icy blue eyes. I inhale sharply, clutching Ellie’s arm for support as the guy from the bathroom hallway stares back at me with a knowing smirk on his lips. My heart pounds in my chest, imitating the drums echoing off the paneled walls.
How didn’t I notice him sooner?
A sparkly red guitar is slung over his shoulder, his fingers strumming the strings with ease. His body rocks, head tilting to match the beat he’s playing. A crease forms between his browsas he focuses on his task, but his stare doesn’t waver from mine. The jet-black strands of his hair make his blue eyes pop even more as they sear into mine. The intensity of his gaze sends a flutter through me.
He’s wearing a cutoff T-shirt, showing off his lightly toned arms that are glistening with a sheen of sweat, his veins pulsing as he works his instrument. His jeans are ripped, with loose threads dangling at the knees, and the black high-top Converse he’s wearing are faded and worn. Tattoo ink glides down the side of his neck, creeping under his shirt, to his right arm, covering it completely. Literally every inch—all the way to his fingers, which are working overtime right now as the rhythm speeds up.
My attention lands on the shiny metal hoop trapping the corner of his bottom lip. His tongue pokes out, flicking it. My head snaps up, and he winks. Something about the simple gesture makes my breath catch in my throat.
I force myself to turn away. Another guitarist stands to the right. He’s tall and broad, with neatly trimmed dark brown hair and square glasses. The drummer is farther back and slinging his head so fast it’s hard to get a glimpse of him. All I see is bouncy, sandy-blond curls flying as he pounds on his drums.
I attempt to focus on the song that’s playing while Ellie bobs beside me. She’s in her element, and I smile as I watch my best friend sing along. It seems she knows every word.
The band is energetic, electric even, as they play song after song, never slowing down. They dance and jump around, playing their instruments with an ease that shows how well-practiced and talented they are. The crowd can’t help but feed off their energy, bouncing and singing along. Even I find it hard to sit still. It’s like they’re pumping adrenaline into their music.
It takes effort, but I manage to keep my gaze pinned straight ahead—away from the lead guitarist—and when their set ends,the lead singer thanks everyone for coming, throwing a not-so-subtle middle finger to the audience before they start packing up their equipment.
We walk back to our table and take our seats. “Are you having fun?” Ellie asks, sipping her third beer.
“Yeah.” I try to sound upbeat, but my nerves are still frazzled. I can’t believe the guy in the hallway is from the band. Well, I guess it does sound exactly like something someone in a rock band would do. Probably just another Tuesday for him.
“This was the perfect way to end the semester. Thanks for coming with me.”
“Of course. You deserve to celebrate. You finished your finals! A few more months and we’re done.” I feign excitement, but she sees right through me, giving me a sad smile.
Most people would be thrilled about graduating. No more research papers, essays, or lectures. No early morning classes and late-night study sessions until your eyeballs burn. Not me. I’d stay here forever if I could. If it meant not having to move back home and follow the path my parents laid out for me the moment I was born.
Graduate with honors—check.
Get accepted to an Ivy League—check.
Move home, take my place working at the club, and do everything my parents say because they know what’s best—soon-to-be double-check.
“But are you having fun?” Ellie asks. “I don’t want you to be miserable.”
I’m not miserable, and I don’t want to give her that impression. Having a good time doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to her. She’s a social butterfly, and I’m more introverted.
Growing up, my parents dragged me to countless cocktail parties and charity balls at the various country clubs they owned. Their idea of fun was dressing to the nines—indesigner, of course—and eating five-course meals with people just like them.Thatwasn’t fun for me either, but it became second nature, and the constant pressure to appear perfect and ladylike all the time ended up making me stiff.
“I’m having fun. I promise! The band is really good. You were right.”
“Duh!” She laughs. “I’m never wrong about that. And God, Travis is so hot.” She searches the bar, trying to get another glimpse of the lead singer. “I considered throwing myself on stage so he’d notice me.” She turns to me, expression dead serious, then we both burst into laughter. I honestly would not be surprised if she did that.
Suddenly, a man appears at our table. He’s wearing khakis and a wrinkled black polo with the bar’s name on it. “Ladies, the band would like to invite you to join them backstage.”
My mouth falls open at the same time Ellie squeals. “Oh my God!”
No.
Icannotgo back there and face him. He probably wants to scold me or tell me what a freak I am. “Ellie,” I start, but the man cuts me off.
“Are you coming or not?” He spins, walking away, not bothering to wait for our answer.
