“The video was epic,” I say.
“I might have to remind them of that before the show.” He extends his joint to me, and I gladly take it.
Because there’s no way I’m turning down smoking with Zeb Helms.
“Oh wow,” he says suddenly, his brows narrowed at me, and I realize he’s staring at the tattoos on my arm. “Is that a drumstick with a snake wrapped around it?”
I hold my forearm up so he can better see the tattoo extended along the side of my forearm. “Yeah. Both arms,” I say, showing off the artwork.
“That’s pretty badass,” he says. “You’re a drummer?”
“I dabble,” I say with a shrug.
Zeb huffs, his grin widening. “Yeah fucking right,” he taunts. “Dabbling doesn’t usually warrant tattoos.”
I hand him back his joint, beaming by now. “I mean… I know my way around the kit. Mom always said have a backup plan, though. She supports the arts, but she’s also super realistic.”
“What’s the backup plan?”
“I still have no fucking clue,” I say, and he laughs.
“I never had a backup plan either,” he says. He pushes his palms against the railing and bends like he’s stretching. “Hey, you should stick around after the show. Meet the rest of the band.”
“I already met one of them,” I say as I puff on the cigarette this time.
Zeb’s expression falters like he can hear the annoyance in my tone. “Ah hell. You met Rad?” he asks.
I give him a look, and he blows out a breath, head hanging. And when he straightens slightly a moment later, he holds up his pinky finger.
“Promise the rest of us aren’t like him,” he says.
I eye him. “You know I’m not a groupie, right?” I ask. “Just want to make that clear.”
Zeb chuckles. “Yeah, I know,” he says. “I only want you to meet Mads and Reed.”
“Why?” I ask.
He shrugs, though it doesn’t seem like a normal, unbothered kind of shrug.
“You seem cool,” he tells me.
I open my mouth to speak, but someone calls his name from the door.
“Zeb.”
He straightens to look over his shoulder, and I realize how damn tall he is. He’s so tall, he blocks out the side light, casting a shadow over me.
“Yeah?” he asks the man.
“Twenty,” he replies.
“You get that asshat away from the bar yet?” Zeb asks.
The man sighs and gives Zeb a look, and Zeb pushes off the railing. “I’ll handle it.”
The door closes, and Zeb shakes his head, putting out his smoke on the railing. “Fucking jackass,” he mutters under his breath. “I’ll see you out there?” he asks me.
“Hell yeah.” I put my own cigarette out on the railing and nod to the door. “I’m actually heading in, too.”
