My eyes burn as I admit to myself he’s right, other than the hookup insinuation. And I know he didn’t call me fat. I only said that to watch him squirm. He’s a royal pain in my posterior, but he’s not a monster. “Anyway, you’re taking high stuff. My voice is trash. I might throw you a lead.” He’s trying to smooth over his accusations, but I’m still irritated.
“Not happening.”I do not lead.“But keep this up, and your range will be higher than mine. I have no idea what we’re doing tonight. I was just told to come.”
“That’s what she said,” he mutters deadpan.
“Jace! What the heck?” I jerk my eyes up to look at him, but he just rolls his eyes.
“Hair metal works on you like hard liquor. We’ll get a couple Poison songs in you, and you’ll sing anything.” He ignores my death glare lasered on him. “I wrote down some songs we’ve played before. It might be amazing, or it might be awful. Probably some of both.”
“Hey, Mr. Stark?” I smile up at him with feigned sweetness as Daniel approaches with scraps of receipt paper and pens, undoubtedly surveying what level of bickering we’re on.
“What?” Jace says, annoyed at my Iron Man comparison.
“Na-na, na, NA, na-na, na…” I sing the familiar guitar riff from the Pink song, and his mouth twitches, holding back a laugh. “Pepper’s here.”
His eyes lift to the door when Annie walks in wearing high-waisted jeans and a white crop top.
DC’s hand finds my lower back as he steps around me. “Come here.”
He grabs the Telecaster, looping it back around my neck as he guides me to a barstool, where he sits behind me and pulls me against him.
“If you put the capo on the second fret and play it here, it might be easier.” His chin’s back on my shoulder again, and he’s talking next to my ear while he guides my hands.
Hands that immediately turn to seal flippers playing in Jell-O.
“I hate you.” I laugh. He’s not even subtle anymore; he’s just outright torturing me.
“Why? I’m trying to help.” His rumbly chuckle is a menace to my heart. “You know practice doesn’t make perfect…”
“Perfect practice makes perfect,” we say in unison as music teachers everywhere peer over their readers to nod in agreement.
“You don’t hate me,” he teases. “I think you love me.”
“You think so?”Phew,somebody’s feeling sassy today.
“I do.” He stands, lifting Jace’s guitar back over my head. “Is he bothering you, Lu?”
“Nah, I got him.”
“Well, I got you.”
“I know you do.”
Jace eyes us, barely out of earshot, with an unreadable expression. Not good or bad, maybe just concerned.
“All right,” Daniel says with natural authority, “y’all, write down some songs and drop them in the mug.”
We quickly jot down some favorites. Not even a minute later, I overhear what sounds suspiciously like, “What did you say to her?” in a low, tense tone. I hope not. I can handle Jace, and I don’t need to be a topic between them.
Jace and I love each other in a brutally honest, unsweetened sort of way. He’d kill someone over me, and I’d absolutely shank someone over him, but there’s a far greater likelihood that we’d kill each other first. Like siblings. But not enemies.
No one but Jace can flirt, correct, compliment, and talk to me like I’m five years old in the same sentence. And he refuses to call me anything close to my name. I’m sweetheart or Spice Cake, which is a spin-off of my official title: Violent Cupcake. Anything but Lucy.
Funny, he seems to say “Annie” without any trouble.Insert eye roll.But he’s fiercely loyal and protective of his friends, so I respect him for that. Unfortunately, I ride the line of being under his protection and on his watch list. It’s exhausting but somehow not contradictory for Jace Roman.
But I’ve had more than enough Jace for one night.
I need some Sammy sunshine.
