I wanted to ask what he meant by easier, but he was already moving on.
“You want to try the kit?” he asked suddenly, nodding toward the drum set still sitting in the corner where they'd left it after the show.
“Try drumming?”
“Yeah. Come on, you came all this way to see me play. Might as well let me teach you a little.”
“I'm not going to be any good at it.”
“That's the entire point. I want to see Captain Competent fail at a thing.” He was grinning now, and the expression was bright enough to make me forget why I'd been hesitating. “Unless you're scared?”
“I'm not scared of drums.”
“Prove it.”
I followed him over to the kit, and he grabbed the sticks from where he'd left them on the floor. The drum set took up most of the corner, and when Soren sat down on the stool and patted the space next to him, I realized immediately that there was no way we were both fitting on that thing comfortably.
“Uh,” I said intelligently.
“Just sit,” he said, scooting over as far as the small stool would allow. “I'll show you the basics.”
I sat, and immediately regretted every decision that had led me to this moment. We were pressed together from shoulder to hip, his body warm against mine in a way that made my brain short-circuit. He handed me the sticks, and his fingers brushed against mine in the transfer, and I felt the contact like a fucking electric shock.
“Okay,” he said, completely oblivious to the crisis I was currently having. “So you want to hold them like this—” He reached around me to adjust my grip, his chest against my back, his breath warm against my neck. “—not too tight, but firm enough that they don't fly out of your hands when you hit.”
I couldn't breathe. Literally could not get air into my lungs because Soren was wrapped around me, guiding my hands, and he smelled like sweat and soap and bar smoke and warmth, and my body was responding in ways that were impossible to ignore.
“You with me?” he asked, and his voice was so close to my ear that I felt it as much as heard it.
“Yeah,” I managed.
“Good. So start with the snare—that's this one here.” He tapped the drum in front of me, and I followed his instruction, hitting it with more force than necessary because I needed to focus on literally anything other than the way his thigh was pressed against mine. “Not bad. Now try the hi-hat.”
He guided my hand to the cymbals, his palm warm over my knuckles, and I hit them with a crash that made him laugh.
“Okay, maybe a little lighter than that,” he said, and I could hear the grin in his voice. “You're not trying to kill it, Rook.”
“I don't know what I'm doing.”
“That's why I'm teaching you.” His hands moved to my wrists, adjusting the angle, and the casual intimacy of the touch was doing absolutely nothing to help my current situation. “Try again. Lighter this time.”
I tried again, and the sound was better, more controlled. Soren made an approving noise that went straight through me, and I became acutely aware of the fact that I was getting hard and I had no idea what the fuck to do with that information.
“See? You're getting it,” he said, still wrapped around me like this was completely normal. “Now try putting it together. Snare, hi-hat, snare, hi-hat. Keep a steady rhythm.”
I did what he said, focusing on the pattern instead of the way his chest was moving against my back with each breath. The rhythm was simple enough that I could follow it, and after a few repetitions it started to feel almost natural.
“There you go,” Soren said, and his voice had gone softer, almost proud. “You're a quick learner.”
“I have a good teacher.”
He went still for a second, and I felt the shift in his breathing, the way the air between us seemed to thicken into awareness. Then he pulled back, giving me space I desperately needed and absolutely didn't want, and I had to fight the urge to lean back into him just to keep the contact.
“You're better at that than you think,” he said, standing up and putting distance between us. “Natural sense of rhythm. Probably all the skating.”
I set the sticks down carefully and stood up too, grateful for the fact that my jeans were dark enough to hide the evidence of exactly how much that lesson had affected me. My hands were shaking slightly, and I shoved them into my pockets to hide it.
“Thanks for the lesson,” I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt.
