Page 61 of Sweet Distraction

“Can we just—can you guys shut up and play?” I ask.

“Wow,” Gizmo says, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “Touchy-touchy.”

“We can, but if you’re going to drift off to space—”

“Rocket off to space,” Gizmo adds in a lame attempt at a joke that earns him snorts.

“And forget where you are again? It’s better if we just call it a day,” Vince says dryly.

“Lead us in, Giz,” I say through gritted teeth. I came here today to get lost in the music to find a bit more of myself. It’s what I’ve always needed. Today is no different.

I position my hands at the keyboard on the ready as Gizmo counts us in.

And for a few glorious minutes, I disappear. Into Gizmo’s steady beat. With Vince’s guitar riffs. And with Hawkin’s gritty voice as he plays with the lyrics we’ve been testing on this new song. My fingers move on the keys as my foot taps out the count.

Giz adjusts his tempo and the rest of us quicken the pace.

“Nah, I don’t like that,” Vince shouts over the music as he keeps playing but then directs the pace half a beat slower.

We adjust to him.

This is what ten years together does. It allows us to know each other, to anticipate each other, and for now, to work like a well-oiled machine.

Because there are definitely times when we’ve been at each other’s throats.

I close my eyes and just play. This is what I’ve needed. It’s one thing to sit in my studio at home and play. It’s another to be with my brothers and let the music we create grab hold of something feral in me. The ache. The anger. The want. The confusion. And it burns through my veins like gasoline.

The chords are dirty. The drums hit hard. The lyrics blur into noise.

But . . . I feel like I can breathe.

We finish the chorus, sweat on our brows, chests heaving, and the reverb still humming in the floorboards.

“Damn,” Hawkin says, pulling his shirt over his head, wiping his face with it. “Should we test that out next leg?”

“Feels like something,” Vince agrees.

There’s a collective nod between the four of us as Vince pulls the guitar strap over his head and Giz sets his drumsticks down before guzzling a bottle of water.

“Hey, Rock?” Giz says.

“Hmm?”

“Are we going to talk about your . . . situationship?” he asks and has Vince and Hawke looking my way for a reaction.

“There is no situationship, whatever the hell that is.”

“Situation and relationship combined,” Gizmo says. “Duh.”

Hawkin barks out a laugh. “Hendrix has you watching way too many episodes of Real Housewives or whatever if you’re using terms like that.”

“No clue what the fuck you’re talking about,” Gizmo continues. And I’m fine with that. So long as the focus is on him, it’s off me. “I heard it in the bakery the other day. I stopped to pick Hendrix up and overheard some girls in the front using it.”

“No doubt those girls were teenagers speaking, so let’s save our dignity, Giz, and not bring them here,” Vince says with a chuckle, but his arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s leaning back. He’s thinking. And then he turns and looks at me. “The man does have a point.”

“And what is that?” I ask, feigning like I already forgot.

“What are you going to do about the tour? The nanny coming?” he asks. “Or is she staying home so you can go back to fucking your way through each city like the good ol’ days?”