More than Music

8

My two friends looked at each other, and something passed between them. Julie turned back to me. “You can do this, and you will,” she said in her fiercest voice.

“Julie’s right,” Carla said. “This is what you’ve been dreaming about forever. You have to do it.”

“But I’m not a guitarist!” I protested. “I’ve never played live before or on stage or in front of…well, anyone.” At least, not since my mom had flipped out on me all those years ago.

“You’ve played guitar for us a million times,” Julie said.

“And you play piano on stage all the time,” Carla added.

“Yes, I play piano on stage, and sometimes I go wild and play the violin in an orchestra. But playing guitar in a band in front of millions of people is completely different!”

“You’ll be fine,” Carla said. “Besides, it’s only one performance. Just pretend you’re playing for us.”

Julie nudged me with her shoulder. “Plus this gives you a chance to get close to Jared.”

“I don’t want to get close to Jared!”

“Why not?” she asked. “Everyone wants to get close to Jared.”

“Yes, that’s exactly the problem.”

“Do it for Kyle then,” Carla said. “You’ve known him for years, and now he needs your help.”

I hadn’t thought of that. If I backed out now, they probably wouldn’t have time to find another guitarist or bassist before the show. I couldn’t do that to my friend. “You’re right… But then, why didn’t Kyle ask me to join the band himself?”

Julie shrugged. “Maybe Jared didn’t tell him about your little solo performance last night.”

That could be it. Kyle didn’t know I played the guitar. Or maybe Jared had told him, but Kyle didn’t want me in the band. I didn’t exactly fit their image after all. Or even worse, maybe Kyle was upset I’d never told him I played guitar and that his brother had found out before him. Even if Kyle didn’t know yet, he’d learn the truth in an hour when I went to rehearse with them. I dreaded the look on his face when he realized I’d kept this from him for three years.

“I don’t know.” I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes. “I mean, look at me. I don’t belong in their band. They’re all so edgy and I’m so…not.”

Julie faced me and put her hands on my arms, her amber eyes drilling into mine. “Stop it. Those guys would be lucky to have you in their band.”

Carla wrapped her arms around both of us in a big group hug. “If you’d like, I can do your hair and makeup tomorrow before your audition, and Julie can help with your clothes. We’ll make you look amazing.”

I gave them the biggest smile I could muster up. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

“So you’re going to do it?” Julie asked.

I tried to think of any other protests, but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t find another reason to say no. “Yeah, I’ll do the audition.”

Julie and Carla immediately started planning what they were going to do to me in the morning, but I wasn’t feeling as optimistic. As much as I loved these girls, there was no makeup or wardrobe in the world that could make me a rock star.

An hour later, I parked in front of the Cross brothers’ house and grabbed my gear from my backseat. I’d brought my own electric guitar and matching amp, though I wasn’t sure if I would be playing it or Jared’s for practice or the audition. I’d almost brought my acoustic guitar, too, but left it behind in the end. Villain Complex wasn’t an acoustic kind of band.

The studio’s garage door was open, and Jared spotted me as I came up the driveway. He walked over and grabbed the handle of my guitar case.

“Here, let me help you.” He took the amp, too, leaving me with empty, sweaty hands, which I rubbed on my jeans.

His leather jacket was gone, and he wore a T-shirt that said, “It’s Good to Be Bad.” For the first time, I got a close look at the tattoos on his arms: bars of music surrounded by spider webs, black stars, and roses with thorny vines. Like Kyle, he also had a triangle tattooed on the inside of each wrist, one dark and one light. I’d never realized a guy’s forearms could be sexy, yet somehow he managed to pull it off.

He set the guitar case on a long table and popped it open. He whistled when he saw the vintage sea foam green Fender Stratocaster inside. “Wow. Where’d you get this?”

“I bought it at a pawn shop, along with the amp.” Both were chipped and dented, but I loved them. They were the only instruments I’d ever bought with my own money, right after I’d left for college. The grand piano back home, my violin and clarinet, and even the keyboard crammed next to my bed were all guilt presents from my father. My acoustic guitar had been my mom’s once, back when she did things like play music. But this guitar—it was all mine. “May I?” he asked, and I nodded.

He ran a hand over the body and neck of it with the gentle caress of someone who understood how precious it was. I watched his fingers touch each string and imagined what it’d be like if he touched me that way.

Stop it. I forced my eyes to the floor. He’s not for you.

“Very nice,” he said. “You can use your guitar for the audition or use mine if you want. Whatever works.”