Page 34 of Composed
“Why are you manhandling my wife, dude?” Saint shouts over the music.
He saunters over, drops his joint to the floor and stubs it beneath the heel of his Vans before snagging Theo’s wrist. He hauls her into him and slams his lips against hers, claiming her with a searing kiss.
Her hands curl into his leather jacket as he dips her low.
I rub my chest as he peels back, muttering something in her ear that has her beaming up at him.
Tommy jumps onto a table and claps his hands, shouting, “Go time.”
Pushing off the wall, I tug the black beaded bracelet from my pocket and slip it onto my wrist, before dragging my hoodie over my head. I toss it onto one of the couches, followed by my cap.
My black shirt clings tight to inked skin, the chain hanging on my waistband drops, and I rake a hand through my hair, mussing it up.
I roll my shoulders back and crane my neck left to right before following the guys out.
Carter steps up behind the drum set, sticks crossed above his head, and the waiting audience goes wild.
I turn to Saint—with no setlist planned, he’s running this whole thing.
Guitar strapped to his chest, pick in his hand held high in the air, he tilts his head as he looks at me, before his eyes dip to my wrist.
Then, the cheeky fucker winks and brings his arm down, leading intoChasing Lows.
The crowd hushes a beat as the unheard melody settles around them and my chest hammers.
This is the first song Hendrix and I wrote together.
It’s raw and unpolished. I don’t know how Saint got his hands on the music—Hendrix was the one who kept all the tracks and lyrics that didn’t make it onto Reckless Abandon’s first albums.
Maybe she shared it with him during one of their guitar jams back in school.
My stomach swims as I white-knuckle the mic.
Electricity sparks in my veins when I open my mouth.
The crowd explodes in a frenzy. My chest thumps, my blood heating as I realise that maybe I’m not so done with this after all.
Chapter twelve
Cole • Then
Must Have Done Something Right – Relient K
Sixteen Years Old
Hendrixsittingcross-leggedonmy bed, acoustic guitar settled in her lap, playingEruptionby Van Halen is like a dream come to life.
I’m supposed to be watching her fingers as they trill across the strings, but I’m too lost in her to pay a lick of attention to anything else.
She’s wearing an old T-shirt she stole from my wardrobe. Her piercings glint under the bright light. Eyes closed, cheeks flushed pink, she nibbles at her plump lower lip.
I shift in my seat and down my glass of water to clear my drying throat.
She’s a fucking vision.
The final note rings through the room, echoing around my mind.
She lied when she said she was ‘pretty good’ at playing. She’s nothing short of magnificent.
