Page 72 of Composed
Footsteps sound in the hallway when I’m wrapping my straighteners.
I crane my neck just as my dad stomps past my open doorway.
“Hendrix. Downstairs. Now!”
“Coming,” I shout, hands trembling as I shove the straighteners into my drawer.
I was really hoping he wouldn’t be back from work before I slipped out of the house. No such fucking luck.
I toss my backpack over one shoulder, shove my phone into my back pocket, and wrap one of Cole’s hoodies around my waist before rushing down the stairs after him.
My dad sits in the large leather armchair, arms folded across his chest, a sneer twisting his face. “Have you been in the spare room?”
Yes. “No, why?”
“Hendrix.” He spears me with a glare. “The key isn’t in the drawer.”
My mouth drops open.
I clench it shut and shake my head.
“What did I tell you about touching my guitars?”
I kick my toes into the carpet. “Not to.”
“And yet, you keep doing it,” he blares, eyes the same shade of mine flaring when he jumps up.
I shrink back, grip tightening on my bag strap.
“You have no right to touch them, Hendrix. Everything in that room is mine, and I won’t let you tarnish it like you do everything else. Got it?”
“Got it, Dad.”
“I want the key back before you leave.”
I nod sharply before spinning away, stinging tears pricking my lids.
Most parents want to share their hobbies with their children—to teach them, encourage them, and learn with them. Not Frank Moore. He blames me for the fact his guitars are locked away.
He had plans. Big, huge plans. He was in a band, going to make it big, tour the world, and be a famous rock star. Then I came along, and everything fell apart.
It’s funny, really. I taught myself music to impress him. Spent hours as a kid sitting atop the basement stairs, listening, watching, hoping that one day he’d invite me in. It only made things worse.
The fact I had real talent was disappointing to him. As if he couldn’t fathom how I could have the same passion when I’m the reason his died.
I drop the spare room key onto the kitchen counter and slink out of the back door.
Rock Shots is rammed.
Sweat slicks my neck as I push through the crowd. An indie band bounces around the stage, covering a Fall Out Boy song.
I check the time and scan the packed bodies.
I was supposed to meet Theo out front, but after the run in with my dad, I missed the bus. It was either walk twenty-five minutes and be a little late, or miss the first half of their set while I waited for the next one to show.
I spy blonde space buns and weave my way towards them. Theo spins as I pull up beside her. I glance down at her, freezing as a disturbing number of Saint’s stare back at me on her T-shirt. Her lips twist into a grimace. “Don’t ask. I lost a bet.”
“Oh, I’m so asking. What was the bet?”
