Page 8 of Composed
Tell me something I don’t know. “And yet I haven’t written anything half as good since.”
“Fuck!” He slaps a hand on the table, a bright grin lighting up his face. “About fucking time too. You reckon she’ll go for it?”
That’s the million pound question, right? Once, I knew the answer in a heartbeat. Hendrix Moore would have written anything with me if I asked.
Now? Well, ten years is a long time to have any expectations.
I brush my thumb over my inked wrist. “Not a fucking clue, but it can’t hurt a guy to ask, right?”
“Never thought I’d still be alive to see the day.” He shakes his head and hums. “Cole and Hendrix, reunited. This is gonna be fun. You remember the first day we met her?”
As if I could ever fucking forget?
Chapter three
Cole • Then
Slow Motion – Simple Plan
Fifteen Years Old
Theguitarslipsfrommy grip when Saint bounds into the music room. He tosses his rucksack on a chair, slips his blazer off, and scrubs a hand through his messy, shoulder length, dyed black hair.
“Fuck me. Ilovethat girl,” he says.
I chuckle as he slides to the floor. “Did Theo grace you with a hello this morning?”
“Better.” His lips curl into a lopsided smile. “She kneed me in the balls.”
I cock a brow. “How is that better?”
“She only did it because I got off the bus with Elaine the pain.”
I roll my eyes.
Saint and Theo have been neighbours their whole lives. Aside from scowling at him every chance she gets, she doesn’t give him the time of day.
Of course, he’s taken this to mean she’s madly in love with him. Doesn’t matter that she's been dating some football playing tool bag in year twelve. He’s convinced they’re soulmates, and there’s no changing his mind.
“Righttt, and you did nothing in between the bus and her knee?” I flip a pointed glare his way.
He grins, tugging a roll of cotton on his worn black trousers. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Why do I not believe you?” I laugh and prop the guitar against the wall.
I grab my notebook and pen and toss them into Saint's lap, before dropping to my arse. He holds a cigarette between his teeth, his thumb gliding over the spark wheel of his zippo as he scans the pages.
Pinning him with a glare, I snatch the stick and lighter from him, shoving them in my pocket. “Cut that shit out. Next time you’re caught, they’re not just gonna suspend you. You’ll be excluded.”
“Like I care. We’re going places with the band, dude. School is just an unnecessary pitstop.”
“Not if we don’t have any music,” I mutter, tapping my pen against the page.
I’d never really thought about writing music. Then we met Carter at the skate park, a sixth former with his drumsticks always in hand. He invited me to jam in his garage.
Saint tagged along with his beat-up Fender, and Carter's friend Axel showed up with a pristine Ibanez bass. The four of us clicked instantly.
When I started singing over the beat of Carter’s drums and the rest of the riffing, something sparked inside me. I've always loved music, but I'd never considered a career in something that wasn't playing the piano until then.
