Page 33 of Seven Lost Summers
My brain short-circuits for a second. I cover it with a shrug, casually gripping my bass like it’s the only thing holding me together.
“Careful,” I say, trying not to sound like I’ve just forgotten how to function. “You compliment me again and I might start thinking I’m charming.”
“Too late,” she grins.
And just like that, I’m totally fucked.
“Alright. Enough talk,” Nate says. “Let’s play. Or do I need to file paperwork to make this a stand-up gig?”
I snap my head toward him, heat crawling up my neck. “Fuck off.”
Bianca grins. “Don’t be salty, Nate. Not everyone can pull off being hot and hilarious at the same time.”
Nate laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
My mouth’s shut tight, but my ego’s doing backflips. Mostly because hot and hilarious completely short-circuited my entire system.
I come back to reality when Nate taps his sticks together. One, two, three, four.
I dive in, fingers locking down on the strings, sending that first low thrum out into the room. It’s tight. Clean. The rhythm that doesn’t ask for permission. It just takes over. My fingers dig in, pulling deeper with each note, my foot tapping along to Nate’s rhythm. The air shifts. The walls hum. My bones fucking vibrate.
But the whole time, I feel her.
Bianca.
A few feet away. Fender slung low. Watching with that calm, unreadable expression that somehow still manages to set every nerve in my body on fire.
Then she joins in. Not stepping into the song but setting fire to it.
Fuck me, the second her fingers hit the strings, everything changes.
The rhythm I thought I had under control slips straight through my fingers. What was tight becomes electric. What was solid turns volatile. The sound sharpens, digs in, like it’s hungry now and chasing something.
She flips the balance. Rewrites the rules mid-song. Takes control as if the music were hers all along and we’ve just been keeping it warm. I feel the shift crawl across the floor, climb up my legs, and settle in my chest. Every beat bends toward her, pulled in until the room forgets we were ever here first.
I glance up, and she’s already looking at me, lips curled into a smirk like she knows exactly what she just did.
She glances over at Nate, a small smile tugging at her mouth, and I see it. The way his whole face shifts.
That usual cool, untouchable expression is gone. He’s as fucking mesmerized as I am. And the second that realization hits, it lands harder than the kick of Nate’s own drum.
Because Nate doesn’t look at chicks like that. He fucks them. That’s it. No promises. No feelings or giving a shit past the unzip.
But right now, there’s something different on his face.
That’s a fucking problem. Because if he’s falling too, I’m not simply screwed, I'm fucked.
Nate can have any chick he wants. He always has. I am nothing compared to him. I’m not the one people notice or the one girls smile at. I know I don’t stand a fucking chance.
Movement near the door yanks my focus. I look up, pulse still throwing punches in my throat, and there they are.
Quinn’s got her camera up, shutter going off like gunfire, catching it all before it disappears into the ether. Scarlet’s beside her, all teeth and chaos, wearing that smug little grin like she knew this moment was coming and we’re just lucky enough to live in it.
They’re watching us. Quinn’s freezing it. This exact second where the world felt right for once. Proof we didn’t dream it. That this high wasn’t just in our heads. That we existed right here, in this loud mess of sound.
The last note hits the walls, clings for a breath like it doesn’t want to leave, then slips into silence.
For a second, nobody moves. Nobody speaks.
