“Fuuuuuuck, that’s good shit,” Sam whisper-shouts in my ear. The amps are reverberating the sound in the small garage, and I know everyone on our street, and in the few occupied houses on the next road over, is cursing the fact that of all people to buy here in Orson, it was this family—the one with a kid in a band.
I’m not cursing, though. I’m obsessed. If this were some small club in the Valley or LA, I would just be a fangirl, but this guy is my neighbor. He’s literally making the sounds that live in my heart and head, and he’s doing things I have dreamed of but been too chicken shit to try.
The same break comes in that stopped them before, and I can hear the beat slipping away before they even get there. Jesse hears it too, and he cuts it before he even has a chance to rock out with his friend. His jaw is tight this time, and his eyes roll just before he pushes the microphone enough to knock it down onto a dirty beanbag in the center of the garage.
“I need to walk away. I just…” His fingers flex with his open palm, then curl into a fist. He shakes it a few times then swings
his guitar over his head and rests it on the beanbag with the abandoned mic before he walks past Sam and me and out into the dark street.
“He’s such a drama queen,” the preppy kid says. I smirk, amused, and he takes the invitation to introduce himself.
“Logan,” he says, taking a few long strides to close the distance between us.
“Arizona,” I say, taking his hand in mine. His lips pucker a tight smile, and his eyes glance to my right where Sam sits. I help him out. “This is my friend Sam. I live down the street, and Jesse said we could come check you guys out some time.”
He nods in response then takes Sam’s hand when she offers it.
“Nice to meet you both.” His eyes stick on her a little longer, but he’s not her type. She’s polite though, and compliments his playing, even though she doesn’t really know a thing about music other than how to swing your hips in a club.
“I’m Rag,” says the guy who was playing lead guitar with Jesse. He’s got the same look, his hair a little shorter and his build a little thinner. He also seems like maybe he’s in college.
“Rag,” I scrunch my eyes, shaking his hand then folding my arms as I wait for the story that no doubt comes with his name.
“Yeah, last name’s Ragglesworth, which is stupid-awful for a last name, so everyone started calling me Rag in fifth grade. Jesse’s my cousin.”
“Ah,” I nod, understanding the resemblance now. “So, Jesse…Ragglesworth?” I smirk, thinking maybe I can tease him about this, not that we have any sort of relationship that will create a reason for me to talk to him long enough to tease, but…fantasies, ya know?
Rag lowers his eyes and twists his head, studying me, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not I’m kidding.
“Jesse…Berringer…” he says like he’s giving me the answer to a test and pretending I already knew it. I didn’t know it. I had no idea, but that name…it means something. And that song he was just singing, it means something too.
“Alton Berringer,” I say quietly. Rag gives me a little nod, confirming. I lean my head back and let my mouth fall open. “I feel so stupid.”
“Don’t,” he says quickly. “He doesn’t tell people if he can help it. He’s not real proud of being the bastard son of the world’s most famous rock-star rehab patient.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” I say, instantly feeling sorry for Jesse, which I suppose he also probably doesn’t want people doing.
“I didn’t tell you, yeah?” Rag says with one eyebrow raised, and I nod, drawing an X over my chest with my finger to show my promise.
“Who’s hair band?” I ask, sparking a surprise laugh from the other two as I nod toward the drummer who’s cracking open an energy drink that he clearly does not need.
“He’s Chris, some guy we all sorta know. I don’t know how, really. We just started hanging out at our old school. Our drummer moved to Atlanta, and when Jesse’s mom dragged him up here from LA, choices became limited.” I fight against my desire to call their drummer out for his weak talent and offer my skills. I’m not great at set, that I know of. Maybe I would be.
“Yeah, he’s shit, but we can work with him,” Rag jokes. I laugh lightly, shifting my focus out into the street where Jesse is still standing alone.
“Should you maybe go chill him out?” I glance to Rag, and he shrugs me off.
“Nah, he’ll get himself where he needs in his head. He’s got a complicated mind, so it’s usually best to let him figure things out on his own.”
“Complicated,” I repeat.
My brow pulls in, but Rag only continues to stare at me, not giving away any more than he already has.
“Do you write any of the songs?” Sam takes over the conversation, clearly interested in seeing how she does with monopolizing Rag’s attention, and she does a decent job, getting him to sit on the arm of the junker sofa next to her. For a few minutes, I listen to him talk about some of their older songs that he wrote with Jesse, but the pull to the lonely boy out in the street gets me to my feet even against all warnings to leave him alone.
By the time I hop the wet gutter and am maybe fifteen feet away, Jesse’s lit a joint and is taking a deep inhale. He turns my way, the sleeve of his flannel covering half his palm as the shirt falls from his shoulder. “Yeah?” He lifts a brow and holds the joint out for me. I shake my head and he puffs out smoke with his short laugh.
“He tell you about my dad?”