Christmas with a Rockstar (Rock Revenge Trilogy 3.50)

I laugh quietly and smile to my side, still not quite able to look him in the eyes.

“Yeah, well…I didn’t want show Chris up.” My boldness surprises me, and I blink a few times and force myself to meet his waiting stare. His head is cocked to one side, making him look at me a little sideways, and the way his mouth barely shows a smile is unnerving and yet also delicious.

This encounter will be the death of me.

His eyes flit to my hands, and he nods for my sticks. I raise them and our hands brush in the exchange, my cold knuckles warming instantly. He flips the sticks in his palms, finding the perfect hold, and I love the comfortable way he grips them. They’re white, because we like to be able to show off our precision on the line. They glow against his warm skin. My own hands feel instantly awkward, with nothing to hold and noth

ing to do but stand here and hold the drum as he hovers over the head.

He nods a few times, like he’s counting silently, and his hands tentatively begin to work lightly above the drumhead, merely buzzing it for practice until he fully settles in. I can tell this style isn’t natural for him, but I can also tell he plays. He’s better than Chris, and he has such unbelievable flow. His smile broadens as he relaxes more, stepping up on the lip of the curb to get a better position so he can really pound. The more he gets into it, the more I realize we’ve drawn a small crowd. Josh has come back and joined in, playing on the off-beats, and a few of my bandmates are jamming with the rhythm.

Jesse stops in the perfect place, leaving in the middle of a bar, which makes everyone want more but still feel satisfied and right. He grips the sticks in his hand with a squeeze then flattens them on my drum for me.

“Wooo whooo! Damn!” He shouts with his chin lifted and his eyes shut.

His joy makes me giggle.

I take my sticks back, one in each hand, and I feel better already—less self-conscious. My natural state, I guess.

With the ring of the bell out in the distance, our small crowd has already started to disappear, but Jesse’s still balanced on the lip of the curb with no sense of urgency in his body. I feel compelled to wait with him, which twists my insides because I also don’t like to be late for things.

His hands move to the front pockets of his black jeans and he looks down at our feet. I can’t see below my drum, so I shift my gaze around from side to side, occasionally meeting his eyes in the middle. When I look at him again, I catch him hunched over slightly with a smirk on his face.

“Your shoes are covered in grass.” His eyebrows lift as if having wet grass on your feet is truly shocking.

“The look goes with my ice cream shirt normally, but I thought I’d try them out as separates.”

My joke garners a genuine laugh from him this time, the sound echoing his singing voice, or perhaps I imagine it that way. His eyes crinkle and his mouth remains open, curved and happy. This is different from the scowl I met this morning. This is a different guy, entirely.

“You should come play tonight. Just me and Rag.”

The wave drowns my chest again, thunder that doesn’t stop against my ribs.

“Oh, I…” I bite my bottom lip, frozen and unable to answer. I have nothing to do. I just…I guess I’d rather just watch them.

Jesse tilts his head again, smiling on one side.

“You played the shit out of that thing. Don’t get all modest.”

“No…no. I’m not. Actually, I know I’m really fucking good, it’s just…”

I stop while he laughs at my arrogance. I’m glad, because I only said that because my nerves made the words come out. Not that it isn’t true. I have, like, two skills in life. Parallel parking and drums.

“I’m not great at set is all,” I say, turtling into my shoulders slowly.

“You’ll be fine,” he says with a nod. He cages me with a stare that I know isn’t going to let go until I agree, so I finally nod and give in.

The final warning bell sounds, and my stomach literally eats itself with stress, so I start to walk back toward the rooms.

“I’ll see ya tonight,” I say, waving with a small lift of my sticks as I back pedal.

“Come around seven,” he says, moving the other way.

I keep my eyes on him for a few more steps, wondering where he’s off to. It’s clearly not class, which means he’s probably not going to hack it at this school thing for long. I don’t want him to drop out, though. How will I luck into little run-ins like this.

“Class is this way, ya know.”

His grin shows his teeth, lopsided and flirtatious.