Fall (VIP 3)

I study the teens playing. They’re attempting a Lincoln Park song. It’s painful to hear. They know how to play, just not in a cohesive way. They need guidance. And about two years of practice.

“I have no idea what it’s like to be a rock legend,” she says in a soft voice. “I don’t personally understand the pressures you’re under. But I do know that some of the best experiences in life happen when you’re not playing it safe.”

“When have you not played it safe?” I ask, truly curious.

She stares at me like I’m dense. “With you, John.”

I swallow hard, and then nod, not knowing what to say. She’s struck me dumb. I’m not playing it safe with her either, but I feel like a bit of a shit because part of me knows that, at the very least, she’s into me the same way I’m into her. Being with Stella might not be exactly safe ground for me, but it doesn’t seem like a risk. Is that how she sees it? Is she terrified?

She’s waiting to see what I’m going to do, her hand still holding my wrist. The tips of her fingers press against my pulse point, surely feeling the agitated beating of my heart.

The potential for embarrassment is high, but then that’s the point, isn’t it? I’m doing something with music that involves risk. When was the last time I even felt that when performing? Maybe at eighteen, and not even then really. I’d been an arrogant bastard, completely assured of my worth and my place in the world. Killian used to say I had enough balls and bravado to haul us all out of obscurity. Yet Killian wouldn’t hesitate to do this. He is the more reserved one out of the two of us, but he’s never been afraid to fail.

Even when at the top, I’d been afraid to fall.

For a moment, I can’t breathe. My head is hot and too heavy to hold up. Then I exhale, and I’m lighter. “Fuck me,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck where the tension has fled.

Stella stares up at me. “You gonna do it?”

“Yeah, babe, I am.” I give her a swift kiss, then head toward the group, nerves thrumming through my veins, heart kicking against my ribs. I don’t know if it’s nerves or the anticipation of doing something risky. Maybe both.

There are three of them, all guys. All wearing skinny jeans and tatty trainers. One is taller than me and rail thin, his brown hair falling in his eyes, his beard spotty in places. The other is fairly short, blond, and already sporting an impressive amount of tats along one arm. Though he’s dressed in the most ragged clothes, I know a kid who comes from wealth when I see one. The last kid, the one holding a bass in a death grip, is around my height and sporting an ink-black mohawk. I had the same cut when I was around his age. Was I ever that young? God, I feel old.

They all watch me with wide-eyed wonder as I walk up to them.

“Hey, I’m Jax.” Might as well use my known name; in a few minutes, it’ll be no use hiding who I am.

“We know who you are,” the blond one gets out in a rasp. “I mean, we can’t believe it, but we know.”

None of them has taken my outstretched hand, and I’m beginning to feel like an ass. But then the guy with the scraggly beard reaches out and clasps my hand. “Jamie. That’s Joe,” he says of the gaping blond. “And that’s Navid.”

The guy with the mohawk lifts a hand in hello.

“We’re huge fans,” Jamie says.

“I guess that’s a relief,” I joke. “It’d be a little awkward if you just thought I was some nutter.”

They all stare at me as if I am, in fact, a nutter. I clear my throat, forcing down an uncomfortable wash of heat. “I was wondering if you could help me out with something.”

“W-what’s up?” asks Navid. His hands are fairly shaking but he quickly slides them into his pockets, and I bite back a smile of approval. Fake it till you make it is a key component in this shitty business.

“My girl over there, the cute redhead pretending not to look? Well, she really wants me to play for her right now. I was wondering—”

“Here.” Joe thrusts his guitar in my hands. “Go for it.”

“Thanks.” I take a better hold of the neck. It’s a beat-up Ibanez that cost less than my boots but has a pretty good sound for close quarters and if you aren’t too worried about nuance. “But I kind of thought you guys might like to play with me. I could sing.”

“No, no,” Jamie insists. “Please play my guitar too. It will be epic.”