Fall (VIP 3)

“I’ll play with you,” Navid says. He looks slightly gray under his bronze skin, but he hides it well.

“Me too.” Joe is pink in the face as he stands tall and determined, gripping his guitar—an old Strat.

“All right.” I pluck a few strings and wince. “This is out of tune. Just slightly, but it shows when you play.”

Jamie winces too. “Fuck.”

I give him a smile of encouragement. “It’s something a lot of people have to learn to hear. Until then, use a tuner.” I adjust the strings until the guitar is tuned to my liking. “When I first started, I was always off. Killian used to rip into me for it.”

At the mention of his name, the guys brighten.

“He’s fucking brilliant,” Jamie says.

“That he is,” I agree, missing my friend with an ache that shocks me. I haven’t called him in a while. Truth is, I don’t want to know when he’s coming home because that means Stella will move. I shrug the feeling off and pay attention to the teenagers watching me with dazed eyes. “Right, then. Follow my lead, and listen. Listen as you play. When you’re starting out, you try to play all on your own. You concentrate only on getting your bit right. But you’re in a band. You’re part of a team. Make music with me.”

They all nod, even Jamie, though he’ll be sitting out. I go over a few songs, find out what ones they know. I’m not willing to play any of mine. The gig—thinly veiled though it is—will be up immediately if we do. Thankfully, the guys get that and are happy with anything I want to do. We settle on a couple of classics; people know the songs and will be drawn to them.

At this point, no one has noticed us. Only Stella, who perches on the top rail of a bench and silently watches, a Mona Lisa smile on her pink lips.

I start the opening chords of Nirvana’s “About a Girl,” keeping it nice and slow. The guys join in, hesitant but holding their own. The second I begin to sing, people slow down. I’m purposely making my voice sound like Kurt’s. One, because I don’t want to sound exactly like myself right now, but also because he’s my idol and always will be.

I was a little kid when he died, yet his loss hurts as though I’d known him well. Awareness prickles over my skin with a fine chill. I too might have been gone, might have missed this moment, and I close my eyes for a second. My stomach twists sickly. I’m going to lose it right here and now. This is why I don’t enjoy performing the way I used to. This fucking sick, slip-sliding terror of what could have been plagues me every damn time I get in front of an audience.

But it didn’t happen. You’re here. The sun is shining on your shoulders. The air is filling your lungs. You are here.

I’m here. It’s just me and the music, the vibration of the strings against my fingers, the stretch of a song in my chest and throat. The song spreads itself out over me, getting comfortable, amping up. I play the solo and it shivers over me with joy.

When I open my eyes again, we’re surrounded by onlookers. I’m not sure if they realize who I am. I don’t really care. The song ends, and I address the crowd. “Hey there, I’m Jax. I’d like to introduce you to a few members of the band.”

That gets me a few chuckles. People whistle in appreciation. Jamie is filming everything on his phone. The guys give the people hesitant waves. And because I’ve done a Beatles joke, I start in on “Hey, Jude.”

I step back, turning toward the young guys playing with me. They look as though they’ve hit the lottery, grins wide, eyes slightly dazed. But they’re feeding off me, getting it together. I nod, and face the crowd. “You’re going to have to sing along for this.”

And they do. That’s why the song is brilliant. Everyone knows it. Everyone wants to sing it.

By the time we’re nearly finished, money is spilling out of the open guitar case on the ground, and two horse-mounted cops have ridden over to investigate. I’m guessing we’re done, but they simply watch, bobbing their heads to the music.

Joe gives Jamie a turn on his guitar. In turn, Joe continues filming our performance. We play songs until the audience becomes too big, and the cops start to get twitchy. I’m not pushing our luck, and end it. Some people ask for autographs, but most just take pictures. I thank the guys and give them Brenna’s PR number. “She’ll hook you up with some tickets to our next show,” I tell them.

“Thanks, man.” Jamie beams.