I lead Aya into the practice room where a couple of Jack’s guitars and my bass are scattered around the room on stands. There’s not a whole lot to see in terms of decorating. Just some do-it-yourself soundproofing. But Jack’s guitar collection could rival some museums.

I’d start explaining some of the more interesting pieces, but I’m not sure how interesting that’d be to a non-musician.

Plus, I also don’t think she’d really remember much anyway.

God, she’s too cute, all wobbly and talkative.

Her eyes go wide when she sees the room.

“How long have you been playing bass?” she asks.

“Since I was about seventeen.”

“Why bass?”

“Why not bass?” I counter.

“It’s not…” she trails off, searching for the second half of her comment.

“It’s not as cool as guitar,” I finish for her.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” she says with mock outrage. “I was going to say that it’s not as common. But I like the bass. It makes the floor vibrate. I think it’s where the power comes from.”

I smile. I like that. Where the power comes from.

“Well, when my dad married Jack’s mom, Jack was already playing guitar and wanted to start a band. He found Ian and they started playing with a different vocalist. We didn’t meet Dylan till a few years later. But they needed a bassist.

“Anyway, I was kinda nerdy looking and desperate to impress my new step-brother. I learned to play bass so I could hang out with him and play in the band.”

“Hmm,” she says, a dreamy expression on her face, “I bet you look hot in glasses.”

I bet you don’t realize that you said that out loud, I think.

“I never told you I wore glasses,” I tell her.

She blushes. I was right. She has no idea she’s thinking out loud. It’s fucking adorable. I want to see what else I can get her to admit. Especially now that she’s looking at me like she wants to devour me whole.

And, I mean, she’s right. I did wear glasses.

“You want to see the dragon tattoo on my tit, don’t you?” she teases.

Fuck yes I do.

I want to get my mouth on it.

However, I keep that to myself. At least, I try to.

“I bet you want to kiss me, too,” she says, feigning innocence.

Okay, that I’ll admit.

“I do want to kiss you, Aya,” I tell her, “But you’re drunk.”

She protests, “I’m not that drunk. You should kiss me.”

I won’t do it. I don’t mess around with drunk girls.

She leans in, her pretty pink mouth aiming for my lips.

I want to kiss her. More than I want my next breath. But I won’t.

I shift so she kisses my cheek.

She stumbles and I catch her. Her eyes close. She feels good in my arms, her tiny body pressed against me. Her silver-blue hair swirling around her. She has a smattering of freckles on her nose. Fuck if that isn’t the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You hate me,” she says.

“I don’t hate you,” I tell her.

She makes no effort to pull away from me. The liquor hits her all at once. She’s about to drop.

“You’re sleepy,” I say as I scoop her up into my arms, carrying her like a damsel in distress.

“I’m kind of a lightweight. I’m sorry,” she says.

“Do you want me to drive you home?” I ask.

“You were drinking too.”

She’s right, but I have easily sixty or so pounds on her. Plus I can handle my liquor and it’s been awhile since my last drink. I’d be okay to drive.

“Just call me a rideshare,” she says, “My phone is in my jacket.”

There’s no way I’m letting her get into a car with a stranger when she’s this drunk.

“Stay the night,” I tell her, “I’ll take you home tomorrow morning.”

She’s too tired to argue.

I carry her into my bedroom and lay her on the bed. I help her out of her shoes and jacket and tuck her in.

I lean over her to turn the light off. She sneaks a kiss on the cheek.

This girl is too much.

Now what?

I don’t want to leave her alone, in case she gets sick or someone tries to mess with her, but obviously getting in bed with her is totally inappropriate, so I get a spare blanket from the closet and settle in for a night in the reclining armchair.

Sleeping in the armchair isn’t so bad, but I hate sleeping in clothes. I kick off my sneakers and socks and strip off my tee shirt. There. Better.

I close my eyes.

Aya stirs.

“Do you hate me, Shawn?” she asks, worry in her voice.

“Of course not, sweetheart. Actually, I like you a lot.”

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she says.

I smile. “It’s what you do for people you care about. Even if you only started caring about them a few hours ago.”

She doesn’t reply. She’s fast asleep.

And when I wake up, she’s long gone.