“Okay, from the top. And don’t come in so quick after the bridge. Build up to it.” Gray rubbed his arm over his sweaty forehead. “Follow my lead.”

From behind her kit, Jazz huffed her damp hair out of her eyes. They’d practiced the same song ten times already, and Gray was never satisfied. She’d been all excited to not only get a chance to write a song with him but to show off her burgeoning skills on the skins—hopefully for him first then his bandmates in Krystal Sword—but her interest had plummeted fast.

She got being a perfectionist. She was too. She’d been practicing the drums a couple of hours a day for months. But for fuck’s sake, his band wasn’t big time. They’d only played like five real shows at clubs. So what if she proved her chops to Gray and he got her an audition? It wasn’t as if this would ever actually be her career or anything.

The reality was that she’d probably end up at the waffle house she’d applied to last month, though she knew the chances of getting a part-time position there before she turned fifteen were slim. But she needed to start saving up cash. It wouldn’t be long before Gray would be going away to college at Berkeley to major in their music program, which meant he wouldn’t be around to keep slipping her money in spite of her protests.

Dammit, she couldn’t think about Gray leaving. Couldn’t even let the idea float through her mind. If she did, she’d screw up the practice even worse.

Instead she’d think about getting a job at the waffle house. She’d start there part-time and most likely end up full-time at some point. Eventually, she’d start cursing life and “the man” like her mother. School sure wouldn’t pan out for her. Gray was the brainiac, not her. She hated the monotony of her classes. If she had to do one more algebra problem—

“Jesus, Jazz, you in there?” Gray snapped his fingers and she jolted hard enough that she almost fell off her stool. “We need to get this song right.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hit it.”

“You sure you’re ready? You keep zoning.”

Her dissatisfaction bubbled over. “Hell yeah, I keep zoning. I don’t get the point why this matters so much. Music is supposed to be fun. You’re turning it into drudgery.”

“No, I’m turning it into what your talent deserves. What the hell do you intend to do with your life? You skip class constantly. Your grades are in the toilet. This is your way out.”

His words slapped her in the face and in reaction, she slammed her sticks on the cymbals. “Better,” he said, lips curving. “That’s the kind of emotion I want to see.”

“You wouldn’t know what to do with all of my emotion, Grayson Duffy.” She flexed her bare foot on the pedal and gripped the sticks tighter, rolling her shoulders. “Okay, let’s go.”

“Want to switch songs? We could try ‘Placebo’—”

“No. We’re doing ‘Counterstrike’. Go.”

Rather than seeming pissed, his smile only grew. “You’re adorable when you’re pissed.” At her growl, he laughed and strummed his way into the song. “On three.”

She was already counting, losing herself in the building rhythm. She shut her eyes and gave herself over to the song, letting his fast finger work carry her into the heart of it. Like Hansel from the fairy tale sprinkling a trail of breadcrumbs in the forest, he opened up the melody, taking her right up to the bridge before easing off to let her take over. He maintained the backbeat of the song while she slammed the skins, channeling her frustration into creating that floor-shaking sound.

Hell yeah, the floor was shaking. The walls quaking. Everything around her trembling and dissolving under the focused pressure of her hands.

Her voice lifted with his, their harmony soaring to the rafters. Vibrating at the pinnacle like a heartbeat before that inevitable drop that left her shaking as the last notes from his guitar faded away.

She opened her eyes and he was in front of her, his grin a kilowatt of light capable of illuminating the darkest spaces. His smile crowded out the confusion and frustration inside her, leaving behind only joy.

“You did it. You fucking killed it, baby.” He came around the kit and hoisted her up off her stool, giving her no choice but to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. Like a pair of drunken monkeys, they spun around the room until they were so dizzy that they fell back on the sofa, laughing.

Tossing back her sweat-soaked hair, she sank into the cushions and let her exhaustion win. And smiled as his fingers crept across the space between them and forged a link. Such a small, seemingly insignificant gesture.

Nothing had ever meant more.