The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(32)

“Silver!” Dad grins over his shoulder when he notices me standing behind him. “Sorry, honey, I only just got your message. Your friend Alex here has been telling me that he met Paul Ryder from Denver Blues at a concert last year. Remember, your mom and I went to see Denver Blues play last year, too? I would have lost my cool if I’d gotten to shake Paul’s hand. Silver isn’t such a huge fan. I don’t know what I did to deserve a daughter that doesn’t appreciate good music.”

At any other time, I’d never let a sly dig like that from Dad fly, but I barely even hear it today. I’m far too busy boring holes into the side of Alex’s head. “What are you doing here, Alex?” I try and keep my voice steady, but my anxiety is tussling with my anger, and the battle between the two warring emotions is making it difficult to feign calm.

“We had an agreement. I paid for two lessons. We agreed we’d have the first today after school.”

Do not make a scene in front of Dad. Do not make a scene in front of Dad. I’m prickling all over. Pretty sure there’s a vein pulsing in my temple, too. “I told you I couldn’t fit you into my schedule. I have too much going on at the moment. I tried to give you back your money this morning, remember?”

Dad takes a long pull from the bottle of beer he’s holding. “Thought you were trying to save up for a new paint job for the Nova, Sil. Now you’re turning down cash? And, come on. You’re hardly busy. You spend most of your time moping around the place with your nose buried in a book.”

I smile at him grimly, lips pressed into an unimpressed line. “And I thought I had to take Max to practice because you had work you needed to do. Now you’re talking music, drinking beer, and kicking back with an absolute stranger?”

Dad laughs. “Just trying to get to know your friends, honey. And if you’re gonna be riding around on the back of a motorcycle, I figured there was no harm in meeting the guy who’d be operating it.”

“Dad! I’m not going to be riding around on the back of a motorcycle! Alex and I don’t even really know each other.”

Dad doesn’t bother to hide his amused disbelief. “All right, kiddo. Whatever you say. Well, Alex, it was nice to meet you. I hope you guys have a nice lesson. I cleared out some space for you in the garage. Don’t make too much noise, though. Your mom’ll kill me if the neighbors start complaining.”





The garage is cold with the door open, but ain’t no way I’m closing it. I do not want to be trapped inside a secluded space with any boy, let alone one who thinks it’s okay to fuck with me like this. Sitting on the edge of Dad’s ancient pool table, I’m livid as I set up the spare guitar I use for teaching, resting the waist of the instrument against the top of my leg, twisting each tuning peg in turn and then strumming, listening for a moment when I bend the sound to find the perfect note.

Alex watches me, arms across his chest, his head a little dipped, his dark eyes unreadable. In my mind, a thousand burning insults present themselves to me like weapons, each one begging to be thrown, hurled or thrust, but instead, I keep a leash on my temper, quickly working to prep for this damned lesson. The sooner we can get started, the sooner I can put an end to this nonsense and get this over with.

“Silver.” The rain thunders down onto the flat roof of the garage, rushing down the drainpipes, tinging against the copper windchimes hanging from the eaves by the front door, but Alex’s voice is so clear, as if his mouth is pressed against the shell of my ear and the exhale of his breath is all I’m capable of hearing. The expression I set on my face as I raise my gaze to meet his is less than friendly.

“What?”

“I’m nobody’s bitch, okay? If you think I’d ever bow down to Weaving, then you’ve got me all wrong.”

I slide off the edge of the pool table and shove the guitar into Alex’s chest. “I don’t care what you do.”

“Sure you do.”

“Nope.” I unfasten the catches on my hard guitar case, taking out my own instrument. I just played it this morning, but it’s habitual—I still check to make sure every string is perfectly in tune. Alex pulls up Dad’s rolling stool, taking a seat on it and resting the guitar I’ve given to him on his knee. A bright flash of lightning flickers in the sky over Hunter Mountain, briefly illuminating the heavy, swollen clouds. The world beyond the mouth of the garage is the color of iron, seething purples and flashes of silver as the snap of electricity turns all of the puddles to molten lead.

As if by some unspoken agreement, Alex and I wait for the thunder. Neither of us breaks the silence until the booming crash of sound shakes both the sky and the ground beneath our feet.

“We’re starting from the very beginning,” I say in a professional tone—my teaching voice. “The anatomy of a guitar.” I spin my guitar around in my hands so that its base is resting on top of my legs. “This is the headstock.” I point to the top of the guitar, where the tuning pegs attach to the strings. “These are the fingerboards. These steel bands are the frets. You change the tone and key of whatever you’re playing by—”

“You care more than you’re willing to admit,” Alex says.

I look up from the guitar. “If you’re not gonna pay attention to even the most basic part of this lesson, then you’re not going to learn anything.”