Fall (VIP #3)(79)

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.”

“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.