Page 31 of Just Don't Call Me Yours

I give him a heavy-lidded stare as the lead singer yells out, “Are you beautiful motherfuckers ready?” and the small crowd roars in response. All the members of the band have tattoos and look older than Jackson by at least ten years, but that’s the only way he stands out. Other than the age difference and the ink, he looks like he belongs.

A small smile comes to my lips. There have been plenty of times when I’ve wanted to make Jackson miserable, but I can’t deny it’s nice seeing him in his element—that it’s nice seeing him happy.

The first song starts, and I’m surprised when my ears don’t immediately bleed. I was expecting a head-banging rock, but it’s not. Layered sounds fill my ears, and even though the song is more intense than what I usually listen to, the beats and rhythm are clean.

I want to hate it. The last thing I need is for Jackson to see me enjoying this, but I don’t hate it at all.

“They’re good!” Rae says, her surprise mirroring what I’m feeling.

Matt yells something I can’t make out, but he looks enthusiastic like he agrees.

I don’t say anything. I’m too busy watching Jackson, standing in the back corner of the stage as he plays his new guitar. He’s so focused. He doesn’t even glance at the crowd like he doesn’t want them to distract him. Aside from occasionally smiling at his bandmates, he hardly notices anyone. It’s just him and the music. He doesn’t even look like my asshole neighbor right now. Instead, he’s just a guy in a band.

A hot guy in a band.

My brain trips up over that last thought like maybe the wires got crossed. But when I look at him again, noticing the way the muscles in his arms move as he plays, I can’t deny it. Jackson is attractive.

Like really attractive.

I noticed it that first day of class, but for the past few months, my mind has done me a solid favor by burying those thoughts. I haven’t noticed the way his hair curls at the ends in weeks. Haven’t spent a second considering his wide shoulders or the way his eyebrow twitches right before he’s about to rip me a new one. I didn’t even let the way he bites his lip while he’s lost in thought faze me at all.

But I am considering it all now.

As if he can read my mind, his neck jerks up, his gaze landing on me like a magnet. We lock eyes, and I wish I could read his expression better. I expect him to look away, but he doesn’t. He holds my stare until heat rises to my cheeks, and I’m forced to lower my gaze.

When I dare to lift it again, he isn’t looking at me anymore. Did I imagine it?

The song ends, and the lead singer grins at the crowd like it’s a stadium full of fans and not a dingy dive bar. The band keeps a beat going as he says, “If you’re wondering why we sound so good tonight, I’d like to introduce Jackson Phillips!” He holds an outstretched arm toward Jackson, and the crowd cheers.

Jackson fights his smile, shaking his head with a breath of laughter, and I’ve never seen him look so humble.

It’s a good look on him.

They kick off with another song I actually like a little better than the first, and I try to keep my eyes fixed on the lead singer. Matt stands behind Rae with his arms wrapped around her, and I sort of wish I had what they have. When we’re around the dorm, I never think about the fact that I’m single. I’m happy with how things are going, and after my breakup with Chris, I didn’t want to jump into anything new right away. Even as I smile at my best friend, I’m not sure if I actually want a relationship or if it’s just a product of being around a newly in love couple in public that has me feeling a little left out.

Between being alone and trying to avoid looking at the new guitarist at all costs, I shift to taking in the crowd around me. A few people sing along to the words, and it must be such a rush for the band on stage. To have people resonate with the words and melodies you’ve written, and then see they not only enjoy them but know them by heart.

I’ve been to concerts, but never in this intimate of a setting, and never when someone I know is in the band. It makes me think about the whole experience in a new light, and I feel like I understand Jackson a little more because of it. When someone comments on something I’ve posted, it’s the best feeling. Knowing someone resonated with something I wrote, makes for a great day. When Jackson is on stage, looking out at the crowd, I imagine it being an amplified, more tangible version of that because his fans are right in front of him. They bought tickets, made time, and showed up—all to support and celebrate the music they love. I can see why he’s so passionate about this—I think I would be, too.

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We finish our set, and I’ve never felt more alive. Sweat drips from my hair, and I don’t think my heart will ever slow down. As if the rush from playing on stage wasn’t enough to keep me on this natural high, a few people ask for pictures with the band after the show. I’ve been the guy asking for a picture, but being on this end of it feels surreal.

The guys all clap me on the shoulder and tell me how well I played. I know one of the opening riffs was a little sloppy, but I don’t think anyone in the crowd noticed. It was toward the beginning of the show, so I think my nerves got to me a little. Dave had looked my way, lowering his open palm slowly at his side to subtly tell me to relax.

Now they’re headed for the bar to get a beer before we pack up. Except me. Puppies can’t drink, as Marty was kind enough to remind me. Dave offered to try to buy me one, but I told him not to worry about it. I know Matt’s probably waiting for me, anyway.

I head to the bathroom before I start looking for Rae and Matt—and Margot. Why she’d come here to listen to music she doesn’t like, played by a guy she likes even less, is beyond me. Rae must have dragged her along, and I’m sure she’s hating every minute of it. Maybe I shouldn’t look for Rae and Matt. The last thing I need is for Margot to tell me we suck and kill the natural buzz coursing through my veins ever since stepping on that stage.

The women’s bathroom door swings open, almost hitting me in the face as I walk down the narrow hallway. My arms reach out to stop the force of a woman who’s about to crash into me, my hands grabbing her arms.

She yelps, “Sorry!” and when her wide eyes land on me, she freezes. Margot blinks up at me before covering a hand over her mouth in mock disbelief. “Oh, my God. You’re the guy who plays guitar!” When I stare at her, she bats her eyelashes and fans herself, but even though she’s joking, the sight of her adoring smile makes something inside me crack. My chest warms, and I have to fight the urge to wet my bottom lip with my tongue. Genuine affection from most people doesn’t get this much of a physical reaction out of me, so why the hell does Margot faking being starstruck have my pulse racing?

I force myself to snap out of it and give her a taunting grin. “Does seeing me up there make you feel like you’re living out a boy-band fantasy?” I tilt my head, the corner of my mouth lifting. “Is this a kink for you, Red?”

Her cheeks flush brighter, and my eyes narrow, scrutinizing her. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think . . .

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