Page 112 of Drift

Drift hadn’t seen it back at the manor, not Light’s eyes: they were deep brown, almost black on their own. But dark strands turned them ink-black. Ava’s eyes. Drift had learned to look out for it off Jackson, off Grant: how to trust a change in colour to the eyes no matter how subtle, because everything bad in life usually came with them. Jackson, he must have seen it, but like with Gena and her brother, black didn’t always mean illness to him, just a natural dark need to play with it, use it. And Jackson always did play to talents, and that one helped make sure the kids behaved.

“Strange thing about anger,” Jackson said flatly. “Play it too long it becomes the only chord in life you hear, and you fall in to repeat. When it’s too cold to feel much else, remember one angry strum of chord never sounds right on its own without the whole coloured spectrum of feeling your fingerscanwork intoa guitar.” He looked him up and down. “Now fucking play, and talk honesty to me.”

Light frowned, just briefly as Jackson took his place back on the arm of the chair and sipped at his coffee.

Strip twisted life to the bare minimum, that was the heart of the townhouse: feeling and access to it. Each kid always had a story to tell, and Light looked no different in the morning light. But every emotion on the spectrum had to be experienced here, then poured back on the street through music, paving the way and funds for the next kid, and yeah, to put money in Jackson’s pocket too. But feeling mattered, and it didn’t matter what or where the kids came from, this was what Jackson was best at: kids well-being mattered as much as their skill did. So they didn’t do drugs here, they didn’t fuck around under the covers, and Jackson made damn sure no one touched them on the streets.

But despite the hold of guitar looking like a second skin to Light as he slipped the strap over his shoulder, it still looked like he’d take the walk and not look back as he swept a look around the kids who watched him back.

His test of the chords came without needing to stay focused, but his touch was cold, mechanical as he started to play his cover song. No close of eyes came, no drift into the music from the soul, just… involuntary action, going through the motions, emotionless skill.

The last two were at such odds with each other, because therewasso much damn skill there. He played “Somewhere I Belong” by Mason Hill, which usually came on a soulful 80s power ballad guitar riff, and it was there bleeding out of the Fender American, but the whole look about Light set the music landscape to awhite arctic winter, devoid of any colour, any warmth, sucking all emotional tie to the music when it came to the audience.

Fuck sake. No one fucked with musical talent like that, stripping it bare.

Moving over, Drift took the last guitar from off the floor before slipping the strap over his shoulder.

Light’s startled look met his, and Drift held it for a moment as he went in close, guitar to guitar close. Then he joined in, ghosting Light’s play with something else entirely: all heart… heat… a shake of head and pissed off challenge that called out:so you call that shit fucking music?

Light’s pace slipped, and he missed a few chords, the puzzlement hitting hard in dark eyes as blackness slipped too. He seemed too used to playing alone, of maybe needing to be alone to play—they all did at one stage—but maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t always been that way. A tilt of head came, a frown, then an echo of such a smile, and Light’s look called back:Right, so you thinkthatshit’s fucking music?Then he started to match Drift’s skill and heart—then utterly owned it as it hit the main power guitar riff.

And that was it. Drift was gone.

Light’s complex and faster shift of finger over guitar strings dragged every goddamn part to his soul into the music, because this—this level of skill and heat poured into the tones—Drift fucking lived for it. He was no longer at the edge of the void, but buried deep within, all sides filled with life, with music, and a way to play or dance through it fucking all blindfolded.

West came in, and her rocker’s tone gave the void a powerful physical presence, drawing out the full beauty of needingsomewhere to call home as much as Light’s natural play of finger across guitar string.

As the last strum of Light’s guitar string rebounded around the walls, a smile touched Drift’s lips, and he winked up at Light.

He didn’t know when, but he’d ended up on his knees, licking along Light’s guitar string. Maybe for show, maybe just to see if he could drive more into… whatever the fuck this level of playing Light reached was, or maybe because West did strange things to his head when she was close and singing, and she took him to his knees every goddamn time.

Didn’t matter what, West was left chuckling at him now as he knelt there between Light’s legs.

“You… you okay down there?” Light smiled down at him. “Need some more alone time, Lappy Chan?”

Drift choked a laugh into the quiet of the living room, dropping his head a touch, then glanced back up. “There’s no fun to be had with alone time, you melon.”

“Melon?” Light chuckled as West grabbed at Drift’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Whispers came through from the kids, then Jackson came over, giving long, slow claps.

“Okay,” he said without a grin. “That one earned you dinner, and a damn long cold shower for Drift.”

As Drift fought a blush, Light cocked a brow. “Just dinner?”

Jackson patted his shoulder. “You started with a pole up your ass. Stop with the Irish pole dancing during a session, play like that again, you might just get a few slices of bread thrown in too.”

“Tough crowd,” said Light with a soft laugh. “Damn tough crowd.”

A look came Drift’s way. “And you, this is why you’re not welcome.” A heavy hand on his shoulder off Jackson made him wince. “Keep your fucking tongue off my guitars. It’s a bloody electric one, you idiot.”

Snickers rushed the room, including Light’s and West’s.

“Music.” Drift rubbed at his neck. “Just, erm, does funny things to the body and head, is all.”

“Yeah. That’ll be the electrical current you’re licking, lad,” said Jackson. “One I’ll up the charge on if I see you go happy-go-licky on one of my guitars again.”

Drift kissed his fingers, touched his heart. “You love me… somewhere in that old, twisted, love-drained heart of yours, you really do.”

“Fuck off,” said Jackson, then looking at West—“Great vocals, luv, but which idiot here gave you chocolate?”

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