Page 121 of Red Hot Harmony

“He used to when he was younger. He kinda lost his interest in high school, but now that he’s been spending so much time with Izzy and her friends, his interest seems to have resurfaced. Obviously, he’s not as good as Ally...or even Story.”

I had to hold back a snort there because Story was never going to be as good as Ally. He was average at best, but I knew that shaming the kid in front of Cassy, who was like a mother hen, would put me into the enemy camp again.

So I kept my opinion to myself.

Besides, technique wasn’t everything. I understood that now that I couldn’t keep up with some of my own more complex pieces. The new tune I’d been working on wasn’t anywhere near my signature sound, but for some reason, I was proud of it. Proud I’d written something after the stroke, after my life had been turned upside down.

The room fell silent as I picked a few strings, getting used to the feel of a brand-new, never-tried instrument.

I cast my gaze downward, not wanting to meet the stares of anyone while I was attempting to coax the guitar into submission.

Once I was comfortable, my hands took over. Part of it was muscle memory and part of it was...something else, something that had been living in me for so long, I didn’t think I could separate it from everything that I was.

I felt my eyes closing and my body tingling as the notes rushed and spilled out and drenched each person and object inside the studio.

It was wonderful, the sensation of giving birth to new music, music no one had ever heard before.

I couldn’t tell how long I played. There, in a whirlwind of chords, time didn’t exist.

When I finally came to an abrupt end and looked up at the people surrounding me, I was greeted by a moment of deafening silence.

Camille was the first to speak. “It’s beautiful.” A shimmer in her eyes told me she was more than just affected.

“Sick shit.” Ally nodded, hugging her Fender.

“I’m impressed, man.” Frank was smiling. “New stuff?”

“Yep,” I confirmed, feeling lightheaded. “Still a work in progress, though.”

Cassy’s face was lit up.

I could almost sense her brain cells thinking.

Ally messed with a composition we’d practiced during one of our earlier sessions. I picked up the tune and we ripped through the song together, then attempted a different one.

This impromptu duet was both strange and exciting.

At some point, Camille asked if we could do some Bon Jovi covers because it was her mother’s favorite band.

Ally cringed. “Seriously, Mom? Who even listens to those guys now?”

“You’d be surprised,” I told her. “They’re still selling out stadiums.”

“Old people listen to rock music too.” Frank laughed.

“If you ever call your grandma old, she’ll disown you, Bug,” Camille warned.

“Old is a state of mind, not a number on your ID,” I said, for some reason looking at Frankie-boy as if I needed reassurance that we both felt the same way—that we still had time to do something meaningful despite all the shit that had happened.

“How about some Buckley?” Cassy made a request.

“Sure, I only know a couple of songs,” Ally told her. “‘Hallelujah’ and ‘Grace.’”

“Let’s do ‘Grace,’” I suggested, changing the tuning.

“But I haven’t played in a long time.” Doubt crept into her voice.

“Just follow my lead, Hendrix. All right?”

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