Page 60 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

easy for me to play now, and my vocals come out so smoothly,

without any strain at all. I sing and play the best song I’ve ever been

able to do, and the crowd eats it alive. Everyone is cheering and

clapping—some are even singing along with me!

My eyes trace the back wall, finding Ryan Jones with a furrowed

frown on his face, while Farrah doesn’t seem to be bothered by

anything. She’s always been pretty laid back unless she’s mad. Only

then does she really prove she has this harsh side to her that is better

suited for a therapist.

She gets angry fast, and when she’s angry, she says things.

I ignore those memories, playing my encore song for Leah, and only

for Leah. She smiles and claps along with the tune, unsure of a single

note or word that I sing and play, but she’s happy all the same. When

it’s over, people call for more, and the other guys seem just as

surprised as I am.

We’ve never had anyone ask us to play longer. Most of the time, they

ask us to play less and to play quieter. Now, I’m not sure how to

handle this reaction, shrugging to the others while I consider what

we should do next.

When the song is decided, we play on, and we play until midnight.

My fingers grow numb, and my calloused fingertips need a break. My

hands are sweaty and tired, my knuckles worn and throbbing. We

finish with the last song that we know how to play cohesively, and

everyone still cheers for more. I wave them off, thank them for the

fun, and set down my guitar to signal the end.

Leah jumps to the side of the stage with a glass held out towards me.

I brush my hand over my forehead to clear the sweat, the same

reason I’m shirtless now from the heat in this room rising with every

song, and her eyes caress my surface carefully while I take the glass.

“What is this?”

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