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A heavy sigh. “Still got too much energy left over from the show, I guess.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Me? Joking? Never,” he drawls.
I open my eyes and turn my head toward him. “You’re seriously still wound up from the show? Aren’t you tired after drumming like that for almost two straight hours?”
Walker perks up at that. “You watch our set tonight?”
“No, but you think I can’t hear you all the way in the green room?”
His face twists in hurt, but it’s gone before I know it, quickly replaced with a cool veneer. “Ah, all right then. You gonna ever stick around to watch our set one night? I know you go back and watch Boone sometimes.”
“You keeping tabs on me, Walker?”
“Yes.”
Yes. One word. No bullshit, no evading the question, just a simple yes.
He smiles and resumes tapping his feet.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or annoyed.”
“I thought you would appreciate honesty, Scar. That’s all I got to give.”
And when I look at him, I can tell he means it. His eyes are shining, face open and expressive, showing he’s willing to talk and willing to listen. It also doesn’t hurt that he’s devilishly handsome and while he’s aware of it, he doesn’t seem to flaunt it like Nikolai. He looks like a rockstar, with that other worldly kind of aura about him, but also someone you could approach on the street if you needed help. Someone that if he moved next door to you, you’d feel safer knowing you had someone like him nearby.
“Can I ask you about one of your songs?” he asks.
“Depends on which one.”
“The second to last one you sing.”
Ah.
That one.
Not the one I necessarily love talking about. He must see that written across my face because he quickly adds, “You don’t have to. I know that shit’s personal. I just see the way it affects you when you sing it. And I know that’s the same kind of look Nikolai gets when he sings a certain song in our set.”
He shifts his gaze to his hands, twirling one of the silver rings he’s wearing. He even seems to have a rhythm to doing that, a beat invisible to my ears, but I know he hears.
I hedge around the truth, not wanting to burn the small bridge we’ve created at this moment but also not really feeling like going to the place that song takes me right now either.
“It’s just a song I wrote after a bit of a wake-up call in my life a couple years back, after I thought I had sunk so far past the point of no return. And I didn’t want anyone else getting pulled down with me.”
Walker studies me for a moment, as if knowing I’m not giving him the full story and internally debating on pushing me for further clarity.
“I was writing songs for Boone at the time and a few other people still. I had been doing that for a while and was content with it.” I stare ahead as I continue, picking at the cuff of my sweatshirt. “And after that night—” I pause, words clogging my throat, fighting to be released, but I push them back down, too scared to bring the memory back to the surface.
“After something happened, I wrote this song and sent it to Boone, asking him to shop around to sell it, and it was going to be the last song I ever planned on writing.”
I glance over at Walker, making sure he’s still alive. This might be the first time I’ve ever seen him be this quiet and still. He only lifts a dark brow, encouraging me to keep going, probably pleased to hear me carrying the conversation for once, even if I’m keeping him in the dark on the details.
“But clearly, you’re still writing music?” he asks.
“Clearly.”
“And you ended up keeping the song.”
