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"Get the fuck out." Jakes' jaw was tight as he shoved Max back into the hall. Turning back to me, he acknowledged, "I gotta fix that knob."
I took his arms and set them around my waist. Jake leaned down and gave me what I wanted-one more, long kiss-before heading out to the garage for band practice.
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At any moment, Jake would start humping his microphone stand. His hips already swayed back, sexily making ready. Making me want to keel over.
For eleven months we'd been exclusive and he still made my chest want to break wide open when he moved like that. Especially when his shirt was off. Forget about coherent thoughts all together when the band was performing. Jake was sex on fire when he hit the stage.
He leaned forward, grasping the long neck of his sunburst Fender; his chest glistened as he opened his mouth wide. Jagger had nothing on him. His neck tensed, vocal chords tightening as he unleashed the vibrant sounds of pain and thunder. Behind him, Andrew slapped at the bass, wobbling his head as he focused. Max wailed on the skins, cymbals, and double-kicked the bass drums in perfect time.
Nosey Max.
Analog Controller was on point. Having the guys share a house was Jakes idea and even though it meant suffering Max trying to catch us in the throes of passion and string-bean Andrew eating everything he could get his paws on, it had paid off. All three of them together were more Slob than I could take, but with so much rehearsal time, they were sounding fantastic. Really, rhythmically, tight. Better than they sounded on the tracks they'd laid down at a studio in Phoenix for their third EP. Jake always said the greatest bands sound better live.
When Analog Controller found their groove, it was as if they weaved their own world. A place composed entirely of music. Notes like air, melody like water rushing down a cliff side. It crashed everywhere and everything. All at once, created and destroyed in a beautiful flood that washed away my problems. I soaked it in, never wanting to come up for air.
I went to rehearsals as often as I could, which was never enough. I lived in Carlisle, the next town over. It was hella small, but all that meant to me was that I had to walk everywhere because the only public transportation that passed through my speck in the desert was on its' way to somewhere better.
I slammed my neck, rocking to the beat of the familiar melody-a sound as passionate as my name on Jakes lips. The breakdown was building; all thrumming bass lines and drums playing in time with my heart.
Right on cue, Andrew stepped forward, slapping the thick strings of the bass and Jake straddled the metal mic stand and shifted his hips. His guitar hung over his sculpted shoulders, out of the way for a breathless moment before his rasping wails carried off into the bridge.
Sitting atop a blown out half-stack amp in the corner of the garage where the greatest band ever practiced, I crossed my feet and laughed at seeing my humping prediction play out.
"You gotta make love to that mic." Jake would say and he did.
I covered my mouth when he looked my direction. Jake never liked it like when I laughed during rehearsals. He said he didn't care what anyone else did when he was playing, but when I laughed, it made him feel like a joke.
"Any other time," he'd told me, "laugh yourself silly. I don't care if I'm naked when you do it. But not when I'm playing for you. Please." He was so very serious about his music, and for some unknown reason, about me, too.
Jake started singing again; pulling his Fender up as he tapped the neck, playing the interlude of a song they'd been working on, Falling Start.
Avert your eyes.
Don't ask why.
Just forget your name and I'll forget it, too
Cutting the ties.
You know why.
Forget you knew me and I'll forget you, too
Instead of a perfectly timed pick-up in the melody, Jakes fingers banged out an off-tempo fumbling. With obvious frustration, Jake stopped playing, waved his hands to the other two band members, and the music ground to a halt.
He cursed his apology before turning to me with a familiar look. One eyebrow slightly raised, hazel eyes a little wider than normal. A look that said, 'see, Angel, I told you.'
"I thought it sounded really good." My standard argument made him turn away.
But it was true. And anyone who had never heard the song before would never know he messed up if he hadn't stopped. But rehearsal wasn't about showmanship, it was about perfecting the tune so when showtime came, they wouldn't make mistakes.
Jake signaled the band. Max began the tally, tapping his drumsticks together in countdown. Then, the chaos of notes began to swirl again. All at once, it was Max with his big drums, Jake nimbly fingering the frets of his guitar, and Andrew deepening the melody. Jake, who lived to play and whose main complaint was that the band seriously needed another guitar player to perfectly capture the sound he wanted, began flawlessly singing and playing the way he always had. It was an amazing thing to behold: one man playing both leads. Jake did it so well.
I glanced at the clock mounted on the back wall of the garage above the Greatest Quotes poster and signaled to Jake.
"I have to leave." I screamed over the music, "I'll be late."
