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“Dude,” Axel grunts, breaking through the heavy silence and snapping us out of our stare. “How many times do I have to tell you to quit serenading my sister? You know she goes all stupid and loopy every time you do it.”
Ezra smirks as a laugh bubbles up his throat and catches on the microphone, letting the sound reverberate through the garage as Rock and Dylan roll their eyes. This isn’t exactly a new conversation. It’s been like this since the very beginning, and while anyone looking in would think the connection Ezra and I share is somewhat inappropriate considering he’s three years older than me, everyone in this very room . . . they get it. Even Axel.
Whatever this is between me and Ezra, there’s nothing wrong about it. There’s nothing sexual or violating. It’s simply an emotional connection that’s never been pushed. Hell, had it gone anywhere, or if Ezra had pressured me in any way, Axel would have beat the shit out of him.
“Sorry,” Ezra mutters to Ax despite every single person in this room knowing he doesn’t mean it. A moment later, he looks back at me, and his whole face lights up like Christmas morning.
My smile widens, and I beam back at him as everything inside of me clenches. I know he’s made a point not to press anything physical between us, but would it really be terrible if he did?
Letting out a breath and not wanting my traitorous thoughts to become too obvious, I grip the laptop and spin it around, showing the guys the flyer. “What do you think?” I ask, watching the four of them creep in to get a better look at my laptop.
“Fuck yeah, Rae. That’s amazing,” Ezra says with his guitar flung over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on mine opposed to the actual flyer.
“Just needs a band name, and it’ll be done.”
“Ugh,” Rock groans. “Not this again.”
“We need a fucking name,” Axel says, discreetly shoving Ezra a step away from me. “It’s been a year, and we still can’t agree on anything.”
A smirk cuts across my face. “I mean, I still think Satan’s Asshole is a clear winner.”
Axel rolls his eyes. “Our band is not being named after the devil’s forbidden backdoor.”
“I don’t know,” I tease. “I think it suits you.”
“What about Sinkhole?” Dylan suggests, waving his hands out as if imagining the name in lights, but let’s be honest, while it certainly has some kind of merit, it’s not right.
Rock shakes his head, a smirk lingering on his lips. “Nah, I’m still down for—”
“If the next words out of your mouth are Dirty Areola,” I warn, “I’m going to use your head as a bass drum.”
Rock laughs, knowing exactly how to get a rise out of me. It’s a name that came up the very first day the guys got together, and it’s been a running joke ever since.
I feel Ezra’s stare on me, and as I glance up, I find a strange look in his eyes, as if he’s thinking too hard that his brain is about to explode. “What about . . . okay, hear me out,” he says, as if somewhat nervous. He pauses, his lips pressing into a hard line as he waits for all the guys to look his way. “What about Demon’s Curse?”
“Hmm,” Axel says, his brows furrowed. “That’s actually not too bad.”
“Demon’s Curse,” Rock says, trying the words out for himself, slowly nodding. “I like it.”
“Yeah?” Ezra says, his gaze nervously flicking between me and the guys, making me wonder if there’s maybe something a little deeper there, something that clearly none of us have figured out.
“I’m in,” Dylan says. “It’s a shit load better than Rusty Trombone or Dirty Areolas.”
I roll my eyes and feel my face flush. There are some things these guys simply shouldn’t talk about when I’m around, and for the most part, they’re pretty good, but every now and then, they forget, and the most horrendous things fly out of their ridiculous mouths. Trust me, I was horrified when I sat in my room and consulted my good friend Google about what a rusty trombone and a Viennese oyster are. I couldn’t look the boys in the eyes for days.
“So, it’s settled?” I ask, turning my laptop back around and starting to type their new band name in. “You’re Demon’s Curse?”
“Settled,” Ax says as we hear the familiar sound of Dad’s car pulling into the driveway. There are a few loud noises coming from outside, sounding as though Dad might have taken a little stumble on the front porch, but just as I go to get up to see if he needs any help, I hear him walk through the front door.
“Yo,” Rock says, turning toward Ax as I start to wonder where the hell Mom is. She’s always home before Dad gets home, and more times than not, she’s home before I get home from school. “Your dad good?”
Axel shrugs his shoulders, and as he goes to respond, the internal garage door opens. Dad wobbles in the doorway, his eyes glassy and red. He’s always been a respectable, well-dressed man, but right now, he looks as though someone just scraped him off the floor of some shitty dive bar.
“Woah, Dad. Are you drunk?” Axel says as I watch my father all but fall into the garage with his shirt untucked, buttons missing, and what looks like hot sauce smeared across his chest. “Wait. Did you just drive home like this?”
“OUT,” he roars, striding to the garage fridge and pulling out a beer. “All of you little fuckers out.”
What the hell?
