Lexi rolls her eyes and walks toward the door. “That doesn’t ease my fears.”
“Come on, babe.” Trent slings his arm around her shoulders. “We aren’t that bad.”
“Mmm hmm.” Her wariness is clear, but laughter escapes her lips at his insistence.
Their voices continue down the hall and I’m struck once again with a pang of loneliness. I glance around my temporary bedroom, half cluttered with Lexi’s extra guitars and the other half cleared out for me. I never unpacked, not with leaving again in two days, and my bags at the foot of the bed only make me feel more displaced than I already do. Life could be worse. I mean, I’m in a mansion for now and soon hitting the road with one of the hottest rock bands. Millions of women my age would die for this opportunity. But I’m not like other women. At least, not here in Los Angeles. I don’t fit in, and I feel like an imposter. Lexi and I share the same father, but she’s a rock star through and through and I can’t even play the guitar.
With lazy strides I cross the room, kneel on the soft rug of carpet, and reach for the fasteners to one of my sister’s guitar cases. I shouldn’t touch her things. They might be in the room, but I never asked permission. However, there’s a piece of me, a tiny curiosity and maybe a tamped down devious nature that unclicks the locks and pops open the case. There’s something forbidden about picking up the instrument and holding it in my hands.
That’s not God’s music. That’s straight from the devil. Hear me, child?
My grandfather’s warning sounds in my ears but my fingers tingle with a buzz of excitement as they wrap around the neck, the nylon strings pressing into my fingertips. I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s silly to even try, but still I settle the guitar in my arms and run my hand down to strum across the strings. I wince at the horrible sound.
“Wrong hand.”
I glance up. My first instinct is to throw the guitar, hide it, and pretend I wasn’t just making music worse than a toddler, but it’s pointless. Austin caught me red-handed and I feel even more a fool. Serves me right for touching something that isn’t mine.
“You’re right-handed?” He tips his head, eyeing the guitar in my hands.
My gaze drops to my lap, and before I can reply or nod yes he’s on the floor before me, reaching out and situating the guitar the opposite way.
I’m such an idiot. I wasn’t even holding it right.
“There.” He nods, dipping his chin to catch my gaze with a gentle grin. “Now, here.” He moves each of the fingers of my left hand, pressing them into place. “That’s C. Now strum.”
I don’t move, partly from embarrassment and mostly so I don’t make more a fool of myself.
“It takes a few tries to get it right. Don’t be shy. Go for it.” He settles back, his long legs extending across the space between us as he props the weight of his body on one arm. His face is expectant and encouraging.
It must be the non-judgment in his eyes that emboldens me to do as he asks and not put the instrument down. The next strum isn’t much better than my first, but I try again and it’s not half bad. I glance up, a smile stretching across my face when I meet Austin’s stare. “Like that?”
“Yeah, again. Up, down, down, up.” He mimes the motion, nods when I get the rhythm right, and there’s an encouraging kick to his words. “Yeah, you’re getting it.”
“Here, you’re gonna tear up those fingers.” He pulls out a guitar pick—I don’t even know from where—and positions it between my thumb and index finger. The touch of his skin on mine sends a charge throughout my body.
My lips part and I hold my breath, unable to speak.
“Innocent.” His lips spread with a full smile and he breaks the connection of our stare, running his hands through his hair in what seems to be frustration.
“Pardon?” I ask, not knowing what he’s talking about or why he’s mad, other than maybe I’m worse at playing than I thought.
“You are so goddamn sweet. You can’t help it, and that only makes it worse. Or better.” He laughs, a chuckle that rumbles from his mouth and the sound of it scatters goosebumps across my skin. That, and the open, hungry gaze of his stare.
“Sorry.” I don’t really know why I apologize, other than it’s the polite response.
He laughs again, this time with a hint of wickedness. It should be enough warning for me to ask him to leave, but I find myself drawn to the sound. I’ve always played it safe. Obeyed the rules. But this new me, the Opal who lives in LA with her rock star sister, she’s allowed to be anyone she wants and I want to have fun. There’s something in Austin’s stare that promises just that.
“Will you teach me to play?” My question is bold and I’m proud that my voice holds strong.
“Oh, yes.” He laughs and scoots a little closer, which closes the space between our bodies. His leg, covered in ripped jeans, brushes against the bare skin of my calf and I try not to fixate on how good it feels. “I’ve always wanted to play teacher-student.”
My face heats and I’m certain my cheeks are ten shades redder than my hair as I glance down.
“Sorry.” He laughs. “I can’t help myself, but that wasn’t fair. I’m only joking. Of course, I’ll teach you to play.”
Right. He’s teasing. I’m so gosh darn gullible and probably a big joke. “You don’t have to. I’m sure you’ll be busy. You won’t have time.”
“Hey.” He waits until I meet his stare, which isn’t full of laughter and could possibly be considered sincere. “You’d be surprised at how much down time we have, at least on the bus. I’d love to teach you to play. You’re a natural.”
