I exhaled a shaky breath at the intense sincerity in his pretty blue eyes. “Promise?”
“Of course I promise.” He cocked his head, his brows drawing together. “Why? Has something happened I should know about?”
“No,” I lied, and my heart broke. “Everything’s fine.”
After taking a few minutes to freshen up and compose myself, Henry led me down to the basement so they could start on teaching me the song. Being underground, the whole area was windowless, but the space was large enough not to induce a claustrophobic attack. The soundproofed walls featured big black and white prints of Jamieson playing at live venues, and the room was filled with their equipment: drums, amplifiers, guitars, and microphones on stands. Evie and Cooper fiddled with dials and sound on the keyboard while Frog sat on a nearby amplifier offering suggestions. Cables snaked all over the floor, leading behind a worn, comfortable couch where Mac stood talking to a guy I recognised as Jake Romero, the band’s drummer. His size was intimidating. A fitted tee shirt emphasised wide muscular shoulders and thick biceps covered with tattoos. His golden brown hair was shorn in a simple buzz cut and eyes the colour of single malt scotch were busy glaring at something Mac said.
“What was I supposed to do?” he replied, his voice raised in anger as Henry led us over to introduce me. “You pushed and you pushed, just like you always do, but in the end you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
The guy looked like he wanted to rip someone’s face off. Not wanting to get caught in the crossfire, I tugged at Henry’s hand but he wouldn’t let go.
“Don’t deny you got what you wanted too, Jake, so fuck you,” she hissed.
“Too late!” he shouted. “You already did.”
Everyone froze, including Henry and I. The sudden silence was thick with tension and everyone looked to Mac, appearing breathless as they waited for her to say something.
“I don’t have time for this. I have work to do.” Spinning on her heel, Mac disappeared up the stairs, her shoes clicking loudly on each step as everyone watched in silence.
“Dammit,” Jake muttered, brushing a hand over his buzzed hair before dropping it to his side in defeat.
Cooper’s grin encompassed the room when Jake angrily flung his set of drum sticks on the couch and disappeared up the stairs after her.
“You all owe me ten bucks,” he crowed with glee.
“So that was Jake,” Henry informed me, pulling his wallet from his back pocket as money began changing hands. The swift transaction was peppered with a few grumbles and two unsavoury threats that alluded to Cooper’s lack of morals.
I raised my brows. “He seems … nice.”
“Sure he is,” Frog agreed and held his bass guitar out towards me. “Here, Grace. You can play my guitar. It’s tuned and ready to go.”
“Bet that’s not all that’s tuned and ready to go,” I heard Cooper mutter as I took hold of the gleaming black and silver guitar, testing the weight in my hands. It was heavier than mine and likely a thousand times more expensive.
“Flip it over,” he told me.
Doing as he said, I turned it over in my hands and saw flowing script on the back that read: Live hard, fuck hard, play hard. I grinned at Frog as I lifted the strap over my shoulder and settled the guitar in my hands. “That’s your motto, is it?”
“Yep.” He returned my grin and reached for the button on his jeans, saying, “I’ve got it tattooed across my lower abs. Wanna see?”
Two hours later and I was confident enough with the song to know I wasn’t going to embarrass both the band and myself. After a quick shower, my hair and makeup was done courtesy of a stylist Mac arranged to come to the duplex. I was given dark smoky eyes, glossy coral lips, and my hair styled in loose, textured waves. Returning to my room in a cotton dressing gown, I noticed my suitcase had been ransacked and an outfit was laid out on the bed—my black leather bustier and a pair of royal blue pants that flared at the hip and tapered at the ankle.
“Jesus, Grace.” Mac said from behind, startling me. She waved her hand towards my things. “Your clothes. Gorgeous. I took the liberty of getting your outfit together and ironing your pants. Hurry up and get dressed because we have to motor. Sing out when you’re ready and I’ll come in and do the zipper up on your bustier, okay?”
“Wait!” I called when she was halfway out the door.
She paused.
“You and Jake. Is everything okay?”
She opened her mouth, ready to say something before snapping it shut. “Everything’s fine,” she told me, and when she left, I wondered if I sounded more convincing when I lied about the same thing to Henry just hours earlier.