The Rush (The Siren Series) - By Rachel Higginson Page 0,19
Sugar Skulls. So did I, it was a song called “Crash and Burn,” and he dedicated it to me and Folgers Dark Roast.
Chapter Six
Ryder and his band were good. Like, really, really good.
Their sound was something in between a soft indie-alternative like Snow Patrol and something a little bit harsher and more rock and roll like the Black Keys. The blend was solid with all the basics of a garage band: bass guitar, second guitar, drum and at times a harmonica. Ryder held it all together at the mic with vocals and lead guitar.
Was anybody surprised that Ryder played lead guitar?
Anybody?
Nope, not me either.
But he looked good doing it. I couldn’t fault him there. His vocals were perfection, deep, rich and sexy. He caressed the sound as it carried across the room. He connected the enraptured audience as if he was singing a personal ballad for each individual fan. I believed his love songs, I felt emotion in his lyrics, hell, I even danced.
And then there was the guitar.
I really, really hated how good he was at the guitar.
No boy should be that good at something. Especially not a high school boy.
“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” Kenna shouted in my ear, probably noticing the drool running from the corner of my mouth to my chin.
Uh, amazing didn’t begin to cover it.
“He’s alright,” I admitted with a shrug of one shoulder.
Kenna gave me an incredulous look that doubted the nonchalance of my answer but didn’t press me to say anything more. Having no more conversation between us she returned her attention to the stage. She watched Ryder with a rapt attention that left me with little doubt the girl was in love with him.
My chest tightened at the thought and I rubbed against my heart. Suddenly I was really hot and cranky and I had no idea why my lungs felt like they stopped working. I unzipped my hoodie and slipped out of it, setting it on one of the tall stools lined up in front of the bar. I signaled to the bartender I was ready for more water and he chuckled at me from where he stood. I couldn’t actually hear him chuckle, but I watched his shoulders bounce up and down in a chuckling motion.
“I’ve never heard them play here before,” I announced to Kenna in between songs, while Ryder was exchanging his electric guitar for the acoustic variety.
“Um, they’ve had a pretty steady gig here for a while now,” Kenna explained and then her eyes got big with realization. “Oh, probably while you were away. Ryder moved here right before…. uh…. right before Sam. So, maybe you guys just didn’t cross paths before?”
I whipped my head back to the stage not able to come up with any kind of response. I tried to focus on Ryder’s fingers gliding across the strings of his instrument and the way he started the song soft and alone. This was the song he was dedicating to Kenna. This was an intimate love song that made innocent girls blush and not so innocent girls horny. But it was all lost to me while Sam’s name bounced back and forth in my brain inciting the kind of drowning panic I was becoming too familiar with.
I didn’t want to talk to Kenna about Sam. I didn’t want to talk to Kenna about anything anymore. My hands started trembling, freezing up into stiff joints and unusable fingers, so I shoved them deep into the pockets of my jeans. But no matter how hard I fought against the spreading ache in my chest or tried to ignore the quickly spiraling thoughts leading me into very dangerous territory, he was still there, still heavy in my head. Sam. Ugh, Sam. Heat prickled against the back of my eyes and I felt my nose start running in a sure sign tears were on their way.
Damn it.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I shouted sharply against the soft smoothness of Ryder’s acoustic solo and then left Kenna alone.
I was gone too fast to know if she replied, I just hoped she didn’t try to follow me. I was so not in the mood for sympathy or worse…. pity. I pushed into the equally dim bathroom and immediately turned on the faucet. I ran my hands under the hot water and scrubbed at the invisible germs I felt caking my skin, clinging to me like grease and filth and tried to scrape away the guilt and self-loathing.