over Sam. “For most students at least. Wasting not only your time, but Ms. Spencer’s is frankly unacceptable.”
“Well, it’s technically our study period and Mr. Hamilton gave us permission,” I cut in, my voice friendly even though I hated Mr. Hazelton ever since his exchange with Kill.
“I’ll be speaking with Mr. Hamilton about letting students waste their time with such”—he scrunched up his nose—“trivial pursuits,” he promised.
“A life lived for art is never a life wasted,” Sam cut in, his own eyes narrowed.
Mr. Hazelton dismissed him with a condensing look. “I don’t appreciate the flippant attitude, Mr. Kennedy. I want you all out of here before I slap you all with detentions.”
He gave us one more warning look before turning on his heel and striding out.
“Bro, did you actually just quote Macklemore to Mr. Hazelton?” Wyatt asked in disbelief once the door had slammed shut.
Sam turned to him and shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I can exactly remember Plato on the fly.”
We were all quiet for a moment; then we burst out laughing, apart from Sam, who was watching us in confusion.
So, to avoid Mr. Hazelton’s wrath, Mom and I set aside Saturday to convert our garage into a practice space. Mom had done it under duress and complained the entire time. She hadn’t loved the idea of manual labor, but she was more than supportive of our band. She’d even convinced herself that she would be our ‘Momager’ when we hit the big time. It didn’t matter she hadn’t actually met the boys yet, nor heard us play, she supported me all the way. That was her.
But she had been different since that day a week ago. I couldn’t put my finger on it. She still laughed, joked, and ribbed like normal, but there was an edge, something that seemed off. I couldn’t ask because I couldn’t verbalize what it was. So instead, I sang.
I got so lost in the song, in the lyrics, I didn’t notice anything but the rhythm passing through me, the words.
It wasn’t until silence descended and my mind started up again did I realize it wasn’t just my mom who I was singing to.
“Did it sound okay?” I asked her, not noticing the figures in the driveway at first.
That was until one of them answered since Mom had gone mute.
“That was kick-ass, Lexie! You’ve got a great voice, girl,” a loud voice exclaimed.
I jumped at the foreign, manly voice and my whole face flamed when I spotted the owner of it. More accurately, who the owner was standing beside. Lucky was the bald, tattooed man who we had met the day our car broke down, the one who could scarily believe I was Mom’s kid and used a lot of swear words. Mom had told me his name when I’d asked about him. He was leaning on our car, along with Killian whose eyes were blazing into every part of me.
I immediately jerked my head down, fiddling with the strings on my guitar.
With the absence of him even for a few days, the memory of our connection seemed to be more and more in the realm of my imagination, and at that moment, I wasn’t sure whether I’d imagined it. I didn’t want to make a dork of myself by going bright red and gazing at him. Even more so, I didn’t want to be educated on how wrong I’d be by looking into his eyes and seeing them empty of what had been there days ago.
So I kept my head down while Lucky and Mom chatted about the car, intent on my guitar strings like my life depended on it.
“So you going to audition for American Idol with those pipes?” a deep voice asked me, and it took me a moment to realize I was being addressed and the voice was closer than it had been before.
Lucky stood in front of me, hands casually in his pockets. He was seriously hot. Hotter than any movie star I’d drooled over with Mom in action movies. He was tall and totally rippling with muscles and tattoos. I guessed he had the ability to look menacing with tattoos covering him and creeping up his neck, his shaved head, and his cut. But he
“Well, it’s technically our study period and Mr. Hamilton gave us permission,” I cut in, my voice friendly even though I hated Mr. Hazelton ever since his exchange with Kill.
“I’ll be speaking with Mr. Hamilton about letting students waste their time with such”—he scrunched up his nose—“trivial pursuits,” he promised.
“A life lived for art is never a life wasted,” Sam cut in, his own eyes narrowed.
Mr. Hazelton dismissed him with a condensing look. “I don’t appreciate the flippant attitude, Mr. Kennedy. I want you all out of here before I slap you all with detentions.”
He gave us one more warning look before turning on his heel and striding out.
“Bro, did you actually just quote Macklemore to Mr. Hazelton?” Wyatt asked in disbelief once the door had slammed shut.
Sam turned to him and shrugged. “Well, it’s not like I can exactly remember Plato on the fly.”
We were all quiet for a moment; then we burst out laughing, apart from Sam, who was watching us in confusion.
So, to avoid Mr. Hazelton’s wrath, Mom and I set aside Saturday to convert our garage into a practice space. Mom had done it under duress and complained the entire time. She hadn’t loved the idea of manual labor, but she was more than supportive of our band. She’d even convinced herself that she would be our ‘Momager’ when we hit the big time. It didn’t matter she hadn’t actually met the boys yet, nor heard us play, she supported me all the way. That was her.
But she had been different since that day a week ago. I couldn’t put my finger on it. She still laughed, joked, and ribbed like normal, but there was an edge, something that seemed off. I couldn’t ask because I couldn’t verbalize what it was. So instead, I sang.
I got so lost in the song, in the lyrics, I didn’t notice anything but the rhythm passing through me, the words.
It wasn’t until silence descended and my mind started up again did I realize it wasn’t just my mom who I was singing to.
“Did it sound okay?” I asked her, not noticing the figures in the driveway at first.
That was until one of them answered since Mom had gone mute.
“That was kick-ass, Lexie! You’ve got a great voice, girl,” a loud voice exclaimed.
I jumped at the foreign, manly voice and my whole face flamed when I spotted the owner of it. More accurately, who the owner was standing beside. Lucky was the bald, tattooed man who we had met the day our car broke down, the one who could scarily believe I was Mom’s kid and used a lot of swear words. Mom had told me his name when I’d asked about him. He was leaning on our car, along with Killian whose eyes were blazing into every part of me.
I immediately jerked my head down, fiddling with the strings on my guitar.
With the absence of him even for a few days, the memory of our connection seemed to be more and more in the realm of my imagination, and at that moment, I wasn’t sure whether I’d imagined it. I didn’t want to make a dork of myself by going bright red and gazing at him. Even more so, I didn’t want to be educated on how wrong I’d be by looking into his eyes and seeing them empty of what had been there days ago.
So I kept my head down while Lucky and Mom chatted about the car, intent on my guitar strings like my life depended on it.
“So you going to audition for American Idol with those pipes?” a deep voice asked me, and it took me a moment to realize I was being addressed and the voice was closer than it had been before.
Lucky stood in front of me, hands casually in his pockets. He was seriously hot. Hotter than any movie star I’d drooled over with Mom in action movies. He was tall and totally rippling with muscles and tattoos. I guessed he had the ability to look menacing with tattoos covering him and creeping up his neck, his shaved head, and his cut. But he
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