Falling Under by Jasinda Wilder Page B

even for a death metal show. Well, I got too close, and he caught me on the arm. The spike actually got caught, and I had to kick him away from me to get it loose. It was insane. My mom was so pissed. I needed like, thirteen stitches, and we really didn’t have the money. She was late on rent because of my ass.”
    Kylie is justly horrified. “That’s…awful.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t mind the other stuff you played, the first couple of songs. But that’s not really my cup of tea.”
    “I didn’t think it would be. I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do, or anything. I just really didn’t think you’d like it.” I pause to formulate a thought. “But then, it’s not really music you’re supposed to like . It’s music you feel . Experience.”  
    Kylie nods. “Yeah, I can see that. But anyway, about this open mic night.”
    I sigh. “Really, Kylie? You still want me for that?” I frown. “I’m really not sure I can even play like that. I’ve never even touched an acoustic guitar. I can’t read sheet music or anything like that. I play by ear.”
    “Just try? Please?”  
    I really don’t want to. Really, really don’t. I mean, it’s not that I give a flying fuck what people think about me. But then…that’s bullshit, because everyone cares what their peers think of them. If you don’t care, I mean, really don’t care, not even deep down where you don’t dare look, then there’s something truly psychologically wrong with you. Either you’re trying to get their approval and trying to fit in and be cool, or you’re just one of the crowd, or you’re like me, on the outside acting hard and aloof, when inside you wish you knew how to be like them. You don’t fit in, and you never will.  
    Could I do this open mic night? Yeah, probably. I mean, if I can teach myself to shred via YouTube videos and library books and hours of practice, I can probably learn to play some simple acoustic chords, right?  
    I groan. “Fine. I’ll try. But I make no promises.”  
    She does the squeal-and-clap-her-hands thing, and then flings herself across the room to hug me. I’m stiff, frozen. No one hugs me. Mom doesn’t hug me. Overnight hook-ups don’t hug me. I don’t know what to do with a hug. Her arms are around my neck, her body pressed up against mine. Her face is against my chest, and she’s up on her toes to reach, ’cause I’m tall and she’s maybe five-six. She doesn’t let go, but she sinks down on her feet, leans back to look at me, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes accusing.
    “You suck at hugs.”  
    I laugh. “I don’t get a lot of practice.”
    “Well, now’s your chance. You’re supposed to hug me back. Let’s try again.” She lifts up again, slides her arms around my neck, and pulls at me.
    I try, because she wants me to. I let my arms slide around her back, high, just beneath where I’m guessing her bra strap is. Platonic, non-threatening. This girl ain’t a hook-up, and I’m not gonna go there with her, not even a little bit. So I hug her. At least, I think that’s what I’m doing. I hold on to her, feel her body swell with each breath, ignoring the softness and the way she seems to fit just so, and the fact that I can feel her curves like temptation. It’s just a hug. I breathe and hold on to her back, my hands splayed on her shoulder blades.  
    After what seems like a ridiculously long time for a simple hug, Kylie steps away, nodding seriously. “That was better. We’ll get you up to speed in no time.”
    “Up to speed?”
    “Yep. We’ve got to work on your sub-par hugging skills.”
    “Work on my…” I trail off.
      “Your sub-par hugging skills,” she finishes.
    I nod. “Okay. If you say so.”
    She nods with me. “Okay, then. I’ll figure out a practice schedule with my parents so we can use their studio. I’ll get a list of possible songs together, and we’ll pick one together. We’ve got over a month, so that should be plenty of