Page 14 of Every Shattered Note
A beat of silence.“Yeah?”
“Well, I told this kid that I had a famous friend with a studio.And that maybe, maybe, he’d give him a shot.”
There’s an audible groan from Barret.“Why the fuck would you do that?”
“So, I could get rid of him and play at the wedding that was happening in this hotel last night,” I admit, wincing.Even hearing it out loud makes me want to punch myself.
Barret laughs.Hard.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” he manages between wheezes.“He either lost his fucking mind or he’s high.I don’t have a better explanation.”
Then I hear him repeating what I just said, word for word, to someone nearby—followed by a loud, guttural laugh.
Of course it’s fucking Alec.These two are going to roast me for the rest of my life.
“This is fucking gold,” Barret says.“Let me get this straight.You bribed a teenager with fake promises so you could turn a wedding into your own private concert?You really missed the spotlight, huh?”
“It wasn’t a fake promise,” I mutter.“You are famous.”
“There has to be a better reason,” Barret says, still chuckling.
“The wedding planner,” I grumble.“She thought I didn’t know how to play.Asked me if I even knew who Hall & Oates were.”
That earns a loudoooohfrom both of them.
“Oh, no,” Alec gasps.“They hurt his feelings.”
“Poor Dexie,” Barret coos mockingly.“The big, scary planner bruised his ego, and he just had to show her he could hold a—wait, what did you use?”
“Rosie,” I snap.“I played guitar.I sang.”
“Aww, look at our little crooner,” Alec says.“Dexter Vaughn: wedding edition.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but the heat under my skin says they’ve already won.
It was ridiculous.
It was so fucking stupid.
But she got under my skin.The way she looked at me—dismissive, like I was just another screw-up.Like I hadn’t built something, earned something.She didn’t know me, but talked to me like I was nothing.
And that’s what got me.That’s what pushed me on stage.
Her.
And maybe ...maybe the way she looked at me after.After the music started.After her eyes changed.
But I’m not about to explain that to Alec and Barret, two assholes who’d roast me for catching feelings from a twenty-song setlist and one clipboard-wielding goddess with frosting on her elbow.
“I just needed to play,” I say instead.
And it’s not a lie.
Barret goes quiet for a moment.“You okay?”
That question hits somewhere I didn’t realize was sore.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully.“But it felt good.Just being there.Playing without the noise.No pressure.Just ...music.”
