Page 88 of Rookie Moves

Pulling my car into the parking lot, I kill the engine and turn to face Colby. He’s watching me with an expectant look on his face.

“What?” I ask with a coy smile.

“Nothing, I’m just excited to see you play again.”

I glance around the underground parking lot, scanning the cars to see if there’s anyone inside who could see us. When I realize it’s empty, I lean over the center console, cupping his jaw with my hand, and kiss him.

He sighs happily, melting under my touch like butter.

I drag my teeth over his bottom lip before sitting back in my seat and glancing out of the windshield.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I admit with a small shake of my head, then return my gaze to him, his eyes hazy with lust. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“Believing in me.” I bite on the inside of my lip. “Encouraging me to be brave, when I’ve spent my entire life following the path set for me by other people. It’s like you’ve come into my life and handed me a torch, allowing me to see that I don’t need to stay on this road if I don’t want to.”

Colby reaches across to take my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“I just want you to be happy, Ty. You make me so fucking happy, and I want to be able to give that back to you. Even if music isn’t something you want to pursue, I’ll be there for you, supporting you every step of the way.”

My eyes burn at the sincerity of his words. The weight they carry.

Nobody can predict what the future has in store for us, and while I know that my decision could potentially destroy my relationship with my dad, I don’t feel afraid knowing I have Colby by my side.

And that fills me with so much hope, anything is possible.

I grab my guitar case from the back seat, and we walk along the cobblestones toward the bar. The sky turns a deep purple as the sun sets, and I yearn for the day I can take Colby’s hand.

There’s a pride flag hanging outside of the bar, and something eases inside me, like a spring uncoiling in my stomach.

“Are you ready?” Colby asks, snapping my attention from the flag to him.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I chuckle softly and push open the door.

The sound of chatter blankets us as we step inside. It isn’t busy to the point you’re unable to move, but almost every table is occupied. There’s an energy about the place that is instantly calming. Framed photos line the dark walls on one side, with bunting displaying every flag hanging above. There are rich woods and exposed brick, with the chairs and sofas adding pops of color, and the overhead lighting gives a warm glow, making it almost feel like a speakeasy. There are people onstage at the far end of the room, preparing for the first act of the night.

A rush of anticipation courses through my veins.

I can do this. I’m excited to do this.

Once we reach the bar, I check in with the bartender and put my name down before glancing over at Colby. His eyes are scanning the room, and you’d have to know him as well as I do to notice his shoulders are somewhat tight.

No one is paying us any attention. They’re all caught up in their own conversations, too busy laughing and smiling at one another in a way that has warmth spreading through my chest, but Colby has spent most of his life under the watchful eyes of others, so it’s only natural for him to be alert.

Placing a hand on his hip, I lean in closer to ask, “Would you like a drink?”

His head whips toward me. He blinks a few times, like he was lost in his own thoughts, before nodding. “Yeah, please. Just a soda or something will be fine.”

I dig my fingers into his hip in a small act of reassurance before flagging down the bartender again. I order two sodas, not wanting to drink as I’m driving, but also because I want a clear head when I go onstage.

I want this night to go well. I know it’s not going to change my life in the grand scheme of things, but I desperately want to feel the rush I used to get when I performed in school.

I want it to give me the spark I need that will light the fire under my ass to tell my dad I don’t want to work for him.

After paying for our drinks and ordering some loaded fries and wings to share, I tip my chin in the direction of an empty high-top table on the other end of the bar. I set my guitar down against the wall and rest an elbow on the table.

“When do you go on?” Colby asks, motioning to the stage, where someone is setting up a drum set.