I snort. “Like I said, I know you.” Hot color washes over her cheeks. “Damn, already predictable.” “Like hell. You surprise me all the time. It gets me hot.” She blushes a deeper shade of pink but then shakes o my sad attempt at distraction and tugs at my sleeve with renewed determination. “These kids are here every weekend and never get any money.” “Because they stink.” When she glares, I hold up a hand. “Come on, you have ears. They’re horrible. No use sugarcoating it.” “I know they’re horrible. But you aren’t.” “And, what? I’m supposed to go over there and say, hey, can I borrow your gear and upstage you with my professional licks?” I make a face. “I’ll come o as a complete wanker.” Stella’s grip on my wrist is firm, as if she thinks I’m going to turn and run. I might. I just might. But it’s kind of cute that she thinks she can hold me back; I’ll just put her over my shoulder and take her with me. “Okay,” she says, “maybe it’s a stupid idea—don’t agree yet. Hear me out.” “Wasn’t going to say a thing,” I lie. “If you go over there and o er to play with them, maybe sing a few songs, you have no idea how it will go.” “I have ideas,” I mutter. “None of them are good.” “But you don’t know,” she says emphatically. “It isn’t planned like your gigs. It isn’t safe. You go over there and you’re on your own without a net.” I study the teens playing. They’re attempting a Lincoln Park song. It’s painful to hear. They know how to play, just
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