Shy drummers weren’t that unusual, but every move A.J. made and every word he said bordered on apologetic. Still, if Running with Scissors had hired him on, then he could obviously hold his own behind a drum set. It was just difficult to picture, and now that Jude thought about it, that made A.J. intriguing in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  A.J. glanced at him, and Jude realized he’d been watching him out of the corner of his eye long enough to be conspicuous. He quickly focused ahead, though he didn’t have a clue what to say to divert the awkwardness.

  After a more few steps, A.J. asked, “So, you’ve never played a stadium before?”

  “Nope.” Jude laughed quietly. “To be honest, I have no idea what to expect.”

  “It’s kind of overwhelming the first time.” A.J. paused, his shoulders bunching a little as he slid his hands into his pockets. “At least Schadenfreude is good to work with. And they let us have a sound check. I mean it’s short, but at least they’re willing to give their opening act a sound check.”

  “That’s a plus.”

  They continued from the parking lot to the sidewalk, then followed it toward some shops and restaurants. After a while, Jude asked, “So, how was the tour going before all the shit with Wyatt and Connor?”

  “Good. It was going good.” A.J. slid his hands deeper into his pockets and kept his gaze fixed on the pavement. “Chaotic, but I guess that’s part of touring.”

  Jude laughed dryly. “Keeps it from getting boring, right?”

  “Something like that.” A.J. paused. “I can’t believe this is your first tour.”

  “Believe it. Running with Scissors is the only band I’ve ever been in, and we just played locally.”

  A.J. was quiet for a moment. “Did you miss it?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe. Even the really rough years when no one would give us the time of day.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jude nodded. “We played in some of the shittiest clubs. Hell, we played for some school dances when we started.” He sighed, looking out at the road but not really focusing on anything in the present. “Sometimes there were maybe a dozen people in the room. But goddamn, it was addictive.”

  Beside him, A.J. shivered. “Yeah. It really is, isn’t it?” He turned. “So are you looking forward to it? The bigger venues?”

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  A.J. grinned, and Jude’s spine tingled even before the drummer quietly said, “Just wait until tomorrow.”

  Jude swept his tongue across his lips. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  A.J.’s grin broadened. The knowing look in his eyes did nothing to put that tingling to rest. Jesus.

  Then he faced forward again and cleared his throat as he gestured at something up ahead. “This place looks decent. Want to try it?”

  Jude shook himself, trying to get that grin and tomorrow’s show out of his mind long enough to answer. The place A.J. had indicated was a burger joint. Not top of the line, probably the kind of shop that catered to people heading into or out of the stadium, but the smell of burgers on the grill made Jude’s mouth water.

  “Yeah. Sure. That’ll work.” He smiled. “After you.”

  Chapter 6

  A.J. could’ve sworn his stomach had been growling earlier. That was the whole reason he’d ventured off the bus in the first place. And the food in here smelled absolutely amazing.

  But standing here now, staring up at the electronic menus above the cashier’s head, he went completely blank.

  “A.J.?” Jude nudged him with his elbow. “You know what you want?”

  Probably something I shouldn’t have.

  “Um . . .” A.J. quickly cleared his throat, heat rushing into his cheeks. “I’ll just have a regular cheeseburger and fries.”

  The cashier shot him a puzzled look—It took you that long to decide you wanted the basics?—but she rang him up without a word. He paid her and took his cup over to the soda fountain to fill it while Jude placed his order.

  A.J. snagged an empty booth near the back. Both hands around his cold cup of Coke, he watched Jude from the corner of his eye. Though he couldn’t quite explain why, Jude fucked with his head just by being there. Yeah, he was a musical god. Yeah, he was hot. But A.J. had been around good-looking, talented musicians before. What the hell?

  He took a deep swallow of Coke. He wasn’t even sure what had possessed him to extend the invitation to Jude. Well, besides the fact that Jude had been standing there, and it had seemed like the polite thing to do, but he should’ve known it wouldn’t bode well for his appetite. Or his nerves. Or his fucking brain.

  Everything about Jude threw him. For God’s sake, this afternoon he’d picked up a bass and played almost every one of the band’s songs with all the ease of playing a scale. Even the songs Wyatt had struggled with, the ones he’d rehearsed until his fingers bled, were nothing for Jude. And allegedly, the bass wasn’t even his strongest instrument. If he ever touched the drums . . .

  No, A.J. wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.

  And he couldn’t hate Jude for his musical prowess, but it didn’t seem fair that the dude also had eyes that fucked with A.J.’s body temperature, tattoos that pulled A.J.’s focus right to his powerful muscles, or . . . anything, really. A.J. couldn’t put his finger on anything he didn’t like about Jude. Well, aside from the fact that he couldn’t literally put his finger on any of it.

  He shook himself and shifted his attention to his receipt, as if the printout of his order was somehow more interesting than the drummer-turned-bassist who screwed up his balance and jeopardized his position within the band.

  He exhaled. That was why he’d invited Jude along, wasn’t it? To make some kind of subtle preemptive peace offering. Gain an ally before Jude had a chance to turn into an enemy.

  And maybe steal a few glances. Jude was intense. Something about him—something beyond musical talents and raw good looks—intrigued A.J. Maybe it was knowing that this was a guy who’d been with Connor for a good many years. After all, Connor was not for the faint of heart.

  Oblivious to A.J.’s mind coming unraveled, Jude slid into the booth across from him.

  “I hope this place is as good as it smells.” Jude set his receipt down beside his drink. “Because I am fucking starving.”

  “You and me both.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true anymore, but A.J. didn’t really want to explain why his appetite was MIA.

  I’m insane, and paranoid, and seriously fucking attracted to you. Wait, where are you going?

  He took a gulp of soda.

  Jude drummed his fingers rapidly beside his own drink. “So, how’d you get started drumming?”

  “School band.” A.J. played with the edge of his cup’s lid. “I started out as a brass player, believe it or not.”

  “Yeah? Trumpet?”

  “Trombone.”

  “How’d you get from the trombone to the drums?”

  A.J. tapped a nail on his front tooth. “Braces. First time I tried to play after they were put on, I turned the insides of my lips to hamburger.”

  Jude shuddered, sucking his lips into his mouth. “Ouch.”

  “Tell me about it. Didn’t want to drop out of the band, though, so I asked the band director if I could switch to drums. And I was hooked.”

  Jude smiled. “Something about the drums, am I right?”

  “So right.” Back off my drums, dude.

  Jude opened his mouth to speak, but the cashier called A.J.’s order number.

  “Back in a second.” He got up and went to the counter to get his food. While he was putting on condiments and mixing ketchup and mustard for his fries, Jude’s number was called.

  Moments later they both took their seats again, this time with food in hand. Though A.J.’s stomach was still fluttering from being alone with Jude like this, he did find enough of an appetite to take that first bite of his burger. That was all he needed—the food was delicious, and neither of them said much of anything until the burgers were gone and there was nothing left but two huge mountains of fries.

  Jude drenched a fry in barbecue sauce and, after he’d washed it down with some soda, asked, “So, you been in any bands before this one?”

  A.J. nodded. “Three. One kind of ran out of steam, the second had zero chemistry, and the third was a little . . . I don’t know. Out there.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Our lead vocalist had all these grand visions about changing the world with our music, and every time we played a small gig somewhere, or even when we were opening for a solid headliner, he’d get depressed and pissed off that we were wasting our time. He thought we were being unappreciated. Apparently the world was supposed to magically recognize his genius or something. I don’t know.” He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t have the slightest idea about the concept of ‘paying your dues.’”

  “Yeah.” Jude snorted. “That’s a foreign concept to some people, I think.”

  A.J. chuckled. “So what about you? Any other bands?”

  Jude shook his head, lowering his gaze. “No. Running with Scissors was the only band I was ever in.”

  “Oh. Right. You said that.” A.J. hesitated, not sure how raw this nerve might be for him. “Even after you left, you never—”

  “Nope. It wasn’t for lack of trying, though.” Jude sighed. He picked up a fry but then dropped it back on the pile. “I looked for bands who needed—” He met A.J.’s eyes. “Bands I could join. But . . .” He gnawed his lip, and then shook his head. “Anyway. I never did start playing again.” A faint smile formed. “But I’m playing now, so I can’t complain, right?”

  “Wait, wait. Back up.” A.J. studied him. “You haven’t played at all since you left?”

  “I couldn’t, to be honest. I fucked around on a guitar once in a while, and my mom couldn’t keep me away from her piano whenever I went home, but otherwise I didn’t really have the opportunity. Roommates, paper-thin apartment walls . . .” Another shrug, this one tighter than before. “I wanted to play, but I couldn’t.”

  “But I heard the way you played this afternoon. I . . . How, man? How do you do it?” He tried to be casual, dragging a fry through the ketchup-mustard mix and hoping he didn’t sound too much like a squealing fanboy. “You listen to a song one time, and then . . . How?”

  A hint of pink bloomed in Jude’s cheeks. “To be fair, I’ve heard those songs a million times. I helped write some of them.”

  “Still.”

  Jude lowered his gaze, watching himself dip a couple of fries in barbecue sauce. “It’s . . . hard to explain. Once I hear it, I know it. That’s how music has always been for me.” He munched on his fries and washed them down with a swig of soda. “It drove my instructors and band directors crazy. I never wanted to fuck around with scales or exercises or any of that shit, because I knew the fucking music, you know?”

  “But they still made you do it?”

  “Yeah, and to a point, they were right. I needed the practice and the exercises so I could develop the muscle memory, and working on my precision and all of that. Just because my brain knew the music didn’t mean my hands did.”

  A.J. nodded. He understood the need to develop muscle memory, but it was weird to imagine a time when Jude had anything less than flawless technique. Of course that was ridiculous. All musicians, even the prodigies, had to start somewhere. But all A.J. had to go on with Jude was what he’d seen on the bus, and that hadn’t been someone who’d ever struggled with the basics. The bass wasn’t even his primary instrument; put him behind a drum, and he’d probably wipe the floor with A.J. and every drummer before him. Making him practice rudimental drumming or scales seemed like a colossal waste of his genius.

  Easy, Palmer. You’re going to start drooling.

  He fidgeted, reaching for his drink. “Well, you’ve obviously got the muscle memory down.” Way to sound like a fucking tool.

  Jude chuckled and held up a taped hand. “Now if I can build a decent callus, I’ll be good.”

  “I know the feeling.” A.J. showed his own hands, which had long since callused where the drumsticks rubbed. “And shit, there’s building up a callus, and there’s building one up for a fucking tour.” He whistled, lowering his hands. “Amazing what happens when you go from one or two gigs a week to performing every other night.”

  “I can imagine. Good thing I brought more of this tape. I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.” Jude dragged another fry through the barbecue sauce. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play, by the way.”

  A.J. gulped. “You . . . really?”

  “Well yeah.” Jude’s smile threw every one of A.J.’s vitals out of whack. “I know my bandmates—if they hired you on, then you’re good.”

  A.J. swallowed. “So, no pressure, right?”

  Jude laughed. “You’ve already impressed anyone whose opinion counts. I’m just a drummer who appreciates other drummers.”

  “And you’re talking to a drummer who gets nervous as fuck around other drummers.” Especially when they’re that good.

  Jude held his gaze for a moment, then shook his head. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. Relax. You’ve already done your audition.”

  So have you . . .

  A.J. nudged his half-empty basket of fries away. “Well, if I screw up the first time you hear me, just promise me you’ll write it off as nerves.”

  “Sure.” Jude half shrugged, adding a wink that didn’t help A.J.’s nerves or any of the other systems that were going haywire. “It’ll be all right. Besides, I’m the one who’ll be getting up in front of a few thousand people, playing an instrument I’ve only picked up in the last week.”

  “Yeah, and I heard you play it today. Pretty sure you’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Or rather, Jude ate in silence while A.J. pondered whether he had any appetite left for the cooling fries he’d pushed away. He needed to eat today. Tomorrow, preshow nerves would keep him from holding anything down, so unless he wanted to pass out onstage . . .

  He brought the basket back toward him and made himself eat a few more fries. Slowly, his stomach settled. Maybe he’d finish them after all.

  “So.” Jude drummed his fingers rapidly on the table. “As long as we’re here and it’s just the two of us, maybe we should, um . . .”

  A.J.’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. So much for finishing his meal.

  Jude continued. “Look, I’m sure you know about all the shit that’s happened between me and the band. And I’m not going to lie—I did what they say I did.” He held A.J.’s gaze. “You weren’t a part of it, and I don’t want you getting caught in the middle.”

  A.J. cleared his throat. “I . . . don’t really feel like I am. It’s not really my business.”

  “No, but being part of the band, it’s sort of inevitable to get pulled into everyone else’s drama.” Jude chewed his lip and played with the lid on his soda cup. “I mean, it’s good to have a shot at getting to know you and being friends. At the same time, though, with all the other shit going on, I don’t want to put you in a bad spot. I’m a temporary member. You might as well think of me like a touring bassist—I’m part of the group onstage, but after the show’s over . . .” He shook his head.

  A.J. shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really want to get involved in the drama. You seem like a pretty cool guy, so if I’m hanging out and talking with you, it’s not really anyone else’s business.”

  Jude lowered his gaze. “I’m sure you’ve been with this group long enough to know it’s not that simple.”

  There was that. Everything about this band was starting to feel like the days leading up to his parents’ divorce—just speaking to one side of the volatile pair had been an affront to the other side. Neutrality had been grounds for suspicion. A.J. rarely resented anything more than the implication that he was either with or against someone. He hated being forced—implicitly or explicitly—to either take sides or stay away completely.

  He took a drink to wet his mouth. “Is this where I’m supposed to throw up my hands and scream, ‘Can’t we all just get along?’”

  Jude laughed. “Yeah. Good luck with that.” He winced. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m . . . I’m really not helping, am I? Here’s the thing. I’m trying to mend fences with the band. They’re my friends. Or at least they were, and I’m trying to get us back to there. It’s a slow process, but . . .” He waved a hand. “Anyway. That’ll happen in its own time, but I’d . . . I’d like to be friends with you.”

  A.J.’s insides flipped.

  Jude stared at his food for a moment. “The thing is, I haven’t been around musicians in a long time. And I miss it. I miss being friends with people who get it.” His eyes flicked up to meet A.J.’s. “I guess I just want us to get off on the right foot.”

  “Oh.” A.J. took another drink. “To be honest, I’m not all that close to everyone else anyhow. It would . . . I guess it would be kind of nice to have someone to bullshit with on this tour.”

  Jude smiled, but it quickly faded. “If it starts making things weird with everybody else, though, we can—”

  “Don’t worry about them.” A.J. gestured dismissively. “You deal with your shit with them, and I’ll deal with mine. I’d rather not let other people dictate who I’m friends with.”

  Jude studied him, and slowly, his smile came back to life. “Cool. But, um, if by some chance you get dragged into the middle of this bullshit, or you feel like you are, just say so, okay?”

  A.J. nodded. “I will. Thanks.” He knew himself well enough to know he’d never take Jude up on it. Push back? Say “enough”? Yeah, right. Not this guy.

  But still, although there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d ever do anything with it, he was grateful that Jude had made the offer.

  Late the next morning, everyone in the band was slowly rolling out of their racks and taking their turns in the bus’s tiny shower, which was actually functioning for once. They’d start getting ready for the show in a few hours, after the roadies had set up the stage, but for now it was coffee, breakfast, and smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em. The usual routine, except for two minor problems.