“I have a question,” Jax said, interrupting an endless soliloquy about the size of his trust fund. Micah stopped flipping through the CDs on the far shelf and swung his gaze around. “Have you always been this obnoxious, or am I just now picking up on it?”

Paul snorted, but Micah didn’t crack a smile. He just stared at Jax in that way of his, his face a concrete slab. “Better than being a buzzkill.”

That familiar angry fire, Jax’s old friend, flicked to life in his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means the whole time we’ve been up here, all you’ve done is stare out the window. You haven’t cracked a smile. You haven’t said more than three words. It’s pretty obvious you don’t want to be here, so do us all a favor, will you, and go home.” Micah turned back to the CDs.

“Fuck you.”

Micah whirled around. “What did you just say?”

This time, Jax said it louder, exaggerating the words. “I said fuck. You. Fuck you.”

“Stop it, both of you.” Paul, playing the peacemaker as usual. He leaned forward in his favorite chair, a leather-lined acrylic bubble that hung from a giant hook in the ceiling, big enough for two people. It was modern and ridiculously cool, just like Paul. “Nobody’s going home, so, Jax, chill. Micah, put on a new CD.”

Micah managed one last glare in Jax’s direction before selecting one from the pile. “Please tell me you don’t really listen to this shit. Where’s the Zeppelin? The Skynyrd and Steve Miller? This is some girlie-ass music you got here, dude. Who the hell is Coldplay?”

Predictable. Ever since Jax’s mother died, this had been Paul’s strategy whenever the two argued, to distract and provide cover by drawing Micah’s fire. Paul knew Micah would rag on Paul’s music, because he always ragged on Paul’s music. And Micah fell for it every time. He was blind to the way Paul was always ten steps ahead of the trends. His music, his clothes and hair, even his bedroom, sleek and shiny and the opposite of the overstuffed house downstairs. Whatever Paul surrounded himself with was what everybody wanted years from now.

“They’re already huge in the UK.” Paul grinned, sounding not the least bit offended. “A major German label just signed them. Put it on and you’ll see.”

Micah chucked the CD back onto the shelf. “Who cares about the UK? We live in America, remember?”

“Led Zeppelin is British.”

Micah frowned. “No, they’re not.”

“They are. Look it up.”

“Whatever.” Micah flopped onto Paul’s bed, swinging his dirty shoes up onto the white duvet, leaving twin streaks across the bottom. “This is boring. I’m bored.”