“What’re you doing?” I chuckled, out of breath, and side-eyed Nicky.

He was arguing with the strap on his guitar, that’s what he was doing.

Nicky replied in his own mic. “I wanted to change this damn—fuck! There. Finally.”

The crowd was thoroughly amused, and it sparked an idea. If there was one thing Nicky and I loved, preferably up on my rooftop terrace on a warm summer night, it was a nice, long jamming session.

I improvised a teasing, playful lick to get his attention, and he smirked lazily and raised a brow.

Let’s go, little brother.

I bobbed my head to the beat and advanced, easing into an unhurried solo where I plucked, strummed, and tinkered. Letting the music set the course. Or my thoughts, maybe. How I felt. And given that we were in the South… Nothing fit better than an ode to the musicians I’d grown up idolizing, starting with B.B. King.

For the next couple minutes, Nicky and I unclenched and let go of the setlist. One solo set off another. Our guitars spoke to each other, and we moved closer to each other and got lost in the rhythm.

Luiz and Chris improvised alongside us.

Nicky made his guitar wail for a beat, and I responded by taking us from bluesy notes to a funk-like tempo that got Luiz going.

I grinned, filled with passion and peace.

Have mercy.

Platform two consisted of a large wooden deck that would, according to the sign nailed to the entrance, host dancing, live music, and entertainment for children throughout the festival. And right now, a cooking class by “August King of MAT,” whatever that meant. I mean, I knew MAT was the name of his restaurants, but I hadn’t asked what it stood for.

The whole setup reminded me of the cooking shows I’d watched at home. Six workstations, two by two, facing a slightly elevated podium where August’s own workstation was situated. We’d all have our own stove, sink, work surface, and the equipment we’d need. Crates filled with ingredients waited for us.

August would be closest to the audience that would stand in the wide, grassy walkway off the deck, and though he’d have his back to them, they’d be able to see everything going on anyway. Several cameras and big screens were attached to tall stands around the deck, and they were already showing the live feed of all the workstations.

In other words, one camera would constantly be directed at my station. People would see me fuck up royally.

Fantastic.