A nod. Then, “Izzy’s parents were big into the music thing—her dad was in a band years ago, and her mom’s like some renowned pianist turned high school music teacher. After...um, when I started going to her house after school, I started messing around with them. Turned out I had a knack for it. And that was that.”

I nod. “After I moved away?”

A beat. “Yes.”

So he was eleven when he started playing.

I flick the ash off my cigarette and bring it in for a long pull, welcoming the burn scorching down my throat. Holding in the smoke for as long as I can stand, I manage to utter, “So why drums?”

“Why not?”

I lift a hand. “Just curious is all.”

He takes a swig of whiskey. “They didn’t come easy.”

I wait, because really? That’s it? I laugh. “You’re serious.”

He fights a smile. “I like the challenge. And like I said, when I write...even when I free-style like I am now...I need the underlying beat. Learning the drums took me from listening to a new song, say three times, before I could play along. Now I just need a verse and chorus to learn. Essentially. Some songs are more complex than others, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I murmur.

He pauses strumming, and runs a hand through his dark hair, pushing it back. He reaches for his cigarettes. Smacking the bottom of the pack before pulling one out with his teeth.

Jesus.

“Here,” I toss him the lighter.

I watch as his tattooed fingers nimbly light the cigarette to life. He sucks in a long drag before tilting his head back to blow out a cloud of smoke.

“You’re starin’,” he mumbles.

I huff out a laugh and run a hand over the back of my neck. “Busted.”

He chuckles, and it’s this deep, wicked thing.

Yep. Definitely knows what he’s doing.

Dick.

“Is there a way we can hook-up the Bluetooth?” I ask abruptly.

Wordlessly, he sets the guitar down and jumps off his stool. He grabs a remote control next to the register and presses a couple buttons. The tell-tale double beep sounds from the speakers as the music cuts out abruptly.

He sits back down, nodding at his phone. I grab it.

“04-05-14”

I unlock his screen and scroll through to find his Spotify app. “What’s the date for?”

“It’s the day my dad went to prison.”

My fingers still. I glance up and he flashes me a tight smile.

“Right,” I murmur, going back to my task.

He chuckles knowingly. “More stalking?”

“I was hoping I’d find his obituary.”

He doesn’t say anything to that.

A second later, the familiar opening chords of AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” starts playing.

“Seriously?” he says flatly.