I take a few swigs of the beer, welcoming the cold liquid rushing down my throat as I tune into the music playing from the stage.

Mason belts out the first chorus with the kind of powerful delivery at which you can’t help but bug your eyes at.

He’s good. They’re good. Really good, I think as the song seems to build and build.

At one point, Mason calls for the bar to sing it. And they don’t disappoint.

“Will!”

I whirl my head to where Ivy shouts from the other end of the bar. She gestures wordlessly to the empty spot at the corner, right next to the register. Grabbing my beer, I make my way over, wondering why she’s being so welcoming when Mason had indicated earlier that she’d be anything but.

I’m pushed and shoved as I try to get a peek through the heads blocking my view. But finally, finally, just as I reach Ivy, there’s a gap in the crowd, putting me in direct line of the cramped stage.

And that’s when I see him.

The drummer.

Waylon.

I freeze, the rim of the bottle cold and wet against my lip.

Waylon plays the drums.

Not sure why my brain latches on to that fact like it’s important.

His head is tipped back, exposing the strong column of his neck—pale and glistening under the bright stage lights, with the minor exception of the black ink curling up one side of his neck. His mouth seems to move along with the lyrics and his entire body rolls and flexes with each soundless smack of his drum sticks as he plays against the air. A beat only he can hear as the crowd deafens the bar in that kind of oddly perfect harmony only mass synchrony could achieve.

“They’re good, huh?”

Blinking, I turn to find Ivy leaning over the bar, chin resting in her hands. Her green eyes glimmer with something like pride and amusement as she watches the stage. A smile lifts the corner of her mouth.

“They’re fucking amazing,” I yell back.

And I mean it. Zayne was always looking for a new hidden gem artist, so I’ve seen a lot of amateur shows back in Philly. Some who’ve even gotten record labels after them and are actually starting to make a name for themselves in the music world.

Maybe I’m biased. Or maybe it’s just because I’ve been so numb to everything these last few months. Because these guys?

They’re better.

Hell, they’re in a whole other ball park. The kind of ball park that if I didn’t know better, I’d be expecting Ashton Kutcher to come out and yell we’ve all been Punk’d. Because there’s no fucking way these guys are nothing more than a cover band from Nowhereville, Pennsylvania.

Hell. To. The. No.