When the song draws to a close, Mason yells hoarsely into the mic, “Now that my voice is totally shot, how ‘bout we do a little switch-up before we take a break! What do you say?!”

As if on cue, Waylon taps out a little drumroll that has squeals peeling out around the bar. Girls start chanting his name, giving me the impression they know exactly what’s coming.

Mason takes up the Fender, posting himself by the keyboard, while the dude I don’t know slides into the seat behind the drums.

And Waylon?

Well, Waylon struts up to the center standing mic like it’s the easiest, simplest thing he’s ever done. He grabs a solid black Fender acoustic I didn’t notice before, much to my surprise, plugging it into an amp. Sliding the strap over his head, he strums a couple deep chords that are barely heard over the din of the crowd, before adjusting the mic.

The chanting grows louder, and even from here, I can spot the wicked grin crawling up his cheek.

Mason yells something over to him I can’t make out. The two laugh and knock fists, and it warms something in my chest, seeing their friendship after all these years. It was missing earlier, and I didn’t realize how badly I needed the confirmation that despite what happened to Izzy, it’s not all bad.

Waylon taps the mic a couple times, waiting for the crowd to quiet. Smirking, he presses his mouth to where his fingers just were. “Hi.”

Annnndddddd there goes my boxers.

And probably every pair of panties in the room.

Why did I think this was a good idea again?

The next few minutes are nothing short of a fucking trainwreck. One I am utterly hopeless to turn away from as Waylon takes my heart and damn well rips it to shreds.

Mason starts to play the opening chords of Bush’s “Glycerine” and somehow, miraculously, quiets the masses as the melody rings out across the bar. I don’t know what I expected him to play, but this softer, haunting song was not fucking it.

Just one surprise after another...

Waylon pushes back his messy black hair and leans into the mic, sweeping his hot gaze over the bar like he’s caressing a goddamn lover. I somehow feel that touch all over my skin, like tiny little needles, and he hasn’t even seen me yet.

One girl yells something, and fuck if I actually hear what she says. All I see, hear, and know right now is Waylon. Waylon as he winks, and then starts singing.

Holy shit, Waylon’s singing.

His voice is deep and gravelly as he goes on about things like sinking into my skin and knowing it’s real because now he can feel.