Talent isn’t something to be taken for granted. It’s ours to master as we please. Accepting failure is the first step. Taking responsibility for our successes is the next. It’s not arrogance, just hard work paid off. Continuously.

Mason wraps up our second encore, roaring into the mic, and riling the masses, just as I snap my snare in one final drive of the sticks.

I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, sending my senses into overdrive.

Lights flash and wild cheering thunders through the cramped space. A drop of sweat trickles into my eye, and I welcome the sharp, salty burn. Panting and flushed, I look heavenward, sliding my eyes shut.

“WE ARE THE LOST BOYS!”

This. Right here. This is all I need.

“THANK YOU! AND HAVE A GREAT FUCKING NIGHT!”

Ba-dum-tss.

The crowd finally thins out as last call nears.

Someone with much better taste in music has managed to finally commandeer the juke box, saving us from the torture that was the last thirty minutes of what can only be described as an assault on my ears.

Ivy and I had managed to snag a section of booth seating along the wall once it was clear the excitement was over for the night, and we lost nearly half of our crowd either to the after-hours club two towns over or Chickie’s Diner. Free of her duties for the night, I snuck her under-aged ass a rum and Coke, and grabbed a bottle of Jack for myself. With our backs to the far wall, we have the perfect vantage point to watch, but not participate, in the late-night revelry.

“He seems...nice.”

I grunt around the rim of the bottle. One guess as to who she’s talking about.

The whiskey slides down my throat, effectively burning through some of the emotion that’s been hovering there since this afternoon.

“Not bad to look at either.”

Grinding my molars, I quickly down another mouthful before setting the bottle down.

I lounge back and slap my pack of smokes against my hand. “I’d say go for it, but it’s looking like he might have already been claimed for the night,” I say, waving my fingers in the direction of the bar. I yank out a cigarette with my teeth before tossing the pack on the table.

Ivy hums, taking in the scene before us.

The guys stand at the end of the bar. Mason’s head tilts back in laughter at something one of them says, a bottle of water clutched tightly between his calloused fingers. The golden halo of lights above cuts across his fists, revealing plum-like bruises from what I know was a rough go with his heavy bag a couple hours earlier. I try not to think about what might have set him off.