Chapter 48

Abandoningmy guitar against the wall, I ignore the voices calling out to me as I hop down from the stage, and shoulder my way through the crowd.

He's here, he's here, he's here.

It's an incessant chant in my head.

One I try to tamper with, It might not be him. Relax. Be cool.

But…it is. It is him. I know it is. I know it as certainly as I know that I just fucking killed that song. It's way more vocal heavy than most of what we play, but hell if I wasn't determined to nail it. Roughen it up a bit. Make it mine. Ours.

My heart pounds with the familiar rush of performing—of singing and playing music I actually enjoy, for a crowd of people who are just as infected by the music pouring out of me as I am, and aren't just sitting about with placid looks of judgement on their faces.

It's a fucking high I never realized I craved, not until these last couple months as Shawn, Waylon, and I went from hiding and jamming out in my mom's basement, to making a little studio of our own beneath this bar, to actually playing for people.

Handfuls at first—lingering regulars.

Then slowly, slowly, and all at once, to playing for wall to wall crowds as word got out about us—the Lost Boys. A name that started as a sort of dark humored joke, prompted by Waylon—a call back to his obsession as a kid, before I moved to town—and eventually just…stuck.

Before we started playing here, Gavin would invite the occasional band or solo act to play on weekends. But never, never did it draw this much attention. Especially not from the younger college crowd.

O'Leary's is just some small-town dive bar after all. The drinks are cheap, and it's definitely easier to get away with a fake, I'm sure, but… it's not exactly appealing to those looking to rage with their friends.

Well, that was until we started playing regularly.

Through the dense crowd of people, I see a shock of white, and something sort of just…stutters in my chest.

He dyed his hair.

It suits him.

He also cut it, and while once upon a time, that sort of thing hurt to see—knowing just why he did it…

Something tells me now it's a good thing.

His back is to me, and I get the distinct impression he's about to make a run for it. Why, I have no idea. But it brings a short laugh to my lips, knowing that despite how different he may appear on the surface—from his hair, down to his clothes—he's still the same avoidant, skittish Jeremy I've always known. The one who always called to my protective instincts. The one who never failed to amuse me with how sneaky he thought he was, thinking he could actually slip away unnoticed.

And maybe a better person would see the tension rising in his shoulders, and be more tactful.

Maybe a less selfish person would not draw attention to the boy who never wanted any.

But I'm not that person.

And deep down, I don't think he'd want me to be.

Hell, it's all but confirmed as much a second later when I call his name out across the bodies separating us, and he freezes, his shoulders slumping, head hanging.

Some would say his sag is that of resignation at having been caught. At having all eyes drawn to him.

But those people don't know my Jeremy. They didn't grow up watching him try to fade into the background, as he sent longing, pained looks across the room, to where his sister happily and easily commanded the room.

Sure, he was content to hide.

Content, because it was safe.

They don't know that now, in a room full of people, pulled out of his comfort zone, that a tiny part of him is relieved.

Relieved not only because yes, JJ, yes, I see you, you are seen…

But because I took the choice from him, and now he won't have a chance to beat himself up over it when he tucks tail and runs. Now he won't have to try to muster the courage to come back, face me—approach me—all on his own.

As if I'd ever turn him away…

But in that complicated, twisted-up, anxiety-ridden brain of his, it's no matter if it's me or even his parents…some part of him willactually think he's not worth our time.

If I didn't piece it together that day in his bedroom years ago, after walking in on him hurting himself, when he all but spelled it the fuck out—I don't want to burden anyone—I'm sure I would have at some point in the last six months since I got sober, with insomnia as my new friend and years' worth of shit and regrets to stew on.

Now, though…

Now, all of that is forgotten, as a perfectly spaced path in the crowd forms, one that leads me directly to him.

Jeremy straightens when he sees me striding straight for him.

And whatever doubts I had before that this couldn't possibly be him—Jeremy Montgomery, the boy I've always had to look for in the shadows. The one who hides behind long tangled golden blond hair and melts into his surroundings in his oversized clothes, and averts his gaze when a single look is aimed his way…

The one now currently standing out like a goddamn beacon in a crowded room with shorn hair that practically glows in the shadows pressing up around him—hair that's been styled away from his face, rather than brushed forward to hide it—a thin long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his forearms that molds perfectly to his narrow frame, and black skinny jeans…

Those doubts are gone. They're dust. As if they were never even fucking there to begin with. Because those eyes…

Those warm amber eyes widening at my fast approach.

I'd recognize this boy anywhere.

Jeremy.

One second his mouth is parting as if to say something, and the next he's gathered against my chest in a fierce, forceful hug that pushes an Oomph from his lips as I lift his slight frame right off the ground, and swing him around.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and throws his arms around me, more out of reflex than anything—something to steady him—but that's okay. I'll take it.

"Mason," he chokes out in a startled laugh. "What are you…"

My eyes squeeze shut, and my arms tighten around him. So tight, it steals his voice with a hitched gasp.

I missed you. Is that wrong? I think.

Deep down, some part of me knows it is. Not so much the fact I missed him, but how much I've missed him these last nine months.

But I don't want to think about that right now. Right now, I just want to focus on the fact that I've got my best friend back after months and months of waiting as patiently as I could for him to come home.

Home…

Finally, slowly, I lower him to his feet.

He quickly pulls away from me, but when I open my eyes, I find him arching a completely unobscured brow, and it just…

Fuck, it absolutely pummels me how…how free he looks.

Free and…and…

My heart slams against my ribs.

He crosses his arms, shoulders rigid as he chews his lip, darting paranoid looks around. "People are, um, looking…"

Right.

Blinking out of my daze, I tune into the crowd of people gathered around us. Most are in fact not looking at us—they're too busy sloshing drinks about as they sway and sing to the music I'm only now registering playing from the speakers.

But rather than try to assure Jeremy no one's actually staring at him—at us—because I know some are…and not for the reasons he's probably building up in his head…

I just jerk my head to the bar and say, "Come on. Wanna show you something."

He eyes me cautiously, and I don't wait around for the twenty questions he'd probably ask before agreeing. I just turn away, resisting the urge to grab his arm and tug him along, trusting that his curiosity will out-win his wariness or whatever.

It usually does.

And this time is no different.

"Hemorrhage (In My Hands)" by Fuel thumps from the speakers, warring with the clang of bottles and white noise of chatter.

I sense him sticking close to me as I weave us toward the furthest corner of the bar, the one closest to the stage where Shawn is currently sipping a water, and staring down at his phone.

"Hey," I say, when I'm within hearing range.

He lifts his head, and his gaze darts from me to the figure behind me. Stepping to the side, I let Jeremy slide between me and the bar stool currently unoccupied.

I quickly introduce them, not at all surprised when all Shawn gives Jeremy is a short nod. Jeremy knows all about Shawn's…lack of manners, at this point, so he doesn't take it too personally when the guy goes right back to staring down at his phone, pointedly pretending he's busy.

I glance at Jeremy, and arch a brow, pointing toward the mirror along the back of the bar. "Look."

Frowning, he follows my finger, and rather than look for myself, I watch his expression when he sees it.

His lips part, and his gaze snaps to mine. "A…a rainbow flag?

I nod.

It's just a small one—nothing crazy—but I made sure there's no missing it behind a row of liquor bottles next to ourright to refusal to serve sign.

The noise level spikes as the song switches over to "Sex on Fire" by Kings of Leon, making it so I have to press closer to Jeremy, and lean down into his ear for him to hear me. "I know coming back to Shiloh is hard for you. But I want you to know you have a place here. Somewhere safe to be yourself."

An eerie stillness falls over him.

Pulling back, I meet his furrowed gaze.

Shrugging, I suck my lip ring into my mouth, nibbling on it. I got it on a whim last month when Waylon decided to pierce his nipple.

Jeremy's gaze drops, and for a brief, sharp moment, I swear the world tilts on its axis.

But then he's looking away, and rubbing his neck, and I'm certain I just imagined whatever the fuck that was.

Obviously it caught his eye. And from the looks of it, I'm not the only one who decided to poke holes in my body.

"You pierced your ear," I blurt.

His gaze springs back to mine, and he lifts his hand, long nimble fingers brushing the shell of his right ear. "Yeah…" He flings a hand in the direction of my face. "And you pierced your lip."

I nod. "And your hair…"

He rolls his lips together and nods.

"It's…it's nice."

Wow.

I cringe at the same time he masks a snort with a cough. Cheeks red, he looks down at the ground between us, and I'm distantly aware of eyes watching us.

But when I look over at Shawn, he's glaring down at his phone, so maybe I just imagined that too.

Fuck, what's wrong with me tonight?

Jeremy peeks a look up through his lashes, and…and there's something there. Something else I can't quite pinpoint. At first, I thought maybe it was just the fact he no longer had hair hanging around his face, making his eyes more visible and therefore bigger—brighter.

Is he…is he wearing eyeliner?

As if sensing that I've caught on, his cheeks flush even deeper. He wraps his arms tighter around himself, drawing attention to the bunched swells of his shoulders, his thin, rangy arms with only the slightest definition around his biceps. The ridge of a collarbone pushing at his thin shirt.

I don't think I've seen him this…this exposed since?—

As if on cue, a steel wall slams down on the images surging up in my head, and I turn away, clearing my throat a couple times as I mentally shake off my weirdness.

I missed him.

I missed my friend.

That's all this is.

This time, I do catch Shawn's gaze. It's unreadable as ever, yet it's also never felt so invading—like he could see right through me to where all my secrets and demons hide.

"Jeremy?!"

All three of us turn our attention to where a grinning, glassy-eyed Waylon appears through the crowd, hand wrapped around a pretty brunette's.

Jeremy offers a quiet, "Hey."

"Dude, your hair," Waylon says, and I narrow my eyes on him.

He's drunk.

Not a shocker—it's a Friday night after all. But he did promise he'd keep it under control until our set ends.

Jeremy runs a self-conscious hand through his pale hair. "Yeah…my, uh, roommate did it for me."

I frown. Gabe did this?

"It was your choice though, right?" My voice comes out harsher than I expected, and it draws several sets of eyes.

Jeremy cocks me a funny look. "No, he did it while I was sleeping."

Waylon snorts, and I feel my face tightening, growing hot. "Just…just making sure he didn't, like, pressure you."

Jeremy's face hardens, and I suddenly get the feeling I just majorly screwed up.

"Jeez, Mase," Waylon coughs, dragging the girl in front of him, hugging her to his chest. He presses a kiss to the side of her head, then whispers something that has her giggling and nodding.

"No," Jeremy says in a tone I've never heard from him before. His gaze levels with mine, hard with some matching unnamed emotion. One that has my gut bottoming out even before his next words. "I know it might come as a surprise to you, but I actually can make decisions for myself when I don't have this fucking town breathing down my neck."

My eyes widen as the vehemence trailing those last few words.

Even he seems shocked by it.

He blinks owlishly at me, his face flushed once more. His lips thin, and his throat bobs with a swallow.

Waylon whistles under his breath. It's followed by a low chuckle that has me shooting him a seething glare.

Holding up a hand, he says, "On that note, is it time to go back on? I'm trying to behave, but I'm getting bored."

The girl in his arm scowls, and he winces.

Shaking my head, I glance at Shawn when I hear him shoving away from the bar.

Guess that's it then.

Working my jaw, I turn to Jeremy and say, "I'm sorry, I just…I worry."

He huffs something under his breath, and looks away. "Well, don't. I'm fine."

"Jer."

His jaw ticks, but then his gaze flits my way. "Yeah?"

I offer him a small smile. "I'm glad you're here."

He stares at me for one impossibly long beat.

Then, finally, something seems to give way, softening some of the edges I'd unwittingly chiseled out of him a second ago.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. Shaking his head, he says, "I made things all?—"

"Stop," I mutter, taking a step toward him.

I'm not sure he even heard me, or maybe it's because of my proximity—whatever it is has him stilling, and his gaze colliding softly with mine.

Wetting my lips, I lean over just enough so that my words are for him only. "I'm the one who's sorry. I just…I missed you." I pause meaningfully, and if I'm not mistaken he's holding his breath. "You look good, JJ. You look…you look happy."

Free. He looks free.

And fuck if it doesn't kill me.

How selfish is that?

But truth is, it fucking terrifies me. This new version of Jeremy.

No, the real Jeremy…

Because that's it, isn't?

Here I am with a stupid little flag thinking that could make up for all the bullying and suffering he experienced growing up in this town. As if that little token of good faith will keep him coming back, when it's clear moving away from Shiloh—moving away from us, from me…

Was the best damn thing to ever happen to him.

Izzy would be happy for him.

And at the reminder, resolve washes over me, and I stand a little taller.

She wouldn't be giving him shit for living his life, so why are you?

From the stage, Waylon plays out a quick little beat on his drums, and there's a thump as something knocks a mic. A second later, the lights dim, and a cheer rises up.

I clear my throat, not that it helps ease the gravel in my voice when I say, "Guess that's my cue." Hanging my head, I step back, and I go to turn away when a hand shoots out, clasping my bicep, halting me.

My breath catches, and my gaze drops to the fingers gripping me, before following the arm it belongs to up to a searing pair of brown eyes that practically glitter black now in the dark.

The pale column of his throat ripples with a swallow. Then, "You're amazing. The band I mean," he clarifies quickly…too quickly. Shaking his head, he bunches his face, and says, "I should've said that before. Should've been the first thing I said. I?—"

I cover his hand with mine, and turn to face him fully once more. Giving his fingers a squeeze, I don't immediately let go. "It's okay," I tell him, loud enough to be heard over the growing noise. "I'm just…I'm just happy you're here."

He frowns, and something passes over his shadowed features, there and gone before I can even try to put a name to it.

I open my mouth to say something, when a loud voice fills the room, momentarily quieting the crowd.

"Someone drag Mason up here already," Waylon calls out into the mic, and I have to grit my teeth, fighting an eye roll as people laugh, and someone gives me a shove from behind.

Jeremy's lip ticks up, and he steps back. For a moment our hands are the only things still touching—our only link—and then he's ripping that away too, and stuffing both hands in his pockets like he's been standing that way all along.

He tilts his head, and jerks a chin behind me. "You've been summoned."

Smirking, I take a step back, then another, mindless of the people I bump into and the splash of a sloshed drink. "You'll still be here when we're done, right?"

He nods, and flashes a thin smile.

Blowing out a breath, I nod back, and then and only then do I turn away, leaving him to bore holes into my back as the crowd swallows me up.

Back on stage, I spot his silvery head through the shadows almost immediately. He's standing right where I left him.

Into the mic, I call out loudly, "Alright, O'Leary's. Lay it on me. What do you want next?"

Shouts fill the room—a cacophony of barely distinguishable requests.

I fight a laugh, shaking my head, and in the corner of my eye, I don't miss Jeremy doing the same from where he hovers by the stage.

Waylon groans into his mic. "Seriously?"

I glance over at Shawn who just shakes his head and strums a couple cords.

Sighing, I look out into the crowd, and find a random person waving their hand and shouting requests that get swallowed up by the noise. "You."

I cup a hand around my ear to hear him, and once I check with the guys to make sure it works for them, we kick off what will be our final set of the night.

For the first time since we started playing for a packed bar, I'm impatient to end the night. Sure, we quickly smoothed things over before I got back on stage, but it doesn't erase the twinge in my chest telling me things are far from resolved.

I shouldn't be surprised things are a little awkward—our friendship rusty in a way it's never been, even when Jeremy was at his most closed off. Last we saw each other—in person that is—I was in a hospital bed having just survived an overdose, for fuck's sake.

And here I thought maybe we'd come away from that unscathed…

Clearly, I was wrong.

But hell if I'm not more determined than ever to make things right in a way I couldn't over the phone, whatever it takes.

Waylon counts us back, and I nod my head as Shawn comes in with the opening rift to "Pardon Me" by Incubus.

Closing my eyes, I lean into the mic, and croon the first lines, hands cupped around my mouth to give my voice a slightly muffled effect.

All through this song, and the next, I let myself get lost in the music once more, using it as a sort of filtering system to reset this sense of wrongness inside me, and fuel my determination to fix things.

I'm acutely aware of Jeremy lingering by the bar, watching our set.

So acutely aware of it, that I sense when it his attention is no longer there.

My eyes fly open as I continue singing, a frown forming between my eyes as I dart my gaze around the shadowed bodies filling the room.

My heart quickens, and dread pools lowly in my belly.

Because I already know, just as certain as I knew it when I spotted him across the room earlier?—

He's gone.