Page 7 of From Drummer to Gamer

A boy, no older than sixteen, sported a smug expression, wearing a worn-down leather jacket while crooning into the microphone. But that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was the way his fingers glided along his guitar, flowing like the curves of a river, so fluid yet deliberate.

A natural.

His notes clung in the air, wonky toward the edges and jarring at times, but they all intertwined, creating a rhythm that melted into one smooth melody.

A melody that wasn’t just notes blending into one, but a melody that held something else, something more, something heavier.

Emotion—thick yet subtle in the undertones as the tune floated over them like silk—they weren’t just dead notes on an instrument. They had life, almost like they were alive.

It had color, sharpness, and poignance.

Layers and layers of it, creating a masterpiece.

Perfection.

The kind of perfection that I’d only seen a few people achieve in my life.

The kind of perfection I craved in an artist.

An artist I wanted to create perfection with.

I lingered in the crowd till they all faded, and the boy, who introduced himself as Raphael, thanked the crowd with a ridiculously cocky goodbye.

I hovered till no one was left between him and me, then approached him when he crouched to the ground to pack his guitar.

My footsteps filled his field of vision as he lifted his eyes to me. “Can I help…?” Raphael’s eyes widened as his mouth gaped. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” he muttered in disbelief.

“You’re good,” I said.

He shot up to his feet. “No, wait.” He took a baffled step toward me, waving his hand at my face. “This isn’t real, right?”

“If it’s my presence you question, then yes, this is very real.”

He blinked once.

Then twice.

Before he burst out laughing, clutching his stomach as he folded over. “Fuck, man, you almost got me there. This is the best fucking prank ever. I’ll admit my defeat.”

I frowned, watching him laugh like a lunatic. “This isn’t a prank,” I said flatly.

His laughter died as he straightened up and eyed me once again. Silence ensued before he asked, “You’re Matt Evans?”

“Yes.”

“The Matt Evans?”

“I don’t know anyone else by that name, so yes.”

“Like the drummer?”

“Yes.”

“You’re telling me that Matt Evans, the most popular rock star in the world, is speaking to me in the middle of nowhere, Iona?”

I sighed. “We can go about this a hundred different ways, but it won’t change the fact that I am Matt Evans.”

He arched a brow, taken aback. “What are you doing here?”