Page 14 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

For years, I’ve convinced myself I could do this, that I belonged in this world. That music wasn’t something I clung to, but something that lived in me too. But now, with her standing across from me, that lie unravels.

She’s about to hear me play, and nothing in me seems ready.

I’m seconds away from every flaw laid bare, every ounce of fake confidence stripped down to what I really am — someone who’s been bluffing his way through all of it.

One wrong note and the whole thing will fall apart.

Every hesitation, every rushed chord, every slip of my fingers will give me away.

She’ll hear it all. She’ll see I don’t belong in her world and exactly how much of a goddamn joke I really am.

I swallow hard, jaw tight, and grab the amp cable, shoving it toward her before I can think too much about it.

She takes it without hesitation, fingers brushing mine for half a second before she plugs it into her guitar.

The amp hums to life.

Nate pushes up from the bed and crosses the room, stepping behind his drum kit near the window.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even glance at his sticks. Simply stands there, eyes locked on me.

He knows something’s off. Known me long enough to recognize when something shifts. There’s no hiding it from him, not when he can read me better than I read myself. This isn’t nerves, and he can see that. He knows I’m completely fucked up over this.

“So what songs do you play?” Nate asks.

She shrugs, adjusting her guitar strap with the same calm confidence that never seems to crack. “Anything you want to play, shout it out and I’ll see if I know it.”

Nate nods, casual as ever, but his eyes flick to me for half a second before turning back to her. “Theo and I have been working on Seven Nation Army by The White Stripes. Are you familiar with it?”

For the first time since she walked in, something eases. Relief creeps in. Nate fucking knew I needed this. Something solid that doesn’t make my stomach churn.

I know that song better than I know my own goddamn name. We’ve run it so many times I could play it in my fucking sleep.

All I hope now is that she knows it.

I turn my attention to Bianca.

She meets my eyes and then fucking smiles.

“Yeah,” she says, fingers flexing over the strings like she’s already halfway inside the song. “It’s one of my favorites.”

And just like that, something inside me finally fucking breathes.

Nate grabs his drumsticks and drops into his seat, spinning one in his fingers like he’s already hearing a crowd scream his name. Cocky fuck. Could probably fall into a trash can and still stick the landing with a wink and a drum solo.

I head for my bass, trying to act like my heart isn’t currently stage-diving without a safety net.

My hands are sweaty as I slip the strap over my neck. It settles across my shoulder and I take a step back. Not towards Bianca, but just out of range of whatever spell she’s fucking casting with those fingers.

Nate’s smirk is already locked and loaded.

“You gonna plug it in, genius?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

I glance down at the bass, still unplugged. “Nah. Figured I’d go acoustic today.”

He chuckles, tapping a stick against his thigh. “Bold move.”

“Wait ‘til you see the interpretive footwork I’ve planned. Shit’s gonna change lives.”

Nate shakes his head, grinning. “Just plug it in, rockstar.”

Bianca laughs, and straight away Nate and I both snap our heads toward her. Fuck. She’s smiling at me.

“You’ve got good timing, Theo,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Sharp mouth too. I like that.”

My brain short-circuits for a second. I cover it with a shrug, casually gripping my bass like it’s the only thing holding me together.

“Careful,” I say, trying not to sound like I’ve just forgotten how to function. “You compliment me again and I might start thinking I’m charming.”

“Too late,” she grins.

And just like that, I’m totally fucked.

“Alright. Enough talk,” Nate says. “Let’s play. Or do I need to file paperwork to make this a stand-up gig?”

I snap my head toward him, heat crawling up my neck. “Fuck off.”

Bianca grins. “Don’t be salty, Nate. Not everyone can pull off being hot and hilarious at the same time.”

Nate laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

My mouth’s shut tight, but my ego’s doing backflips. Mostly because hot and hilarious completely short-circuited my entire system.

I come back to reality when Nate taps his sticks together. One, two, three, four.

I dive in, fingers locking down on the strings, sending that first low thrum out into the room.

It’s tight. Clean. The rhythm that doesn’t ask for permission.

It just takes over. My fingers dig in, pulling deeper with each note, my foot tapping along to Nate’s rhythm.

The air shifts. The walls hum. My bones fucking vibrate.

But the whole time, I feel her.

Bianca.

A few feet away. Fender slung low. Watching with that calm, unreadable expression that somehow still manages to set every nerve in my body on fire.

Then she joins in. Not stepping into the song but setting fire to it.

Fuck me, the second her fingers hit the strings, everything changes.

The rhythm I thought I had under control slips straight through my fingers. What was tight becomes electric. What was solid turns volatile. The sound sharpens, digs in, like it’s hungry now and chasing something.

She flips the balance. Rewrites the rules mid-song.

Takes control as if the music were hers all along and we’ve just been keeping it warm.

I feel the shift crawl across the floor, climb up my legs, and settle in my chest. Every beat bends toward her, pulled in until the room forgets we were ever here first.

I glance up, and she’s already looking at me, lips curled into a smirk like she knows exactly what she just did.

She glances over at Nate, a small smile tugging at her mouth, and I see it. The way his whole face shifts.

That usual cool, untouchable expression is gone. He’s as fucking mesmerized as I am. And the second that realization hits, it lands harder than the kick of Nate’s own drum.

Because Nate doesn’t look at chicks like that. He fucks them. That’s it. No promises. No feelings or giving a shit past the unzip.

But right now, there’s something different on his face.

That’s a fucking problem. Because if he’s falling too, I’m not simply screwed, I'm fucked.

Nate can have any chick he wants. He always has. I am nothing compared to him. I’m not the one people notice or the one girls smile at. I know I don’t stand a fucking chance.

Movement near the door yanks my focus. I look up, pulse still throwing punches in my throat, and there they are.

Quinn’s got her camera up, shutter going off like gunfire, catching it all before it disappears into the ether. Scarlet’s beside her, all teeth and chaos, wearing that smug little grin like she knew this moment was coming and we’re just lucky enough to live in it.

They’re watching us. Quinn’s freezing it. This exact second where the world felt right for once. Proof we didn’t dream it. That this high wasn’t just in our heads. That we existed right here, in this loud mess of sound.

The last note hits the walls, clings for a breath like it doesn’t want to leave, then slips into silence.

For a second, nobody moves. Nobody speaks.

Then I hear it.

The clapping. Just two pairs of hands cutting through the quiet.

Bianca’s head snaps toward the sound, eyebrows lifting like she forgot the world existed outside this room. Nate looks too, and I see it hit him. That flicker across his face when he realizes we weren’t only playing for ourselves.

He was too wrapped up in Bianca’s orbit, too busy eye fucking her to notice we had an audience.

“That was so fucking good,” Quinn says, stepping fully into the room, camera hanging around her neck.

Scarlet follows, all sharp edges and raised brows. She levels Nate with a cool, pointed stare, the kind that carries enough heat to tell him to back off.

But Nate doesn’t bite. He’s still watching Bianca like she just hung the fucking moon.