As soon as he left the studio, Adam pulled out his phone and sent the first message.
Adam (8:10 PM):
How old are you really?
Immediately after sending it, he blinked.
‘Who even starts a conversation like that?’
Too late to unsend.
‘Fuck. She doesn’t even have my number. She’s gonna think I’m a creep.’
He dropped onto the couch in his room, glaring up at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Nickie (8:15 PM): Sixteen. We go to the same school, man.
Adam blinked.
‘She’s not weirded out?’
A crooked smirk tugged at his lips.
Adam (8:16 PM): How’d you know it was me?
Nickie (8:17 PM): Your brother may have hinted you don’t have social skills.
Adam snorted. “Bastard’s got a big mouth.” Still, he liked her already.
Adam (8:18 PM): Social skills are overrated. I communicate through vibes.
Nickie (8:19 PM): Oh? What vibe was it when you tried to slam the studio door in my face?
Adam (8:19 PM): Mysterious and brooding. You wouldn’t get it.
Nickie (8:20 PM): Ah yes, ‘Too cool to function.’ A timeless classic.
Adam (8:21 PM): Bold words from someone who tripped over a hi-hat stand.
Nickie (8:21 PM): It was in my blind spot!
Adam (8:22 PM): Your entire peripheral vision is a blind spot.
Nickie (8:22 PM): And yet I still played better than you.
Adam (8:23 PM): Delusions.
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Nickie (8:23 PM): Denial.
A beat passed. Then:
Adam (8:26 PM): Not bad, drummer gremlin.
Nickie (8:26 PM): Thanks, bass goblin.
He smiled. This rhythm: they already had it.
Nickie (8:27 PM): Question: Do your bass strings owe you money, or do you just slap them around like that for fun?
Adam (8:27 PM): It’s called aggression. You ever heard of it, drummer girl?
Nickie (8:27 PM): Sure. Just didn’t know your technique was Bass Abuse 101. Those strings don’t stand a chance.
Adam (8:28 PM): Please. You love it.
Nickie (8:29 PM): I appreciate it. Big difference.
He grinned. She was sharp. That mattered.
Nickie (8:30 PM): And those vocals... ever consider giving the mic a break? Maybe it wouldn’t sound like you’re trying to exorcise it.
Adam (8:30 PM): Knew you were gonna say some shit.
Nickie (8:30 PM): Just worried for your vocal cords, bass boy. What if you ever want to sing something soft?
Adam (8:30 PM): I don’t do soft.
Nickie (8:31 PM): Already figured that, Mr. Mosh-Pit-Or-Die.
Adam frowned slightly at the screen.
‘Wait…’
A flicker of memory: bodies slamming, a pit crowd roaring, someone small flying backward into the floor. He remembered helping them up: nose-bleed, shaved side, glinting eyes.
Adam (8:34 PM): The Excruciation shirt! That was you?
Nickie (8:34 PM): Ding ding! Give the pit-demon a prize.
Adam (8:34 PM): Knew you looked familiar.
Nickie (8:34 PM): I figured you wouldn’t remember.
Adam (8:35 PM): In my defence, you were a blur of limbs and profanity.
Nickie (8:35 PM): That’s called surviving. Maybe you should learn some footwork.
Adam (8:36 PM): I helped you up.
Nickie (8:36 PM): And then I looked at you and thought, “Menace.”
Adam (8:37 PM): Accurate.
Nickie (8:37 PM): And now I’m in your band. The universe is funny like that.
Adam stared at the message for a beat too long, lips twitching toward a smile.
He didn’t reply yet.
Just leaned back on the couch, thumbs idle against the screen.
And for the first time that day… maybe that week…
he laughed out loud.
