Chapter 11: The First High

Jake's fingers started moving faster now, confidence bleeding into every strum. The chords came cleaner, sharper, louder. He caught a glance at Castro — the guy's mouth was still hanging open.

Not just him.

Half the group around the fire looked like they'd just seen a UFO land.

Jake let his fingers fly, riffing up and down the fretboard in a burst of improvised flair. A mini solo. Nothing complex, but glowing with energy. Then he eased into one of his own pieces — a short instrumental he'd written months ago and never shown anyone. As he slipped through it, he started playing around with the sound, bending the rhythm, twisting the notes, letting his instincts steer.

And then, without even thinking, he glided into the opening bars of All Along the Watchtower.

"Yeah!" someone shouted.

"Play it, man!"

Jake played it. Muscle memory took over. He'd done this in his bedroom so many times it was second nature. The intro looped around — and before he could stop himself, before he even knew what he was doing, he opened his mouth and started to sing.

"There must be some kinda way outta here…"

"Said the Joker to the Thief…"

The words came clean. Strong. Crisp. Not a hint of wobble. Not even from the beer. Not even from the fear.

"There's too much confusion…"

"I can't get no relief…"

He nailed it.

Right there in the middle of the goddamn party, in front of twenty high school stoners and half the cool kids from his grade, he sang. And it was good. Better than good. It hit.

No one laughed. No one rolled their eyes or shouted something dumb. Even the usual clowns — Castro, Standman, a few others — just stood there, caught off guard, nodding their heads.

Some were tapping their feet.

Jake let it ride. Verse after verse. His fingers never slipped, his voice never cracked. He blended the sound perfectly — like he was born with a guitar in his hands and a mic in his mouth. When the final verse rolled around, he kicked into a solo again, building tension, layering raw string against raw energy until—

—he finished with a heavy, slowed-down reprise of the intro and a final sliding flourish to close it out.

Silence.

Just for a breath.

Then the reaction hit. Not clapping — nobody did that here — but a chorus of stoned, slurred praise.

"Yeah!"

"Bitchin'!"

"Nice!"

"Fuck yeah!"

A slap on the back. A "where the hell'd you learn that?" A "dude you're fuckin' radical."

And then Mandy. Mandy fucking Walker, pressing herself right up against his arm, her breath warm in his ear and thick with weed.

"That was tight," she whispered. "Really fuckin' tight."

Jake's mouth moved before his brain caught up. "Just the way I like it."

Time froze.

Had he actually said that?

He braced for the blowback, already halfway to stammering an apology—until he saw her face.

She was blushing.

Her eyes sparkled at him. Not mockingly. Not amused. Impressed.

"Do something else!" someone yelled. "C'mon!"

"Yeah," others echoed. "One more!"

"Zepplin!" came the shout. "Do some fuckin' Zepplin, man!"

Jake laughed under his breath. Of course they wanted Zepplin. These were 1976 stoners — worshippers at the altar of Page and Plant.

Well… give the people what they want.

He adjusted his grip, inhaled slowly, and launched into the opening chords of Rock and Roll.

The shift in the crowd was immediate. People started swaying. Singing under their breath. Even the ones who didn't know the words moved to the rhythm.

Mandy turned fully toward him, her knee against his thigh, her body swaying in sync with the song. Jake tried not to stare but… hell, he was still a guy. Her nipples were peeking through her shirt now, firm and proud. She caught him looking. Didn't flinch. Didn't turn away.

She smiled.

It was the kind of smile girls never gave him.

The kind that made you feel chosen.

Jake smiled back, then hit the chorus with everything he had.

Yeah, he thought, heart thudding as he drove into the next solo, I think maybe I like this. I think maybe I like it a lot.