Chapter 12: Rewards

By the time Jake finished "Rock and Roll," there were over fifty people gathered around him. More were still drifting over, drawn in like moths to the glow of something magnetic. Car stereos had gone silent to let him be heard better. Voices cried out for more. Specific song requests shot in from all directions. He obliged with some Foghat—"Fool for the City," followed by "Slow Ride."

Then he changed it up. Slowed it down. Let his fingers flex with a delicate rendition of "Dust in the Wind." A few dudes grumbled at the slower pace, but the girls? They were spellbound. Jake clocked the difference immediately. Their posture shifted. Eyes locked onto him like he was pouring honey from the strings. He remembered a tip from his dad—something about performance technique. Look at them when you sing. Make them feel it.

So he did. As he sang, his eyes locked with a handful of girls. Some blushed. Some bit their lips. Mandy? She just melted. Her dreamy gaze never left him as he stared into her soul through the second chorus.

All told, Jake played twelve songs that night. A heavy dose of Zeppelin and Hendrix, a Beatles cover tossed in near the end, and a finale with "Tush" by ZZ Top that had heads nodding and bodies swaying. They kept shouting for more, yelling requests, practically throwing praise at him—but he knew better. Always leave them wanting more.

"My hands are getting sore," he lied with a mock grimace, "and my voice is scratchy. Gotta take a break."

Not a word of it was true—he could've played another hour without blinking. But this was the peak. Better to step back now than fizzle out later. When he handed the battered guitar back to Castro, the guy accepted it without a single protest.

"Dude," Castro said, eyes still wide. "That was... that was fuckin' cool. Didn't know you had it in you."

Jake shrugged like it was nothing, slipping right back into his quiet, unassuming skin. "Just mess around with it a little. Thanks for letting me borrow your guitar."

"Mess around?" Castro barked a disbelieving laugh. "I mean, I'm pretty good and all—but you? You're better than I am." He said it like it hurt. "You play electric?"

"A little," Jake said. He didn't mention the two Les Paul knock-offs sitting in his bedroom or the four guitars his dad let him borrow.

"We should jam sometime. You ever think about joining a band?"

"Well—"

"Hey dicknose!" Castro yelled, cutting him off. "Where's that pipe? Get my man here a goddamn hit!"

Jake didn't get one hit. He got three. The Hawaiian bud launched him straight into orbit. Someone handed him a fresh beer. The music resumed from various radios, and while the crowd dispersed a little, Castro and his inner circle stayed locked in, talking music, concerts, ambitions. Jake nodded when appropriate, but barely heard a word. His attention had zeroed in on Mandy.

She was practically fused to his side now, her breasts brushing his arm every few seconds, her energy tuned entirely to him.

Eventually, the topic drifted off music. Talk shifted to cars, movies, drugs. Jake faded into the background of the conversation—which is when Mandy tugged on his arm.

"Let's go fill our cups again before the keg runs out," she said.

"Uh... sure," Jake managed, standing up on autopilot.

They joined a line of about thirty people waiting at the keg. Mandy stayed close, clutching his arm, her presence unmistakably possessive. Conversation in line was more of the same: compliments, questions, offers. Two more people invited him to join hypothetical bands. Jake answered with short, polite phrases, overwhelmed by the sudden flood of attention.

At the front, he pumped the keg and filled Mandy's cup, then his own.

"You wanna take a walk with me?" she asked, accepting her drink.

He swallowed, hard. "Sure," he said. Probably too fast.

She led him down toward the river.

As they walked, Jake's thoughts spiraled. Mandy wasn't the hottest girl in the clique, but she had serious pull. Guys liked her. Rumors flew about what she'd done—or hadn't done—with certain people. Tongue, tits, maybe even third base. Some said she'd never given a blowjob; others claimed otherwise. Jake didn't know what to believe. What he did know was that he was walking alone with her, right now, and his nerves were on fire.

The boat launch area was one of the darkest spots in the park. A sloping concrete ramp and a fifty-foot dock jutted into the Sacramento River. No lights. No crowd. Just water and crickets and shadow.

They sat at the edge of the dock, feet dangling in the warm current. Mandy leaned into him, her body soft, warm, comfortable.

"Nice out here, isn't it?" she said.

"Yeah," Jake said. His mouth was dry. He took a drink of his beer.

Her foot brushed against his underwater. Then again—this time slower, more deliberate.

"Romantic even," she whispered.

He wasn't clueless. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer. She made a pleased little noise and laid her head on his shoulder.

"You have such a beautiful singing voice," she said. "Who would've guessed? When you were singing Dust in the Wind to me... God." She shivered slightly. "When you looked in my eyes... I felt something. Didn't you?"

"Yeah," he murmured, his face buried in her hair. "I felt it."

She tilted her face toward his. He kissed her.

Her lips were full, soft, warm. The kiss deepened. Then came her tongue. He met it with his own. She tasted like beer and cigarettes. So did he. It didn't matter. She was a great kisser—no surprise there.

She lay back. He leaned over her. Their kiss turned deeper, slower, wetter. His hand slid along her bare leg, under the hem of her shorts, his fingers memorizing every inch. Then higher, up to her stomach, her shirt, just under the swell of—

"Mmm," she breathed, arching into him. "You can touch them if you want. I like it."

Jake hesitated—but only for a second.

That night gave birth to a passion that was no longer just for music, but for performance.