I know to the guys, and everyone else, Guitar God was a silly game people played to pass the time. To me, it was so much more. I was a Sinner before Sinners had a name. I loved Blood Oath’s music, I loved rock and roll, but when Risk and I broke up, I had to cut Blood Oath out of my life to keep my sanity . . . then Guitar God was released.
I couldn’t hear Risk sing or listen to the lyrics he wrote, that was entirely too much to ask of myself. Blood Oath’s music, however, was a different thing altogether. I knew they all had a hand in writing the music to their songs, so knowing I could hear their music on Guitar God was like getting the chance to peek into a window of Blood Oath’s life to see how they were doing.
Blood Oath didn’t release instrumentals of their albums until recently so Guitar God gave me the chance to hear them . . . without hearing Risk. It connected me to the band, to Risk, in a safe capacity. I loved the game for that reason alone.
There was only one song I wasn’t very good at on the game. It just so happened to be ‘Cherry Bomb’, the song Risk wrote about me when he was in a bad mental space. Ever since I had heard it, I tried desperately to forget the lyrics that made my heart clench. I know it was about me and that I should have never listened to it. It was like my subconscious knew I’d hate it.
I really hoped that song wasn’t picked because I was supposed to show May up, not let him show me out.
“Have you been practicing, December?”
May snorted at my question and jabbed his thumb in the direction of the guys. “They’ve been playing most of the day, I’ve been biding my time until you showed up. I don’t need practice to beat you, little girl.”
I snorted. “We’ll see about that, big boy.”
Risk grinned happily from the sofa, when my eyes slide to his, he crooked his finger, beckoning me his way. I was in front of his parted thighs before I realised I had moved. I leaned down so I could give him a hug, but Risk surprised me by kissing my lips.
“Missed you.”
His words were murmured, but I heard them. Felt them.
“Missed you too.”
I straightened, hugged the others in greeting then I put my game face on as I removed my coat, draping it over the arm of the chair.
“I should get to choose the song.” I looked at May as I picked up one of the toy guitars and hooked its strap over my head. “Ladies first and all that jazz.”
May rolled his eyes, his guitar already in his hands and positioned.
“Like that’s gonna help you, midget.”
“I’m gonna take pleasure in this, August.” I narrowed my eyes. “Risk, record this for proof.”
“On it, Cherry.”
May glanced over his shoulder. “Proof of what?”
“Of me,” I said when his eyes returned to mine, “spanking you like the little bitch you are.”
All of the guys burst into loud, gleeful laughter at my threat, even May was giggling like a little girl with his hand over his mouth. Their laughter was fuel to the fire May ignited within me. Their lack of faith in me was all I needed to want to whoop May from here all the way to London and back again. I turned my focus to the flat screen on the wall and gave it my complete focus. I was good at Guitar God, I had racked up hundreds of hours playing Blood Oath songs and I was about to prove just how good I really was.
“‘Black Space’.” I selected the song I wanted to play. “That is my song choice. You ready, little dick?”
May sucked in a dramatic breath.
“That was hurtful, you little piece of bum fluff, and for the record,” he growled. “My dick is huge, thunder thighs!”
I tried not to laugh but it was hard because May’s clapbacks were always so quick and personal but so funny at the same time. He bloody well knew it, too.
“My thunder thighs keep me warm at night so with your next insult, make sure it cuts deep, Nutty Professor.”
The guys were a mess of laughter behind us, we didn’t pay them a lick of attention. May’s eyes narrowed at me, but his lips twitched repeatedly, which told me he was trying to keep a straight face as much as I was. That was the thing about me and May, we insulted one another brutally, but we never meant it and we both knew it. Nothing had changed between us since we were kids, it seemed.
“We talking, or jamming?”
“Jamming.”
“Loosen your arms then,” he ordered. “They’re too stiff, don’t grip the guitar like it’s a weapon. Hold it against you warmly. Love it, caress it.”