Free Red Velvet Crush by Christina Meredith Page B

before he walks back out the open door and into the yard, his mission complete.
    A flood of nerves smacks into the mountain of excitement building in my belly and leaves me overwhelmed. I glance around the garage. Is it possible we’d made Winston into an overachiever after a lifetime of just getting by?
    â€œBut we don’t have a set yet,” Jay says to the four of us, his voice rising.
    â€œA set?” Billie gulps. “We don’t even have a name.”
    â€œSure we do.” Ty answers from the back of the room. “It’s Red Velvet Crush.”
    â€œRed Velvet Crush?” Billie twists around her mic stand to look at me.
    â€œWhat does that even mean ?” Jay asks, pulling the strap off his guitar. He sets it in the corner next to an old broom and then runs his hand across the top of his head, rubbing his short hair. I didn’t think he’d be so inclined to panic.
    â€œYou know . . . ,” Ty starts to explain, his eyes checking in with me as he starts to articulate something that I myself have never tried to define. I mostly like how the words sound all strung together. I focus in, curious to hear what it means to him. “Sweet. Rich. With the potential for serious damage.”
    I suck in my breath and hold tight to my guitar. That boy is perfect.
    Billie sets a half-eaten Pop-Tart on top of the amp in front of her and dusts the crumbs from her fingers. “We are not rich,” she explains, as if Ty were an idiot.
    â€œDon’t be so literal, Billie,” Ty says.
    He points one of his drumsticks at me. “Sweet.”
    I blush a little bit.
    And Jay. “Rich.”
    Jay looks down and shuffles his feet, even though it is true—and literal.
    Then he points at Billie. “Potential for serious damage.”
    I smile at Ty, pretty much delighted with his explanation, even if it does make Billie sound more interesting than me.
    â€œBesides,” he says to Jay and Billie, “you’re forgetting. We have covers.”
    â€œAre we a cover band?” Jay asks, his eyes big, suddenly a soprano. “I thought that was just where we were starting.”
    Ginger Baker cringes so hard it is almost audible.
    I am with them. I have no intention of always being a cover band, but I don’t know what we are yet. We haven’t even had a chance to talk about it.
    I honestly didn’t think we’d make it this far. We are only six weeks in to being a band. So far I’ve been looking to keep Winston employed, Randy on our good side, and Dad happy.
    I figured we’d make it only a couple of days, a practice or two into the musical experience, before Winston would bail, ditching us for something better or shinier or faster. But heis still here and actually trying. So covers of classic rock are fine until we figure ourselves out. We are working on some newer stuff, too, some Interpol for Ty, Editors for Jay, and a little Shooter Jennings to round things out when Randy is ready for it.
    I watch Winston through the garage window, pacing in a circle in our side yard, his mouth moving faster than his legs. His left arm swings up into the air, punctuating the speech he is giving or promise he is making. I wonder what else he is getting us into.
    He has the same long legs, the same bullshit smile, the same loud laugh as always, but I’m not used to the go-getter my brother has become.
    Until now Winston has given up on everything: high school; his career as a kick-ass martial artist, which lasted three karate lessons (he claims his boys never felt comfortable in a gi); the thrill of motocross; even Emily, the one girl who actually seemed to love him and stuck around for a while.
    She was great. She had this soft curly hair and a round face. Her lips were red and bowed up at the corners, like the cupids you see dangling from the ceilings in elementary school classrooms on Valentine’s Day. She was sweet and smart and, for some reason, truly