Even If the Sky Falls by Mia Garcia Page B

“Third, yes, third.”
    Miles lets his charming smile shine and charges on. “Third show since we became an official band. The Midsummer Boys—‘Boys’ being more of a general term, like when you say ‘hey guys’ but there are also girls in the room, you know?”
    The giant looks us over, probably taking in the blue hair, red wings, lack of any other band members, and only one instrument. If he doesn’t see what bad liars we are then he is probably drunk or too tired to care. Fingers crossed for either.
    Finally he says, “Who the fuck is Mike?”
    Welp.
    â€œWe just played Mid-Summer,” I blurt out.
    â€œWho ain’t,” he says, and we are screwed, I know we are. “There is no second act today. We got open mic on Tuesdays.”
    Miles has this earnest bewildered look to him now and it is golden. Give the kid an award, people. “I swear we got a call to perform.”
    â€œI heard. From Mike. Who doesn’t exist. And you two don’t look old enough to be in here, let alone the vicinity.”
    â€œWe came all this way.” Miles is pushing it. I want to tug on his sleeve and leave before this gets any worse, but I’m frozen behind him, the giant’s face half in shadow, half illuminated by large swatches of blue light. “Is there any way we can go up and play?”
    Uh, please no. I have no musical ability whatsoever.
    â€œNot tonight.”
    I let out a breath—no one here wants to hear me sing. I don’t want to hear me sing. Cats in heat would be worried for me if I started to sing.
    â€œAll right, I get it.” Miles drops his shoulder, letting out a sigh. “Bummed, but we get it. Can we stick around and check out our competition?”
    Giant looks to me, then back to Miles, clearly asking himself if it is even worth it to continue this conversation. He should have thrown us out long ago, and he knows it. I’m hoping for the desperation of a man who is too tired to care and longs for the comfort of a good bed. Come on, Tired.
    â€œNo drinks,” he says finally. “I catch either one of you near the bar—”
    Miles nods. “You got it.”
    â€œJust music.”
    â€œAll we need.”
    The giant leaves us and we both exhale, my body sags with relief.
    â€œI knew you were trouble,” Miles says with a wink. We move closer to the band, picking out an empty table, and Miles leaves his banjo, reaching for my hand.
    â€œCome on.” He motions me toward him. “You owe me for almost getting me clobbered.”
    It’s true, Miles totally saved my butt. I go to stand up, but my wings get caught on the chair and tug me back down.
    â€œIt’s time to take these off.” I reach around the back and end up almost unhooking my own bra, my face flashing crimson. “Dang, she really tacked these on good.”
    I scrunch up my nose and turn away from Miles, pointing at the wings. “Uh, can you?”
    After a pause, I feel Miles close the gap between us. “What do—what do I do?” It’s the first time he’s sounded so unsure and nervous the whole night. It is strangely satisfying to fluster him.
    â€œThere’s a safety pin in the middle, just unhook it.”
    I don’t add “without unhooking my bra,” but I have a feeling from the pauses in his reply that I don’t have to say that out loud. I can barely feel Miles’s hands as he works, his fingers like a whisper above my skin. If I lean back just a bit his mouth would be inches from my neck; I feel my body sway, getting closer without my permission, he’s right there, my head reaching just past his shoulder, and force myself to straighten. After another minute I feel the release of the wings and the removal of a weight I didn’t remember I was carrying.
    â€œI’ve probably smacked so many people in the face with these,” I say as he hands them over my