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Kylie. She’s good, innocent. Clean. Pure. I’m pretty sure she’s a virgin. I know she’s younger than me by a few years, but I haven’t asked how old exactly. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, rarely even curses. She’s…just good . And if she keeps hanging out with me, she’ll get tainted. She’ll see the scars on my forearms, she’ll see the smooth patches of burned skin on my hands. Evidence of my fucked-up mess of a life. I get around my hang-ups by telling myself she can make her own choices as to what she wants, who she wants around her. I make no bones about the fact that I’m a “wrong side of the tracks” kind of guy. It makes me feel a little guilty sometimes, if I think about it too hard, knowing that I like her and I think about kissing her and getting her in bed, and taking her cherry. She’s good, and I’m not, and seriously, Ben is the right guy for her. Rich, athletic, from a good family. Nice. He’s an actual fucking nice guy.
    Then, near the middle of November, there’s a flyer on the corkboard near the beverage pick-up counter, advertising an open mic night on February tenth. Kylie sees the flyer, stops dead, grabs my arm, shakes it. “An open mic night!” She spins me around to face her, shakes me again. “I’ve got to do it! It’s my chance!”
    I’m perplexed. “Chance at what?”
    “Perform! I’ve been writing music, and practicing in my room, but I’ve been too chicken to do any open mic nights downtown by myself. This is my chance to try performing on a small scale.”
    I’m even more perplexed. “Kylie. You’re the daughter of one of the most popular duos in the world.”
    She nods. “Well, yeah, duh. I know that. But that’s them , Oz. I want to do this on my own, without them.”
    I shrug. “Okay, so do it.”
    She hesitates. “I’m decent at the piano, but if I’m going to really perform the songs I want to, I’d need a guitarist.”
    “This is Nashville, Kylie. If I threw a stick, right now, I’d hit at least a dozen guys who can play.”
    She rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, duh to that, too. There’re guys who can play the guitar, and then there’s musicians. I want someone serious. If this goes well, I want to try to eventually get a spot in a bar on Broadway. But for that, I need someone good .” We’ve started walking again, and she stops me, a hopeful expression on her face. “You don’t play, do you? Tell me you play.”
    I snort. “Yeah, I play the guitar, but I couldn’t play anything you want.” I gesture at my Spineshank T-shirt. “I play this, Kylie. Metal. You want a country boy. That ain’t me, sweetness.”
    She doesn’t seem fazed. “Are you any good?”
    I shrug. “I guess. I don’t know. I don’t play for people. I play because it’s fun. It’s a release. I taught myself. I can’t read music or any of that bullshit. I just shred. It’s like math. I just do it.”
    “I want to hear you play.”  
    I shake my head. “Hell, no. I don’t play for people. And besides, do you even like metal?”
    She makes an I don’t know face. “I’ve never listened to it.”
    “It’ll make your nose bleed, babe.”
    “I want to hear you play. I’ll sing for you, you’ll play for me. We’ll trade music.”
    I want to tell her no, but I don’t. She seems so hopeful. I’ll play something hard and wicked, and she’ll be disgusted, and that’ll be that. The idea of me on a stool in a honky-tonk on Little Broadway, playing a Ron Pope cover is just…comical. Kylie would probably choke if she realized I knew that kind of music.  
    “Fine. But you won’t like it.”
    “Let me be the judge of that.” She smiles up at me, shakes my arm again. It’s a habit of hers. I hate it, but I like it. “Okay, so we’ll go to my house. My parents have a studio in the basement.”  
    We’re in the parking lot, heading toward my bike, having intended to go grab some coffee, but she stops, looking over at the far side of the lot,