“I already told you, I’m not interested!” Danny said, snapping his guitar case shut with more force than necessary.

  He was tired. Three long sets in a smoky bar had drained him, and all he wanted was a cold Coke and the open road. An hour-long drive y ahead, and tomorrow? School. Freshman Chemistry didn’t care if you’d spent the night dodging drunk strangers mistaking you for a girl.

  The guy in front of him wasn’t taking the hint. Mid-20s, maybe older, with a wrinkled button-up and a whiskey-colored drink in his hand, he stood too close, his breath reeking of liquor. “C’mon baby. You are hot as f**k. Just have a drink with me,” he slurred, his rge hand wrapping around Danny’s skinny elbow.

  Danny froze, willing himself to stay calm. A struggle would bring attention, and he didn’t want that. His heart thudded as the guy’s grip tightened. Danny always feared an incident like this might expose the truth—that the “girl” in the band wasn’t a girl at all.

  From a distance, Danny could see why the mistake happened. His soft features—wide, dark eyes and a narrow chin—looked even more feminine under the stage lights. His sandy-brown hair fell in loose waves around his shoulders, framing his pale face and grazing the colr of his loose-knit sweater. Even the skirt—a pleated tartan one borrowed from Jeannie—didn’t feel entirely like a costume anymore. Danny wore it like armor, part of the persona that had nearly filled the bar tonight. But in moments like this, he felt exposed, unsure where the act ended and he began.

  “Did you not hear her? She said she’s not interested.”

  Kyle’s voice cut through the panic like a lifeline. He stepped forward, his broad shoulders creating a barrier between Danny and the drunk. Kyle’s boyish face was set with resolve, his faded band tee and scuffed sneakers adding to his everyman charm—approachable, but not someone you’d cross.

  “What are you, her boyfriend or somethin’?” The drunk sneered, swaying as he sized Kyle up with zy menace.

  Kyle didn’t flinch. “Nah, just someone who can take a hint better than you.”

  The tension thickened, and Danny’s stomach twisted. Oh my god, is this guy going to start a fight?

  He spotted Logan nearby, coiling mic cables with unbothered ease. Logan had an air of effortless cool, his denim jacket hanging perfectly on his lean frame, his messy hair looking wind-styled. He didn’t have to try; he just was.

  “Look,” Danny said, desperation in his voice. “You seem nice, but I’ve already got a boyfriend.”

  The words tasted strange. He bounded over to Logan, grabbing his arm and leaning his head against his shoulder. Logan froze, startled, his expression a mix of confusion and faint amusement.

  “Almost done, sweetheart?” Danny asked, his voice too sweet, too fake. His heart did a somersault when Logan’s brow furrowed, like he was puzzling out the game. Even fake, the word “sweetheart” felt too dangerous.

  The guy muttered something and staggered off toward the bar. Mission accomplished.

  Danny stepped back, catching his breath. “What the hell was that about?” Logan asked, his voice low and curious—the same tone he used when trying new riffs, all focus and patience.

  Danny shrugged, embarrassed. “Some guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Thanks for pying along.”

  “Sure. You can, uh, let go of my hand now.” Logan’s lips twitched into a faint grin, and Danny realized he still hadn’t let go. He dropped Logan’s hand like it burned, his face suddenly hot.

  Scott and Kyle wandered over, grinning. “This again?” Scott teased. “Man, you’ve got fans.”

  Danny groaned. “I just don’t know if I want to keep doing this. We’ve got more people coming to our gigs now, right? Can’t we drop the whole ‘girl in the band’ thing?”

  Logan tilted his head, giving Danny that annoying you-know-I’m-right look. “Yeah, but let’s not pretend it’s not working. Pying the same cover songs as every other band wasn’t doing it. But with you showing up like a rock star out of an ‘80s video, things are picking up. The owner wants us back Friday and Saturday next week.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Danny muttered, bending to zip his guitar case. His eyes drifted to Logan—those sure hands looping the mic cable, the easy set of his shoulders. A knot of frustration tightened in Danny’s chest. Why is it that every guy in this bar thinks I’m hot except for Logan?

  “Great gig, guys!” Jeannie said, bounding up to the stage to help Logan with the cables, her ponytail bouncing with her usual bright energy. She wore a faded band tee and ripped jeans, her smile as warm as ever.

  “Thanks, Jeannie,” Danny said, managing a smile. Everything he had on, he’d borrowed from her—she’d been so generous with her clothes and her time. And yet, as the two of them knelt, shoulder to shoulder, her leaning against him with an easy familiarity, a sharp pang of jealousy twisted in Danny’s chest. She’s everything I’m not—confident, effortless, and actually female. Danny turned away, zipping his guitar case with more force than necessary, the question burning in his mind: would he ever be more than the “girl” in the band to Logan—or to himself?