Like damn near every door that had the misfortune of crossing Jess Hinkley’s path, the front door at Wolfe’s place was about to be subjected to the percussive ramblings of the attention-deficit, hyperactive child that Jess truly was. Their drumsticks rapped against the door a lot longer than was necessary, but if anybody asked, she’d tell them there was good cause. It was entirely necessary if she was going to reach him all the way through that big ass house. Fondly, of course. They probably wouldn’t mention the favor they’d had to pull to get a ride out to Ventura (they doubted Wolfe would want to skateboard all the way back to Lafayette Square) or the bass player patiently waiting in the van in the driveway. The funky beat only stopped when Wolfe opened up, but it was superseded by Jess’ face lighting up at the sight of him.

“Hey! Sorry to drop by unannounced. I’d text or somethin’, but my phone has been dead all day,” they admitted, laughing bashfully at their own ineptitude. Lack of preparation, really. The drumsticks clacked together as they moved them to one hand, gesturing as they normally did. “I’m setting up an acoustic concert in Lafayette Square near the bungalow since the power is out. The people are bored. I was hoping you’d be interesting in stopping by and playing with us! A couple of dudes from the bands in town already said they’re down, it should be a riot.”