He was driving the rhythm, the heartbeat of the music flowing from the stage. It was all too easy to get lost in it. No sourwolf sneaking into his bedroom at night. No romeo-juliet complex between wolves and hunters. No river of lies eroding away at his already weakened relationship with his father, the sheriff, who just wanted to protect his son but needed to be protected instead. His rambling mind was drowning in sound, and he'd be damned if someone tried to drag him out.
Carrots help us see much better in the dark
Don't talk to girls; they'll break your heart
And this is my head and this is my spout
They work together; they can't figureanythingout
'Yes, it's a cover band' was the line he heard himself use most often; on the off chance that someone connected the dots between the energetic drummer and the hyperactive lacrosse benchwarmer. It wasn't that he tried to keep his whole in-a-band thing from his friends and maybe-pack-mates. He just never told them, and they never made any effort to find out for themselves. It also has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that, up on stage, in the back of the band and behind the drum set, he could let his shoulders back and his eyebrows down and just let everything go.
