I left the questioning at that, but I approached the guitars and took the ck Jackson into my hands. I let my eyes roam across the curves of the body and up the polished neck. The strings looked fresh, not a spot of rust on them.


    “Go on,” Emily grinned, picking up her bass.


    “You sure Amanda won’t mind?” I asked.


    “Nah, at least they’ll get yed,” she shrugged. “I y around with them sometimes, but I’m not very good with that many strings.”


    I took a seat on the stool that was positioned beside the dual rectifier amp and rested the guitar on my leg. It was awkward to y sitting down, but I could manage. My friend had one of the cheaper models back home and I had yed it for hours upon hours whenever I could. I was looking forward to making this one scream.


    I uncoiled a lead that was sitting on the amp and plugged one end into the guitar, then the other into the input on the face of the amplifier. I switched the power on and adjusted some of the settings. Some guitarists like to have a lot of low-end in their tone, but I preferred to let the bass give the low-end, and since I was jamming with a bassist, I wanted to hear how she yed. Once I had the dials to the position’s I wanted I flicked the stand-by switch, and the amplifier hummed with feedback from the pick-ups.


    I ran my left hand along the fretboard to gauge the responsiveness of the settings. The metallic scratching from my fingers sliding along the strings was a familiar sound to me, one some people hated, but one I loved.Content ? copyrighted by N?velDrama.Org.


    There was a bowl of guitar picks sitting on the amp, and I fished out one I liked the size and feel of. I usually yed with one’s far smaller that were often used in jazz, but this one would do the job. Once I had the guitar in asfortable position as I could, I strummed my first power chord.


    The instrument sang loudly in its dirty, distorted tone that was literal music to my ears. The amp was turned down low, but it still filled the entire garage space with an almost painful hum.


    “Here,” Emily handed me a pair of disposable yellow ear plugs.


    “Thanks,” I replied, stuffing them into my ears to protect my hearing.


    Once I was satisfied with the tone of the instrument, and the volume levels, I started off with a standard thrashy death-metal riff I liked to y when warming up. It was mostly power chords with some pinch harmonics thrown in for good measure. After I repeated the riff for the third time, I heard a chunky, thunderous tone cut through and I looked over to see Emily’s fingers moving across her much longer fretboard. Unlike most guitarists, I had a strong appreciation for skilled bassist’s. They may only have four strings-some had more-but they had much longer necks to work with, and fret-spacing was much wider. Emily seemed to be a pro as her fingers danced along the neck of her instrument, keeping up with me and only pausing long enough to gauge a change I made before diving right back in.


    After about five minutes of jamming I slid the ball of my hand along the volume knob to cut the sound. Emily stopped with a long slide along the E-string and looked over to me smiling widely.


    “That was awesome!” she eximed.


    “Yeah, that was pretty damn good,” Iughed.


    “You’re a really good guitarist,” she gushed.


    “Not that great, but I do enjoy ying,” I rubbed the back of my neck.


    I’d never been great at receivingpliments on my musical skills, always feeling like I could be better and not deserving of praise. I guess everyone could always be better at their passion of choice, I just had a hard time believing I was anything special. It wasn’t like I could shred like Zack Wylde, or solo like Satriani. I rarely even wrote my own music, preferring to just y covers by myself. Probably why my band back home never did anything.


    “You’re the awesome one Emily,” Iplimented my smiling sister. “You picked up what I was ying in seconds and jumped in.”


    “I was a little sloppy, I haven’t had a guitarist to y with in a while,” she shrugged.


    She was anything but sloppy, her finger-picking technique was wless. I was listening closely when we were ying, and each note she yed sounded perfectly executed, only hesitating when following a change I made. Which was understandable when you’re ying something you aren’t familiar with. Every guitarist and bassist I knew back in London would have stopped what I was ying, and asked me to show them what notes, chords and frets I was using. But not my sister, she was a natural. I wondered if Amanda was as skilled as her younger sibling.


    “Wanna y some more?” she asked, and I couldn’t refuse the eagerness in her eyes. Plus, I really did enjoy ying guitar.


    “Sure, do you know any covers?” I asked.


    “Of course,” she grinned.


    We spent the next fifteen minutes going over our favourite bands and deciding between three we both liked. Out of those three we picked a few covers that we both knew. One of them I’d never actually learnt the song, but I knew it well enough to be able to fudge my way through without too much trouble.


    Half an hourter I was cing the guitar down on its stand and flexing my fingers and wrist. It had been a long time since I yed properly, and I hadn’t given myself much of a warm-up before diving into some pretty fast songs. We didn’t have a drummer for backing, but Emily kept amazing time and I was able to lock in with her and we only lost out rhythm a couple of times on the first song.


    “I’m so d you’re staying with us Nick,” Emily beamed as she ced her bass down. “We should do this every day!”


    I smiled at her enthusiasm. “I’d like that, although I’ll bring my guitar down next time.”


    “Maybe Amanda and Erica will join us next time,” she said, all but bouncing with excitement.


    “Erica ys?” I asked, genuinely surprised.


    “She’s the drummer,” Emily smiled. “Doesn’t that look like something she’d y?”