Revel

by Shey Stahl

  I think about the muscles in his jaw clenching and unclenching. The way his arms tightened with every movement I made, and the way his hand shook when he lifted it to run it through his hair.

  Trying to appear unfazed, I slowly exhale and try to rid my body of my nerves. It doesn’t work. My head is reeling from his words. Some women might cry from his cruelty.

  I’m not crying over him.

  Am I feeling a little defeated? Did my stomach jump at what he said and high-five my heart? Did that dry, scared feeling tickling my throat take my words with it?

  Yeah, all the above, because anytime I’m in his presence, my body reacts. But I can tell you one thing: after the high of my performance, it’s going to take a lot more than an emotionally disconnected rock star to make me cry. I rocked tonight. No one is taking that from me.

  Here are some things you need to know about me. I’m a feisty redhead. I don’t like to be told what to do and if I want to prove myself, I will. Mark my words, I will prove myself to Revel and the entire rock and roll genre that I’m more than a pop star. When you’re a performer, the realest you’ll ever be is when you’re on stage letting thousands of people see inside your soul, and in turn, you’re waiting on their reaction. You’re waiting to see if you’ve evoked something inside them through your songs to move them either visually, electrically. You have to give them something to relate to. And tonight, I did that.

  Bella snakes her hand in my arm, leading me from the stage back to my dressing room while telling me, “Revel Slade just watched your entire performance!”

  My breath catches, my heartbeat skipping. And just like that, there’s a familiar tightness in my throat like I’ve eaten something I’m allergic to. Believe me, I know he did. Hell, I know anytime he’s near me because my body reacts. My heels click against the concrete like snapping turtles. “And managed to insult me for what, the third time today?”

  Laughing, Bella keeps pace with me and the two security guards next to me. A knot of annoyance forms in the pit of my stomach. Why am I letting him get to me?

  My security guard pushes the dressing room door open. Bella and I both follow, along with wardrobe assistants and a handful of others. “Why would he watch me?” I ask Bella, downing my second bottle of water.

  She hands me my cell phone and a banana. “Because he’s Revel Slade.” I reach for the banana, and she strokes it, smiling.

  I rip it from her hand and peel it back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Shrugging, she sits beside me. “I don’t know. I just like saying his name. Bus is ready for us.”

  “Thank God. I’m not riding with them again.” And then I think about everything that happened on the bus, nothing in particular, and more about our interaction backstage. “I don’t get it.”

  “Me either.”

  “This is a nightmare.”

  “Tay, I hate to point this out—” She stops, mid-sentence. “Actually, I want to point this out. You rocked tonight. After Revved. You did that, girl. You. Taylan Ash. That’s why he watched. And you performed ‘Nasty Girl’ perfectly. Revel couldn’t tear his eyes away from you for one second. I bet he was totally turned on.”

  I ignore the part about Revel being turned on because right now, I don’t want to think about that. He’s so mean. I want to forget him. But Bella is right about one thing. I did amazing. They didn’t boo me off stage, like I’m sure Revel expected. There were no awkward silences from the crowd or a mass exit when I took the stage. Maybe a little curiosity, but once I did “Nasty Girl,” I bet every single person in attendance will remember it. I mean, Revved and Taylan Ash performances back-to-back, no-one would have expected that. Could have been worse, huh?

  I’m in the dressing room long enough to change out of my dress and into an oversized hoodie and those amazing Lululemon leggings I die for. With Bella at my side, we’re ushered through throngs of people with VIP lanyards hanging from their necks and out to where the tour buses are lined up.

  I don’t have a lot of time to think or relax before Leddy comes on the bus. She’s my tour manager and holding a clipboard in hand which means I’m about to be told where I’m going and what’s next. By the way, I love L’s hair. Don’t you? It’s amazing. I have curly hair, and it drives me up the damn wall with its inability to just lie straight. But Leddy, she has jet-black sleek straight hair. I love to touch it because it’s what I imagine a black panther to feel like. I digress though, she’s here for business.

  “Great show, T. Scratch that, it was an excellent show.” She always starts with that. All business, no play for her. “We leave tonight, and the second night of the tour is in Sacramento.”

  “Why not tomorrow night?”

  “Revved requested a night off in between each show. Revel’s request.”

  Rolling my eyes, I reach for the water beside me. “Figures.”

  Relaxing against the couch, Bella sits next to me, handing me a blanket. Staring out the window, the lights of the tour buses leaving the parking lot dance along the drips of water. It sounds like tiny pings hitting the top of the bus. In the background, Leddy and Bella talk about the upcoming shows.

  My head is reeling from the day. From his performance. From mine. His words… mine. I want to relax and forget the night, but I can’t. I think about the way the crowd chanted his name long after his performance. I obsess over the smallest details of his performance, not mine. The way his lips brushed the microphone, the agonizing moan he released after the words, “strangle my violent heart, break the hold, give me that at least.”

  Visions engrave in my memory. Him strumming his guitar, and the glimpse I got of the man behind the energetic front man.

  Snapping from my thoughts, Dad comes on the bus after Leddy, his attention on his phone. He lifts his head just long enough to tell me, “We need you in Sacramento tonight.”

  And though I want to press for details on what he thought about the show, I know what his diverted attention means. He didn’t watch it.

  “Why?”

  “You have press in the morning before the show.”

  Awesome. Guess who else has press in the morning and will more than likely be on the same flight as me?

  Revel.

  Slade.

  Bella reaches for my hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

  She’s only saying that because she wants some alone time with Cruz, who by the way, hasn’t spoken to her since our time on the bus where he asked her numerous times what her name was and forgot every time.

  I knew going on this tour I’d be around Revel a lot, but I didn’t think we’d be stuck together on a plane and him occupying the space behind me. It seems between that and him being a justifiable ass the majority of the day, he decides to make matters worse. Actually, it starts with Bella.

  Do you see that tiny little brat sitting next to Cruz and leaving the seat next to me empty? Empty for someone, to you know, sit next to me. It makes me uncomfortable.

  Bringing my hand to my cheek, I attempt to cool my face, a fleeting chill from the ice water I’m holding. It’s his presence that’s dominating my internal temperature, flitting my heart, bringing with it a chorus of rapid beats. My eyes eventually drift, finding the one I’m drawn to.

  Our gazes catch, hold, intensifies until he breaks it with a sigh. Stupid sexy rock star and his hotness. How can someone make sighing look sexy?

  Revel Slade can for sure.

  Stop looking at him! I can tell myself that all day and night, but I can’t stop it. It’s like my body and every mannerism I have is confused and suddenly drawn to him. Yeah, well, get your shit figured out, Tay. He’s bad news.

  Cruz whispers something in Revel’s ear only to have him whisper, “Shut the fuck up,” and stands, giving the seat next to me a nostalgic glance. Without a word, he glides past me to the bathroom, his hands in his pockets. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t check out his ass in the process, but his jeans are baggy, so I don’t get a good look.

>   Suffocated by his pensive silence toward me, I drop my eyes to the magazine in my hand. Actually, it’s the safety pamphlet I think, but I’m staring at it, and I can’t tell you what it’s about. Just about the time I’m thinking I might get a drink, lord knows I need one, I hear the words, “I had a dream about you,” whispered my way.

  Crap. He’s talking to me again. I jump, a whole-body jerk like I’ve just been woken up from a bad dream. I’d been so lost in my own thoughts I hadn’t realized he’d been looking at me until I meet his expression of indifference. His eyes don’t leave mine. Along with the whole-body jump, my heart lurches, and then I choke on my own spit, all at the same time. Standard reaction around him and I bet he enjoys every damn minute of it.

  A knot of annoyance forms. Why am I letting him get to me?

  “Excuse me?” I ask, my eyes focusing in on his.

  Handing me a glass I’m sure he’s spiked, he moves to sit next to me, the heat of his body and the scent of cigarettes, vodka, and cinnamon consume me. I think he wears Old Spice or something. Or rubs up against cinnamon sticks. Leaning in, he whispers, “I had a dream about you.”

  Trying to appear unfazed, I slowly exhale and try to rid my body of my nerves. It doesn’t work. “Uh, why?”

  He laughs lightly, swirling the golden liquid in his glass. He gazes at me with a heated expression. With unease, I squirm in my seat wishing I could open the window and jump out. “If I knew the answer to that,” he says, simply, before twisting my way further, “I wouldn’t be sitting here now, would I?” His eyes glitter with emotion, one I probably don’t want to know, but it’s his deepened voice that reveals the slightest indication of his southern roots.

  “I don’t know. You seem intent on annoying me.” Look at me, I’m staring at him. Probably because every time I look at him, I desperately want to explore his jaw and rest my head on his chest. He’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows and an unknown band shirt underneath it. I look to the thick veins running along his bare forearms and wonder what it feels like to have his arms wrapped around me.

  Do you notice the way my heart is racing and the way I try to swallow but the dryness in my throat provides no relief? That’s what it’s like being next to him. He makes you forget about the world around you. It’s like having a traumatic brain injury, and you forget how to process words let alone control your bodily functions.

  My favorite color is blue, and his eyes, too blue, too much emotion, too much. . . I don’t know. With a deep, yet shaky breath, I manage to ask, “What was your dream about?” Dear God, why am I provoking him?

  His lips kick up at the corners, his presence like a thick fog of euphoria settling over me. “Whip cream and champagne.”

  I jerk my elbow, smacking his in the process. “Ugh, you’re the worst.”

  Low laughter shakes his chest but barely pushes past his lips. He looks bored to death sitting here, swirling the remnants in his glass. But then he raises a mischievous eyebrow. “Want details?”

  My stomach flips and flops like I’m on a roller-coaster ride on the rise, waiting for the fall. “Does it involve me drowning you in the champagne?”

  “More like you choking on my—”

  Without thinking, I slap my hand over his mouth. “That’s enough.” And then I remove it just as quickly when I realize I’m touching him and shouldn’t be. Across from us, Cruz and Bella are staring.

  Sinking back into my seat, I lift my drink to my lips, fighting the urge to lick my hand because it touched his mouth. Like it or not, Revel evokes a physical reaction inside me. The idea that he takes what he wants, and that might include me, makes me feel desired and wanted.

  Can this flight get any worse? Or better? He’s sitting next to me and not saying anything rude? Well, that could be debatable. He is talking about me giving him a blow job. At least I think that’s what he’s referring to. Maybe it’s something else? Stop. Thinking.

  Laughing nervously, my eyes skim his face as a dash of panic washes over me.

  Revel leans his head back against the seat and laughs. I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s the first time I’ve ever heard the sound. Who knew he was capable of it?

  Revel leans in again, our arms touching. “You hate me?” he whispers harshly in my ear. “I wish I hated you because this shit”—he gestures with a flick of his wrist toward me—“it’s killing me.”

  I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “What are you talking about?”

  His throaty gruff laughter fills the space between us, and without missing a beat, he says, “I think you know,” winking at me playfully.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Feeling rebellious, I take a drink of the clear liquid he gave me. Turns out it’s vodka, and I’m not sure, but it could have something crushed up inside it. What if he’s poisoning me? Have you heard that saying ‘he’s poison and I’d still drink from the cup’? That’s my logic. Stupid scary, huh?

  My eyes stare, my mouth tightens, refusing to give up. Some would say I’m being ridiculous, fighting for something I shouldn’t be, but I’m as stubborn as they come. “Why are you sitting here?”

  His jaw clenches ever so slightly. His gaze is long and hard, and even though I want to look away, I can’t. He’s rough and ruthless and interests me. “I find you fascinating.”

  “Why?” I don’t know which one of us looks away first, but my eyes are suddenly on the pamphlet in front of me, outlining the water landing protocol. I wonder if they make a pamphlet on how to survive Revel Slade. If they do, I totally need that. It needs to be more like a journal so you can document it and give it to others who dare to be in his presence.

  After clearing his throat, he finally speaks, his provocative throaty voice dancing over my skin. “Because perfection doesn’t exist.” He half scoffs. “But for some reason, you seem to bleed it.”

  He keeps going back to how perfect my life is to him. If only he knew the truth. That I hate my life most days. I play the part because I have to. I’d come to terms with the fact that maybe my life would always be that way, until him. Until this rock god entered my life when I was barely old enough to understand his digs at me. And now that I do, I’m not sure how to change it other than with this tour. But still, how can he say that my life is perfect? “You don’t make any sense.”

  Revel shifts in his seat. Leaning into me, he dips his chin down, a spiteful sneer on his face. Our forearms touch and I’d be lying if I said my heart and cheeks didn’t react. His lips pull back into a flat line. “Did you love Prince Charming?”

  At first, I say nothing, bringing the glass to my lips, taking the smallest of sips, the bloom in my face deepening. The hairs on my arms stand on end. I never imagined having this conversation with him, and honestly, he doesn’t deserve to have it with me, but what the hell? Maybe if I answer his stupid questions, he’ll leave me alone. “I did. I thought we’d get married.” I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the drugs I may have ingested or the fact that he’s asking what no one’s cared enough to ask about Breckin, but I feel the urge to know. “Did you love her?”

  I stare at his full lips. God, he’s beautiful. Harsh yet defined ruggedness and nothing at all like Breckin.

  “True love doesn’t exist, Red.” His expression gets serious, and he holds my gaze for a long beat, strong and confident, and I imagine what it’d be like to be held by him. How the air would leave my lungs, my body turning to goo and the way I would curve into his like it belonged to him. His thumb brushes his bottom lip when he says, “It’s not fate or chance.”

  “What is it then?”

  His gaze falters just long enough for me to see his weakness. He downs the remainder of his drink. “Fuck if I know,” he states, his eyes teasing. I chuckle and glance away.

  About the time I’m thinking he’s going to leave me alone, he pulls out his phone with his earbuds attached. Swiping his finger across the screen, he taps a few buttons and then places one of the earbuds
in my ear.

  My heart pounds before the words of Keith Urban’s “Blue Ain’t Your Color” pours through the speakers.

  “You listen to country?”

  There’s a shrug, followed by a careful exhale. “I suppose,” he says with amusement dancing in his eyes. Turning my head, I stare at the window, watch the darkness blur listening to a song describing a sad girl who deserves better. I pick songs apart. Constantly. I want to know what the writer was feeling the exact moment they poured their heart onto paper and put chords to it.

  When the song is over, I hand the earbud back to him. We talk more, it’s easy and simple, and so unlike any interaction we’ve had so far.

  With a sigh, his brow furrows, lines forming at the outer corners. “Where’d that performance come from tonight?”

  I flush, my heart fluttering beneath my ribs. “You mean my song choice?”

  His nearness overwhelms. “Yeah.”

  Turbulence jolts the plane, vibrating our seats, but his eyes are intent on mine. My heart beats a little different, too hard, too fast, my unease searching for safety it won’t find with the one next to me. “I wanted them to see that there’s more to me than the songs I’ve been singing.”

  “The greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you can’t.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” I swallow over my surfacing anxiety. “Did I. . . I mean, what did you think?” Ugh. I want to take back the words immediately. I shouldn’t have asked him that.

  His steady hard exterior falters for a second, softness to his eyes, but he recovers quickly. He gives a steady look, lashes dark and unblinking. “You made an impression.”

  Why is he so pretty? I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not, but then I ask quite possibly the worse question. If worse than his thoughts on my performance. Wait for it.

  “What was your dream really about?” I’m an idiot. Clearly.

  His smirk lifts the corners of his lips. It’s adorable and I want to reach out and touch his jaw just to see what his scruff feels like against my palm. “Don’t remember, but it involved whip cream and champagne.”