by Katie Porter
We slam against a wall.
She presses her hands flat against the painted brickwork, nails scrabbling for purchase beside her hips. “I’m going to come.”
“That’s not likely to scare me.” I lean back so that I can see her. I like the filthy way we’re still dressed and I have my hand deep in her trousers and her panties are soaked. She’ll watch me sing, her skin still glowing because of my touch.
She drops her chin to her chest. Her hair falls again and I have to tuck it behind her ears. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy. “Fucking hell,” I whisper.
I increase the pace. I rub harder. She cries out. I lean in toward the sweet curve of her body, wanting to feel every gentle pull and twitch of her muscles. She rides the wave.
I whisper sweet things in her ear, things I mean but don’t want to think about. Harlow and I forever in the stars. Neither of us has been the kind for twilight suburban dreams. Our broken pieces fit together, but we’ve found each other in the wrong universe. The wrong alignment of timelines.
When silence eases over her, I finally kiss her. Her mouth is sugared. The soft play of her lips brings the satisfaction of treating her right. She lets her head fall back against the wall and runs her knuckles down my cheek. It’s a light touch, but heavy to my soul.
“What do you need?”
I slip my fingers from her panties and lift them to my mouth. Her cream is sweet. “I need to go on stage still tasting you.”
She shudders. Her lids are heavy. “Not fucking fair.”
“What?”
“You. This. All of you.” She waves, encompassing me from head to toe. “Men like you shouldn’t be allowed.”
I stick another finger in my mouth. “I’m only who I am.”
“You sure you don’t want anything?” She kisses me, licking her essence off my lip.
Sometimes I remember how young she actually is, but I need some of her youth right now. Her jaded side is still more optimistic than my brightest days. “Harlow, I’m nervous.”
“You’re not showing it.”
“Years of practice. Even though tonight is only a test run, I’m still apprehensive. I’d rather go out there turned on, thinking about you and how you taste. I want to remember your expression when you just came. It’s better than the thought of uninterested, unengaged onlookers.”
Her smile blooms slow and sensuous. Her eyes are still heavy with the promise of sex whenever I want.
“I can’t speak for the rest of Paris, but I promise I won’t be able to take my eyes off you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Harlow
PREP WORK SPEEDS BY me as people rush back and forth like busy ants. The amount of electronics involved is the most surprising. I think of The Skies as a guitar band—Dad thought he was the cornerstone of the whole thing, after all. But the guitars jack into amps, which plug into huge sound systems, which... That’s where everything loses me.
I mostly sit on the sidelines in my damp panties and think happy thoughts about what Alec is going to do to me tonight at the hotel.
When Alec organized my ticket, I was offered either general admission status, where I could stand in front of the stage, or I could take an assigned seat in the balcony. When the doors open and I watch people stream in, I’m pretty damn grateful I opted for the balcony.
I’m right behind its gold railing. I lean over, watching excited fans jockey for position at the barriers. It’s adorable. I mean, I’ve been to concerts before, but I’ve never worshipped any performer enough to push my way to the front. And for only the warm-up event after a twelve-year hiatus? No way.
A quartet of people reaches the front. The shortest, a blonde with hair in a ponytail and a distinctive undercut, leans forward and pets the front of the black speakers that stick up like rotten teeth. She turns back to her friends and dances up and down, transported with excitement.
I lean back and kick my boots up on the railing. This is going to be a hell of a show, one way or the other.
My phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket with curiosity that frosts into dread. The display shows Sophette, my liaison with the nursing agency. The bottom drops out of my stomach and my limbs turn to water. At the same time... There’s relief. I knew it. Somehow Dad would manage to interfere with tonight. If I have to deal with a man like him, at least I’m coming to a place where I can understand and predict his movements. And I can stay away from an entirely different man who still confuses the fuck out of me.
I keep my voice as polite as I can manage when I answer. It’s not Sophette’s problem that Dad and I left on bad terms. “Hello?”
“Miss Tate?”
“Speaking.” I sound way more formal than a chick who’s waiting on a gig.
Sophette’s voice is softened with a French accent, which is ironic considering I’m the one in Paris and she’s the one in London. “Good evening, Harlow. Thanks for taking my call so late.”
“Of course,” is what comes out of my mouth, but really, are there people who wouldn’t answer the nursing director in charge of their father’s care? Probably. The world’s kind of fucked up sometimes. I hope no one I count a friend is in that category. Sure, my friends are in California, but I’m still worried about their moral health.
Yes, I recognize that my brain is spinning out to insanely unrelated topics in order to avoid thinking about why Sophette is calling. I only wish it would work forever, so I could keep her from talking. But she’s an efficient human being who operates under her own direction, and she speaks anyway. “I want to say first off that your father seems to be in good health.”
“But?”
“Excuse me?”
I clutch my cell phone. The plastic case has too much give to provide a satisfying squeeze. I scratch my thumbnail along my thigh instead. “There has to be a reason why you’re calling me. I’m guessing that there’s some kind of ‘but’ involved.”
I mean, it could be true that Dad lecherously assaulted his nurse Melinda. That’s not outside the realm of possibilities, but he’s always been gross, not dangerous.
Sophette gives a sigh that’s so quiet the phone almost doesn’t convey it. I wish it hadn’t. “He had an incident not long after you left.”
“An incident?” My voice is coming from far away.
“He insisted on walking to the water closet and refused Frank’s assistance with a chair, or guidance.” She sounds like she’s enumerating the many ways why this isn’t their fault.
“Trust me. I know he can be stubborn.” I resist the urge to tell her to just fucking spit it out.
“He fell in the water closet. We’ve had him transported to the nearest A&E.” The soothing tone in her voice is part of what makes her so very good at her job. “He’s been fully examined already, and other than a contusion on his shoulder, he seems to have no repercussions from the fall.”
“Oh,” I say with a laugh. I’m so relieved that I’m dizzy. Crazy thoughts of broken hips and concussions fly away before I even realized they were there. “Oh, well that’s great. Thanks for keeping me updated.”
“Unfortunately,” she goes on, and I hate that she’s going on. She hasn’t shut her mouth and the information hasn’t ended. My relief is snatched away. “The emergency room doctor is concerned with your father’s oxygen saturation and a potential pleural effusion.”
“Pleural effusion means water around his lungs, yes?” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to remember. He had that a year ago. It wasn’t great, but they were able to drain it with a needle. It wasn’t even an under-the-knife procedure.
“Correct. They’d like to keep him overnight and do some tests in the morning.”
Some of my relief returns. “Whatever the doctors think is best.”
Is this where I should say I’ll be there right away? Maybe I should. While staring blankly at the red velvet curtain draping the stage, I nibble on a fingernail. “Do you know what time the tests will be in the morning?”
“Not yet, I’m sorry. I will naturally keep you updated as I get any information.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll look into changing my afternoon train ticket to an earlier one.”
I remind myself that I don’t owe her any more explanation. She works for a service, and one that I’m super grateful for. Sophette’s agency is worth its weight in gold. I kind of don’t care if it takes every last penny in Dad’s estate. I don’t need to inherit anything. In return, that means that I don’t have to explain myself.
He gets scans and tests and has been admitted to the hospital more than I want to think about. I’m not rushing to his bedside, and that’s probably semi-shitty of me, but I don’t want to feel bad about it. I beat back the shame. This tiny trip to watch The Skies is the first thing I’ve done for myself since we got to England. I’m not coming all the way to France and then turning around a half hour before the opening act. Panic about more things than Dad is coming together and beating beneath my sternum.
Sophette and I run through a couple last bits of information, such as which hospital Dad’s been admitted to and his room number. I hang up. I tap the edge of my phone against my mouth as I stare out over the crowd. My mental pep talk about avoiding guilt aside, emotion still drags me down and makes me feel about as big as a gnat. I’m a terrible human being.
A terrible human being who makes her trip to hell faster by going to the bar and getting a drink. I need it in order to make it through the opening act, because if I’m going to stay here, I’m fucking determined to have a good time. It probably solidifies my position as incredibly messy, but a gin and tonic definitely improves my attitude. I down one and take a second back to my seat.
The support act is local. I don’t understand the lyrics, but their short set is a series of bangers. The general admission crowd is definitely having a good time. They’re dancing by the second song. Most of the people with assigned seats stay put. I can’t tell if it’s a French thing or a boredom thing or an anticipation thing—if they’re all only waiting for The Skies.
Then the lights go down after intermission.
And the crowd goes fucking nuts.
I mean all-out, balls-to-the-proverbial-wall kind of nuts, and it only gets louder when a haunting atmospheric track starts up as Ian, Nicholas and Lee take their places. Absolutely everyone comes out of their seats, including me. I can’t believe this is only a warm-up gig—the official one will be four times this size. That crowd will be insane. I see a woman climb onto her seat to get even taller. People in the pit start dancing, only to go near-on orgiastic when Alec’s voice fills the theater.
The Skies start with two of their biggest hits—crowd pleasers guaranteed to get everyone moving. Alec fucking struts when he sings. His mic is on a long, long cord. He spins it and whips it. When he isn’t singing, he dances or launches himself off the speakers, jumping high. He jumps up and down in that way that I’ve only seen from the English and from people at ska concerts.
He’s an act. A force of fucking nature. Halfway through the show, I’m as in love with him as the groupies ringing the front of the stage. They reach out for him and he reaches back. At nearly every opportunity, he moves close enough for them to touch him, men and women both. He loves it. He absolutely soaks up every moment of adoration. They touch his arms, his legs. Some of them pet his hair and his back.
He’s glittering with sweat as the gig goes on. The crowd doesn’t mind. He dips into he crowd at the front of the stage. One particularly bold woman takes the opportunity to unbutton his shirt to mid-stomach. Grandstander that he is, Alec doesn’t even make a gesture toward stopping her. Modesty isn’t a virtue that his on-stage persona needs.
On an intellectual level I can recognize that I could be jealous. We’ve been sleeping together for close to three months without a word of commitment between us. We’ve been doing the opposite, really. We keep telling each other that this can’t be a forever kind of thing. If anything, I ought to want to rip the hair off every woman who’s touching him and dreaming about the ways he could fuck her. Jealousy ought to have me twisting in knots and plotting ways to free him from their clutches.
Except he looks so goddamn happy to be in their clutches. I keep laughing as I get swept away in the moment. He’s been wandering in the desert and finally found his way home.
The band loses the crowd’s attention twice. Both times are during songs from their second album, put out right before Dad left the band. I’d rather roll around in broken glass than admit it to them or my Dad, but I kind of get why they’re not beloved songs. They’re a little disjointed and Alec’s voice gets... yelpy, I guess. I’m really relieved when they move on to more popular stuff, because I want that happy to return to the theater.
I cover my mouth with my hands, although I don’t know why I’m trying to hide my giant grin. I guess their fans were ready for a comeback. I laugh because I’m so fucking excited for Alec. He’s had so much riding on this. So much he wanted to accomplish. And I know this is only the test show, the trial run. The real one will be at the Brixton Academy, and so much bigger.
Alec will drive them all insane. It won’t matter how big the crowd is. He has the audience in the palm of his arrogant hand, and they love every scrap of attention he shows them.
A crashing, resounding baseline hits the crescendo of the band’s most popular song. They’re ten songs in but show no sign of flagging. Nicholas’s limbs look like they’re flailing at his drum kit, but he’s slamming out flawless rhythm. Ian has his feet spread and planted, his head down as he zones out in his own little world. Lee dances all around his section of the stage.
Alec pushes through me and into me. My pulse is barely my own. I could give everything to this man, this earthbound god who’s hungry for adoration, even as he drops to his knees before his audience. They’re his toys and he’s their puppet, all wrapped together. I can give him everything I have to offer, and it’s either enough or it’s not. I can’t give him anything I’m not, and it’s scary as hell that I might not be enough.
Then it happens. He finds me. His gaze catches on mine. It’s not during a love song. He’s singing a sad ballad, one where a couple of junkies can’t carry on anymore, where they’re dead in the daylight with no way to save themselves. I don’t know what Alec was going through when he wrote those lyrics. I don’t know what it feels like for him to sing them now. I just know he’s singing to me—to me, the damaged and haunted human that I am.
My heart catches and seizes in my chest. My lips have run dry because he’s still looking at me. He’s so fucking beautiful it hurts, with his shirt open over his gleaming chest, with the cut ridges of his abdomen, with hair dampened by sweat and hanging into his eyes.
It’s going too long. People are starting to catch on. A pink-haired woman turns first. Then a tall guy. A few more. Not everyone notices, but enough that I desperately want to shoo Alec back to his stage act. Go back to playing the sex god for an audience, not for me.
Stop showing any hint of our truth.
These are the truths I hoard, the memory of his mouth on mine and his hand down my pants and the way he pushed me against the wall. The weight of his body on mine. The secrets I can’t tell him and how scared I am.
Most of the front rank of the audience has spotted me. If they haven’t turned around, they’re at least looking over their shoulders. Even the fan who has her hand around Alec’s ankle takes a look. Because of the angle of the lights that still point at Alec, I can’t see any of their faces. Are they judging me? Wondering who the fuck I am? Shit, maybe they already know I’m Silas Tate’s daughter. Wouldn’t that be a can of fucking worms.
Alec comes to the end of the song, where the last bars are some la-la-las. The nonsense syllables don’t break the spell he’s cast over me. Maybe nothing ever will.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Alec
BY ALL THE LAWS OF spotlights and darkened house lights, I shouldn’t be able to see Harlow. But her white shirt caught
some stray beam from a side door and now I’m lost to her, halfway through a song I wrote when I was balls-deep in heroin. Life has changed. It’s actually bloody changed, and somehow I’ve been given a taste of this lovely woman.
I kiss my palm—not my fingers, my palm, the better to break the barriers between us—and clench my hand tight around the kiss. Maybe she’ll recognize that I’m making a promise for tonight. Maybe she won’t. It doesn’t actually matter, because I know what I’m saying.
It’s happened by degrees. So gradually I didn’t see it happening.
I’ve fallen in love with Harlow Tate.
The taste of her sustained me through the first quarter of the show, until we were so deep in the success that I couldn’t be nervous anymore. This is exactly what The Skies have deserved all along. As long as we perform like this at Brixton, we can end the way should have twelve years ago.
As long as I get to keep her at the finale.
As long as...
As long as...
My greedy nature still rears its head, but I regret nothing. The best life is one where I get what I want and where the people I love get what we want.
Ian catches my gaze from stage right. He’s jamming out, all of his dad-fashion made irrelevant by his fierce, fiery talent. Cords along his forearms flex. His head is down. Hanks of tousled hair hang in his face. He’s floating on the high of music, alone in a way, but with us too. He looks up and sees me watching him. His grin is bright. Transformative.
Lee and Nicholas are equally harmonized. Nicholas wears his customary scowl, but when he looks up at me, he offers a pithy nod. He’s with us. The Skies are a unit, the way we were when we made the best music and took care of each other.
I wait for Lee’s guitar to slide out and Ian’s bassline to slide in to start the next song. If I’m honest, this one has me the most nervous. “Righteous Down” has a fantastic prismatic instrumental break, but it’s from our second album and Silas wrote it. The two songs of Silas’s that we played in this set didn’t go over great, but they weren’t terrible either. Some fans love “Righteous Down.” Some... really do not. They hate the deviation from our normal guitar-heavy sound. And no one knows it, but it’s one of the songs where we used a studio musician on drums, when Nicholas was doing the right thing by his injured wife.
