He shrugs. “It’s music. We’re in the big leagues. How did you hear about Fallen Angels? I wouldn’t have taken you for a rock fan.”
I cross my arms. “Someone turned me onto them just before I moved.” The man who wrote the songs and just graced the cover of a magazine that called him the world’s hottest musician. “Turned me on” was exactly the right phrase.
“Interesting. Who else do you like?”
“Lana del Rey, Sia, Imagine Dragons.” Every artist he mentioned in an interview, I sought out and devoured. I wanted to hear what he was listening to. If Dylan hadn’t gotten me over my musical snobbery, who knows when I’d have learned my tastes are diverse? In more ways than one.
“Pretty alternative tastes in there. What’s your favorite Fallen Angels song?”
“Obsession.” The last two weeks of my life have been filled with an obsession of my own—getting my hands on everything the Fallen Angels have ever released. Maybe it was sick, but I identified with the song.
Paul nods. “Awesome song. I’m assuming you noticed the Orff undertones in that one?”
I sit up, feeling more animated than I have in days. “Carmina Burana. They probably didn’t notice it when they wrote it.” Dylan definitely wasn’t a huge fan of the classics. “But it was just—”
“Haunting,” Paul finishes with the exact word I was going to say. “I really like that one, but my favorite is Hollow. It’s got a rich feeling to it.”
“Phrygian’s always been my favorite mode with the Spanish flavor of it, but the way they layered the chorus.” I shake my head. “It really took it to the next level.”
“Are you a fan of their lyrics as well? ‘Lay me down below the wise, where you aren’t, I see your eyes.’”
“‘A fall much deeper than your lies, where sound’s the glory, I will rise.’”
“‘Rising higher to take the fall.’” He taps the toe of his shoe on the music stand in front of him. “I can’t tell if it’s about God or an ex-girlfriend.”
“They seem to leave them a bit ambiguous on purpose. I guess it makes the songs more relatable for a broader audience. The goal of commercial music.”
“Do you like the lyrics or the music more?”
I pause to consider. When I think of Fallen Angels, I think of Dylan, but when I remember their songs, it’s not the words I miss. “I hadn’t thought of that. The lyrics fit and are good, but—”
“It’s the music you love,” he finishes with a nod.
Paul’s got the vocabulary to discuss music like Dylan and I did, but it’s missing that chemistry. With him, the conversation feels like a fuzzy photocopy of the Technicolor one I once had in a bar in Chicago. The only time sparks fly inside me when talking to Paul is the thrill of finally talking about Dylan with someone, even in a roundabout way.
“The thing about their music that sticks with me isn’t the words, it’s the notes. I hadn’t thought about it, but it really is.”
“Same here. Despite their breakout success on reality television—the worst blight on our cultural landscape—their talent deserves that success. I just wasn’t expecting to find a fan in here.” He flicks the edge of the ticket I’m still clutching.
I hand his ticket back and feel the loss of the tiny connection to Dylan. Shaking my head, I tuck my sheet music into my bag. Dylan knew I was more than a conservative classical musician. “Why? Cuz I don’t look the part?”
His gaze travels from my practical flat-heeled, knee-high boots, up my knee-length skirt, to my pearly-grey cotton blouse. “Not to sound judgmental, but yes.”
“You’re just a lame, conservative cello player too, right?” I grin. If Paul, if everyone only knew the things I’ve done. With a stranger. In public. But that was a one-off, and I drag my focus back to now. “Music brings people together. You never know what’s playing inside someone, completely at odds with his or her appearance. Everyone’s got influences, right?”
“That’s very true.”
I wish I’d been able to talk to Dylan like this instead of blowing off rock music when I met him. Now that I’ve listened to some of it—especially his own—I see the complexity of the style, the power and beauty in it. He’s created some truly amazing pieces, stunning musically, that I’d love to ask what he was thinking when he wrote them. Now I’d know which classical pieces to play him to show the similarities between us.
Then again, if I’d been another fan, he probably wouldn’t have stayed. Was that part of the attraction for him? Anonymity because of my ignorance? Wanting to lose himself and pretend to be someone else, just like I tried to do? Using me the gentle way I was using him? An unsettled feeling squirms through my stomach at the thought of his attraction having more to do with my ignorance than our chemistry.
I swallow my unease and smile at Paul. “Besides, you can’t deny the sophistication of the Fallen Angels’ music compared to a lot of newer bands. If most classical fans gave rock like theirs a chance, there’d be more fans—and justifiably so. It’s much more complex than they’re given credit for.”
“Exactly! I mean, musical tastes are subjective, but knee-jerk snobbery like that annoys me.”
I flinch at Paul’s words. Only a couple weeks ago I was exactly that kind of musical snob.
“Dismissing them out of hand. Dylan St. John is a musical genius. You’d think he’d be the lyricist since he’s the lead singer, but he’s really the source of the music.”
“I hadn’t known that.” How fitting that it’s the music itself I’m so drawn to. I can even imagine beautiful cello countermelodies to his sweeping musical lines, especially the earlier songs. “I only discovered them recently, if I’m being honest. I was a major music snob before discovering them, I’ll admit.”
Paul spreads his hands. “Better late than never to get over a crappy attitude. Hey, I have two tickets and no date to this concert tonight. Do you want to go with me?”
A dirty thrill zings through my body. Of course I do! But I have to be responsible. Seeing Dylan will only make me want to touch him. Touching him will only make me want more. That will only lead to my own heartache. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m barely a step ahead of this fixation as it is. The amazing time Dylan and I spent together is supposed to fade away into the background. Going to watch him live in concert is definitely not making an effort to move on.
But one harmless concert can’t hurt, right?
I bite my lip, grasping for an excuse. “I can’t really afford to.”
“My treat. Come on, I already have the ticket. My buddy bailed last minute, and no one else I know likes this band. If you don’t come, the ticket’s just going to go to waste.”
If I went, I’d get to see Dylan again. For real. My nipples tighten. I need to see him again. Oh, God, I shouldn’t. I’m already basically cyberstalking him. Would seeing him make it better or worse? My teeth sink into my lip.
Paul holds the ticket a little higher. “You’d be doing me a favor, really.”
Temptation flutters around me like a thousand butterflies.
That man had a way of getting me to do things that defy reason. He had the power to unhinge my reinforced walls and yank me out of my comfort. What would it be like to watch him sing the songs I’ve glutted on since finding out his identity, to see him on the stage while he’s blinded by the spotlight? A tiny, voyeuristic part of me trills with joy. I could go, watch him without him knowing, and then move on. Really move on this time.
Paul laughs. “I think you’re overthinking this invitation. Do you want to come? Yes or no?” He fans the ticket in the air in a small arc.
I can’t.
“I—” My hand shoots out, and I snatch it out of his hand before I can stop myself. Oh, fuck it. There ’s no way I’ll turn this ticket down. Thinking otherwise was a delusion. I smile. “I’m in.”
My hands shake so badly when applying my makeup I almost stab myself in the eye with the mascara wand.<
br />
This is so ridiculous. I jam it back into the tube and throw it onto the counter. After I scrub at the smudge under my left eye, I spritz some shine spray into my hair, arranged in big, careless curls that took an hour to create. I don’t know why I’m even wound up. It’s not like I’m actually going to talk to Dylan. It’s nothing more than a concert. I’m going to watch him, soak in the sight of my new favorite singer, and come home.
And then wear out my vibrator.
I head upstairs, caressing the graceful ark of the dark wood bannister on the way to my bedroom. My new place is an old house that’s been renovated and fitted with modern touches—granite countertops, raindrop shower, hardwood floors, and stainless steel appliances—but somehow feels small and cozier than my apartment in Chicago. I’ve never had a house to myself before, but somehow my things have filled it and it doesn’t feel like I’m drowning in lonely space. I’ve pictured Dylan exploring, casually touching my belongings, and leaning against the doorjambs so many times it’s ridiculous.
Even though the object of my desire won’t see me, I dress in my most provocative outfit. Dark skinny jeans with an elastic blend that makes the fabric so thin and pliable they coat me like they’re painted on. I squint critically at the top—a black corset-style tank top trimmed with black satin ribbons. It shows a bit more cleavage than I’m used to. Alex would scream with glee if she saw me right now. It’s a far cry from the outfit I wore to the bar we were in when I saw him for the first time. I know I look good, but I feel naked.
I sit on the foot of the bed and stare at my phone on my dresser. I long to call Alex and ask her advice, but I haven’t told her anything about my fling, and part of me wants to keep it my secret just a little longer.
It’s just a concert.
But that’s not what you want it to be.
Dylan is never going to be more to me than what he was.
So why do you care?
My gaze is nearly feverishly bright in the dresser mirror as an idea occurs to me. The scarf. The one Dylan used to tie my hands and…
He unhooked my bound hands from behind his neck and held me tight, pressing me against the window, burying himself deep as he came. I could feel his cock twitch inside me. Our breath fogged the window in fast bursts, tiny patches of condensation that disappeared as quickly as they were made.
I never wanted to forget that feeling.
While keeping me in his arms, Dylan’s fingers make quick work of the knot in the scarf, and I was freed. But I didn’t want to be.
Pressing it to my face, I breathe it in, but it smells only of my perfume, all traces of Dylan’s scent obliterated. I never wanted to forget the feeling, but it has faded, if I’m honest. Our lives have a way of keeping us in boxes unless we fight. I haven’t fought since the wild time with him. Then again, I’ve gotten what I wanted, so there’s been no need.
This scarf is a little rebellion, a nod to that night. It lies softly against my collarbones, making me feel less exposed but sexier all at once, remembering the things this scarf has seen.
The cab comes before I have time to second—and third—guess my outfit. Paul and I agreed to meet at our seats instead of in front of the Blues Hills Bank Pavilion, since finding each other would have been a logistical nightmare.
The cab ride’s too short. I barely have time to calm my breathing, choking on too many emotions. I’ll be seeing Dylan in less than thirty minutes. Since the universe knows I need more time, it doesn’t give me any. We hit every green light, and the cabbie doesn’t even try to run me up. The fare’s lower than I’d estimated. The heels of my boots tremble against the ground as I step from the cab. Now that I’m moving forward inside the amphitheater, toward Dylan, I’m steady.
All these people are here to see him. To hear his band. How would that feel? I’ll be playing my ass off a few times a week, but I’m not a rock star. I’m not even a songwriter; I don’t have unwritten songs living inside me begging to be released. I’m content playing other people’s pieces, sharing in their creations.
What it would be like to be the focus of all this adoration? He’s so loved. They don’t even know him. Most will never meet him, and they adore him. Wow.
“…fuck him so hard.”
A potent mixture of possessiveness, smugness, and disgust mingle in my body when I hear more than a few women in line talking about how much they love the band, especially Dylan, and the things they’d do to him if they had him alone for even a few minutes. They would throw themselves at his feet for him to use and discard, caring more about how hot he is than about how brilliant a musician he is.
It’s strange to hear him being objectified like this. I want to tell them that he’s deeper than they think, that he cares. He wanted to do something that makes a difference. Instead of listening to his message, they’re too blinded by his appearance.
I mean, okay, I was too, but he’s so much more than that.
If he’d been just a pretty face, he’d have been easier to let go of.
Maybe.
What made him choose me when he could have gone home with anyone else? I can’t believe he picked me.
Section B, row three. My heart pounds when I’m ushered closer and closer to the stage. The silver scaffolds bows in graceful arches toward the center of the stage and are joined at the top into a sort of halo shape. Fitting for the band’s name. I hadn’t realized Paul’s seats were this close to the stage. Will Dylan see me? Will he be able to read my eyes like a book, see all the things I’ve done while thinking of him? My fingernails dig into my palms. Will he remember me, or was I just another diversion in a long line of women on the road? Oh, God, I should have taken his number and called him. Then I’d know how he felt, what he thought.
Paul does a small double take and waves me away when I get close. “I’m sorry. That seat’s reserved for a frumpy cello player.”
I cock my hip. “Who are you calling frumpy?”
“Not you, that’s for damn sure.” He releases me from a friendly hug before I have time to react to the warmth in his voice.
I tear my gaze from the microphones set up on stage—which one is Dylan’s?—and gesture at him. “You look remarkably un-frumpy yourself. For a cellist.”
“Thank you. I’d give a twirl, but it would completely wreck the image I’m going for.” He winks. He’s in a tight black t-shirt with a gray filigree cross detail, and dark jeans as well. His arms are nicer than they looked under his sweater at practice, and if he took the ponytail out, he’d look like a rocker himself and fit right in.
Opposed to the girls and women dressed in t-shirts with the band’s name and the members’ faces, the ones who are too busy screaming his name to listen to his message. I care about him more than they do. Does he know that? Even though I had no idea who he really was, he knew I truly liked him, right?
Paul tucks one of my curls behind my ear, looking at my mouth the whole time. My stomach sinks as the realization surfaces. He’s interested in me.
Fuck. A deer in the headlights feeling paralyzes me. I’ve been so focused on the man we came to see I didn’t think about Paul’s interpretation of the facts. I dressed for Dylan, really for the off chance he might see me, but I should have put more thought into the situation.
I’m on a date with Paul—although I never meant it to be a real date. I could get in a lot of trouble for this. Why hadn’t I thought this through?
Did I ever make it clear to him that I’m definitely not looking for a boyfriend? Paul must think I put all this effort into our date. For him. This is the last thing I need right now—another man being thrown into the mix. I’m here to see the guy I like and pray he somehow notices me while a guy who likes me is at my side. Ugh. What is Dylan going to think if he sees us together?
God, why did I come? This had Bad News written all over it from the start. Adrenaline hums beneath my skin, threatening to blow me apart. I should explain the situation right now, but queasiness rises and all I can think to do is t
ake my seat to break the contact between us. “Have you been waiting long?”
Maybe he’s just more touchy-feely than I am. I don’t want to start off the night with an unnecessary “ we’re only ever going to be friends” conversation if it’s not needed.
He sits beside me. “I only got here a few minutes before you did. I’ve never heard them live before. Can’t remember if I told you that. You excited?”
I nod. Another emotion—guilt—adds itself to the cocktail in my belly. I did sort of use him for concert tickets, but I’m such an idiot not to have realized. Nothing can come of it. I had to see Dylan one more time, and really, Paul never asked me on a date. It’s not my fault if he read more in between the lines than I said—in action or in words.
I’m just taking a ticket so it doesn’t go to waste.
The guilt doesn’t go away, but it subsides a little, and just in time. The lights go down, and the crowd’s din turns to a charged silence as we wait for the band to appear and give us their music. Can they feel the hunger waiting for them in the dark as they step onto the stage? The people I play for are nothing like this. Their expectations are high as well, but they’re more contained and aloof, with none of this frenetic energy. My people hum, buzz, and speak in hushed tones. His scream, whistle, and stomp. The anticipation is the same, I feel it just like when I perform, but it’s a different breed.
Low notes pulse through the darkness. Bit by bit, the lights come up, revealing the other members of the band, but all I notice is an empty spot where Dylan will be.
What if he doesn’t show up? Of course he’ll show up to his own fucking concert. I’m being so ridiculous. This feels so surreal. I want to whip out my cell and check how long I’ve been sitting here—it feels like hours—but I can’t look away from the stage.
The bad-boy bassist, Sutter Vaughn, sticks out his tongue in his signature move. He’s all but humping his bass already. The drummer, Derek Reynolds, beats out a steady rhythm, ignoring the crowd. We wait. And wait.
And then… there he is.
Badass In My Bed: Badass #2 Page 2
