A Summer Soundtrack for Falling in Love

by Arden Powell

  “I’m going to grow it out. By the end of tour it’ll be long enough to yank around for real.”

  Rayne’s lips parted for a second. “Can I touch you?”

  “You’re touching me right now.”

  “For the show, brat.”

  “Sure,” Kris said, and purposefully didn’t ask what kind of touch Rayne meant. When Rayne touched him skin to skin, it burned like a furnace and sent him shivering all over in its wake. “You don’t need to write up a contract, you know. You can just do whatever feels right. Whatever you think will work.”

  “Carte blanche.” Rayne looked like he wanted to eat Kris alive.

  “Yeah. That.” Kris’s mouth was desert-dry. He ran his tongue over his lips and Rayne’s eyes went unfocused for a second before he seemed to snap back into himself and put space between them.

  “God, you’re something else. And I thought I might have upset you with that kiss.”

  “I’m pretty easygoing.”

  “I’m so lucky I found you.”

  “I’m the lucky one,” Kris countered. “But we’re cool?”

  “We’ll mess around onstage and put on a show,” Rayne said. “No strings, no complications, no messy feelings.”

  That sounded perfect. Kris bumped their fists together. “Sounds good, man.”

  Rayne sat back down on the couch, smiling like this was an everyday transaction. Kris thought about lying down and trying to sleep as his skin buzzed from the memory of Rayne’s lips on his with twenty-seven thousand people screaming for more. His thoughts were slow and rambling, the high still curling around his brain and making it hard to focus on anything but that kiss.

  “You should find out where Angel gets her stuff,” he said absently. “This is good shit.”

  “She knows what’s up,” Rayne agreed, tipping his head back and letting his eyes fall closed.

  The days turned into a week as they went from New Jersey to Virginia, then Michigan, and Indiana; down to Florida for three shows, to Alabama for one, until they were thirteen days in and playing in New Orleans to twelve thousand people, and Kris had barely had time to catch his breath, let alone work out the details of his attraction to Rayne. In between shows, Rayne did press, giving interviews and sound bites for the flashing cameras, coy when they asked about his love life and honest when they wanted to talk music. Kris didn’t know how he had the patience for it, but Rayne took the business side of his music seriously, and gave the press just enough intrigue to keep The Chokecherries in the public eye.

  The band threw themselves into their shows without hesitation. They never played a crowd under ten thousand, and as soon as the people knew to expect Rayne and Kris’s midshow kiss—they always had at least one, but as the shows went on the number climbed—they screamed and cheered for more. Kris had worried that with the booze and drugs out of their systems, he and Rayne would reconsider the discussion they’d had after Hershey. It was the most pointless worry Kris had ever had in his life. Rayne’s daring only grew as the tour went on, kissing Kris harder, for longer, and more often, running his hands through Kris’s hair, tugging on his shirt, playing with his belt while Kris tried not to miss a chord.

  The fan sites swarmed with videos and theories. Cassie sent Kris links to fanfiction featuring his and Rayne’s imagined backstage love life, which he quickly learned to avoid without opening, though the first one stuck with him. There was something unsettling about strangers speculating on the details of his nonexistent sex life, especially in such graphic detail—though he could admit it was hot, from under his blanket of embarrassment.

  The more people reacted, the more Rayne pushed, until Kris was looking forward to Rayne’s kisses as much as he looked forward to his solos, and their energy burned and crackled as they ramped it up with every show they played. After two weeks of near daily making out, and hugs and casual touches in between, Kris was so acclimatized to Rayne that he thought he might go into withdrawal if he went a day without him.

  Luckily, that didn’t seem likely—the fans and the press ate up the shows, and the rest of the band seemed delighted by the reaction. Kris was in heaven. By the time they played New Orleans, he felt like he could do this for the rest of his life.

  As soon as they finished their set, Angel was waiting to whisk them offstage and back to the bus, cramming both bands in one, to see her club.

  “Is it like a strip club?” Kris hazarded, glancing sideways at her to gauge her reaction to his guess.

  “The White Rabbit’s a burlesque club,” she corrected, as Butch turned the engine over and pulled out onto the road. “We do strip shows, but not like you’re thinking.”

  Kris’s hometown had a bar where the girls dressed provocatively, but technically there was no stripping. Whatever went on in the back room was done under the table, and Kris had never asked about it. He’d only been once, and that at Brad’s behest—it had taken him a week to shake the sleazy feeling and look his girlfriend in the eye again. Angel didn’t seem capable of running a joint like that.

  “So what’s burlesque like?” he asked.

  Angel just smiled, sphinxlike, and Rayne laughed. It didn’t answer a thing, but Kris nestled in between them and watched the city stream by, all glowing neon and car taillights, and decided he didn’t mind finding out firsthand.

  “My godfather sold me the building for a fraction of its worth,” Angel explained, “and I turned it into something completely new.”

  “It’s a beautiful club,” Rayne added. “Billie helped design it, right?”

  “Yeah, you bought the place like a year after graduation?” Billie said. “And you asked me to help with bits. It was fun, like a giant installation project.”

  “That was before I met Rayne,” Angel said.

  “And she didn’t introduce me to Billie and Passionfruit until last year, when we—Passionfruit and The Chokecherries—were both playing the same festival together, and Angel was touring with us as our makeup artist,” Rayne said.

  “Huh,” Kris said. “Small world.”

  “Not too small, or we’d get bored,” Angel said. “Here we are.”

  The bus slowed and pulled over to the side of the street. The White Rabbit was identified by a neon rabbit on a door that was otherwise unmarked, squeezed in between the brick walls of two other clubs. The rabbit glowed fat and white, neither inviting nor off-putting as Angel led them through the door, down the narrow stairs, and onward to greet the bouncer at the bottom. They slipped through without a cover charge, and the guard held the second door open for them as they entered the club beyond.

  The White Rabbit was sumptuous, decadent, and sybaritic, like it had rolled out from an erotic Victorian fantasy. Leather couches lined the walls; the bar glittered with a hundred different kinds of alcohol in glass bottles and crystal decanters. The walls were a deep, rich red like bloodshed or rose petals, the ceiling was covered in tiny mirrors that winked in the changing light, and the place was full of the most beautiful people Kris had ever seen, dressed in leather or lace or lingerie or, in some cases, very little at all. On the stage at the back, someone hidden by huge ostrich plumes like a flapper pinup posed under a spotlight, nothing but long legs, pale skin, and high heels.

  “They’re expecting me to take the stage,” Angel said. “Grab a seat and enjoy the show.” She pressed a quick kiss to Rayne’s jaw before darting away behind the stage to change.

  “Drinks,” Rayne said. “She’ll say they’re on the house, but we’re not doing that. I’ve got this round.”

  Kris ordered something stiffer than his usual; it seemed like he was going to need it. They crowded around a couple of tables that had been saved for them near the stage, and Kris tried to figure out how to look at the other people in the room without being rude. Some of them wore masks and little else, making it impossible to meet their eyes. Kris settled on staring at their shoulders and trying not to blush. Rayne laughed at him, and Kris hid his face behind his drink.

  When Ang
el took the stage, the music swelled and the conversation quieted. The beat was sultry and seductive, and she walked out in an enormous fur wrap that covered her from throat to thigh, her heels so high she was almost walking en pointe. She was like a showgirl from the Moulin Rouge, her mouth dark and pouty, her eyes glittering in the low lights of the club. Kris wondered again how he had stumbled out of his universe and into this one—it must have been here all along, just waiting for him to pull back the surface and take a peek.

  Angel danced like every eye in the world was on her, and she knew how to give them exactly what they wanted. The fur came away inch by inch revealing a smooth expanse of dark-brown skin, interrupted by the crisscrossing straps of her lingerie, refusing to give away the whole picture at once. She caught Kris’s eye, and his mouth went so dry he nearly choked on his own tongue. Rayne put his arm around Kris’s shoulders and spoke in his ear, close enough to be heard over the music.

  “Better than you expected?”

  “Different,” Kris agreed.

  The music deepened, and Angel stepped from the stage, leaving her fur in a heap behind her. She wore a bra and garter set designed to look like flower petals, and Kris had never seen a more beautiful girl before in his life. She approached Jay, who sat nearest the stage, and curled her fingers under his chin as everyone jeered and wolf-whistled.

  “I’d do this for Billie,” she said, “but I know he’s shy when he’s not onstage.” She sidled in closer until she was right over his lap, and Jay dropped his head back, laughing helplessly under her attention.

  “I’m filming this and sending it to your fiancée,” Billie cackled.

  “She’ll love it,” Jay countered. “She’ll just be mad she’s not here in person.”

  Angel rolled her eyes without pausing in her dance. She swayed her hips, careful not to touch him, her arms crossed above her head as Jay clearly tried to work out where to put his hands without making it awkward. He eventually settled on tucking a folded bill into the top of her stocking. She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a rose-petal of lipstick behind, and stepped back, still moving to the beat.

  “Who else wants to dance with me?”

  Rayne looked at Kris, who squeaked.

  “Oh, honey,” Angel said, stepping closer on those impossible heels until she was near enough to smooth her hand through his hair. “You don’t have to have a dance if you don’t want one.” She leaned in until her lips ghosted over his cheek, and his eyes fluttered shut of their own accord. “But if you change your mind, you let me know.”

  She left him and sauntered back to the stage, where the music swelled again and the lights flared to welcome her back. Kris’s heart was beating a mile a minute now, and Rayne’s arm stayed heavy around his shoulders.

  “You know when you’re a kid at a restaurant and someone tells the waiter it’s your birthday?” Kris said.

  “You think being offered a lap dance is as bad as having a roomful of strangers sing at you?”

  “How red is my face right now? I feel like I’m burning up.”

  “It makes you look healthy,” Rayne said.

  Angel’s number ended and despite Kris’s embarrassment, he kept his eyes on her until she disappeared backstage, and the club exploded in applause.

  “Let’s get you another drink,” Rayne decided.

  Kris couldn’t agree more.

  He was buzzed but not drunk when Angel returned, wearing a silk robe over the lingerie, and shoes that, while still aggressively fashionable, seemed considerably less dangerous to walk in. With all the alcohol in his system, Kris had a harder time keeping his eyes from wandering; Angel caught on straightaway and smiled.

  “Like what you see?” she asked. “You’re allowed to look as long as we’re both in the club. That’s the whole point of me being onstage.”

  “You look . . . really nice,” Kris stuttered, trying his hardest to stay polite.

  She laughed and put her hand on his arm. “You’re the sweetest thing.”

  “You’d never know I found him on the roadside like a kitten in a cardboard box,” Rayne agreed. “Such a gentleman.”

  “Every time you tell this story, it gets worse,” Kris complained, without meaning it. “I was busking!”

  “You didn’t have a permit.”

  “You need a permit to busk? That might be the first illegal thing I’ve ever done in my life. Besides the weed, I guess.”

  “Weed doesn’t count.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be the last thing, anyway,” Angel said. “Next round is on the house, and, Rayne, don’t even try to sneak the bartender your money. I see you. Let’s get turned up.”

  Kris wasn’t sure how he ended up dancing in between Rayne and Angel half an hour later. He wasn’t drunk enough to excuse it, but between the post-show high, the exhaustion preceding it, and the giddiness that had followed him ever since meeting Rayne, he might as well be ten shots in. Rayne’s hands were on Kris’s hips as they moved in tandem to the music, a slow, rhythmic beat slinking out from the speakers. There was a bare inch of space between their bodies; little enough that he could feel Rayne’s body heat through his clothes, but they didn’t touch. Angel caught his eye and nudged him back to close the gap. Kris’s shoulders met Rayne’s chest as Rayne caught and held him there, lightly, so Kris could squirm away if he wanted—but he didn’t move. He leaned back and let Rayne turn him around so they were face to face, and looked up to meet Rayne’s eye.

  “Hi,” Rayne said.

  In close quarters, surrounded by people, it would be second nature to reach up and kiss him. Kris fought the urge and slipped from Rayne’s arms before he could do anything impulsive. No strings, no complications, and no causing trouble. “I’m going to get another drink.”

  Taking a deep breath, he headed for the bar, signaling for a refill of whatever he’d had last time. He slid onto a stool beside a stranger: tall and blond, not attached to either band, but clearly not a White Rabbit performer, either. The man was wholesomely handsome in a way that made him stand out among the club’s sultrier inhabitants, and Kris gave him a smile before reaching for his wallet to pay for his drink.

  “Hey, let me get that,” the man said, smiling back and offering a few bills to the bartender. “I’m Tom.”

  “Kris. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Are you performing tonight?”

  “Oh, I’m not— I’m in a band,” Kris explained, stupidly proud of being able to say that. “We’re just hanging out.”

  Kris was still wearing his makeup from the show, but doubted it had survived without smudging. Angel and the other burlesque performers were flawless, not a line or hair out of place. Maybe Tom was drunker than Kris.

  “I’ve been coming here for the past few months,” Tom was saying. “I haven’t seen you before but I assumed—I thought you must be one of the dancers. You’re very pretty.”

  “Thanks,” Kris said again, preening a little. He liked being called pretty; no one ever had before he met Rayne. “So what do you do, Tom?”

  “I’m in seminary school,” Tom said brightly. “I want to be a youth pastor.”

  Kris blinked. “And you’re hanging out in a burlesque club?”

  Tom blushed and the freckles on his nose stood out. “I just wanted to see what it was like. I haven’t taken any vows yet.”

  “Huh.”

  “There’s beauty in everything,” Tom said, clearly warming to his subject now that Kris hadn’t run away screaming. “I don’t want to preach about sin and shame; I want to appreciate God’s work in everyone and everything.” He looked into the depths of his glass. “I might be drunk.”

  “I’m not judging you, man,” Kris said. “I think it’s great that you’ve got an open mind.”

  “I don’t want to condemn people,” Tom said, “not when they haven’t hurt anyone. Look at you—a nice young lady—just because we met in a place like this, doesn’t mean—”

  “Hang on,” Kris said.

  T
om blinked at him, his expression open and painfully sincere.

  “Never mind,” Kris said. The alcohol made it seem like too much effort to correct him, and besides, he was strangely flattered by the attention, however misguided. “Doesn’t mean what?”

  “That you’re not blessed,” Tom said. “Everyone in here—we’re all blessed. Can I get you another drink?”

  “Why not.”

  Kris was tucking into his second, something pink and sugary and with a significantly higher alcohol content than his usual, because girly drinks didn’t fuck around, when Rayne joined them, flagging the bartender down.

  “Making friends?” he asked Kris.

  “This is Tom,” Kris said. “He thinks I’m the prettiest girl in the whole club.” Rayne raised one eyebrow and Kris shrugged. “What’s up?”

  “Brian,” Rayne said, with uncharacteristic sourness. Kris made a concerned noise and Rayne waved him off. “Business stuff. Don’t worry about it. I’m just not drunk enough for the conversation he wants to have. I’ll tell you about it later.” The bartender slid him his drink and Rayne took a gulp as he put his money down. He swallowed and smiled. “Seriously, don’t worry. You two kids have fun getting acquainted. Nice to meet you, Tom.” Rayne saluted them with his drink and slipped back onto the dance floor.

  Kris watched him go, wondering if he should chase him down and press him for details, but Tom spoke before he could decide.

  “Are you on tour?”

  Kris shook Rayne’s moodiness off. If it was due to business, he’d find out the cause sooner or later. “We’re heading west to Nevada for the Purple Sage Music Fest. It’s my first festival. It’s my first lots of things.” Two weeks into the tour didn’t feel any realer than it had on the first day, and he smiled around his straw, bright and tipsily enthusiastic. “Have you ever been?”

  “No, I’ve never done much either,” Tom said.

  “Well, if you have a pre-priesthood bucket list, add it. A lot of people have, like, spiritual awakenings at music events. Maybe you’ll get something out of it.”

  “Maybe,” Tom agreed, hesitantly. “I’d like to try as many spiritual experiences as I can.”