A Summer Soundtrack for Falling in Love

by Arden Powell

  Like when they kissed onstage, Kris was aware of the cacophony of shouts and appreciative jeers around them. Like onstage, he tuned them out and drank Rayne in like it was only the two of them in the whole world. But their stage antics never got close to this kind of concentrated attention. While Kris knew Rayne was playing up the sex appeal for the others, it was still so much closer, so much hotter, so much more of everything that he felt it in every single atom of his being. It had never been like this offstage before, like Rayne was trying to turn Kris on for real—and it was working.

  Rayne danced like his body was made for it. He kept his arms wound around Kris’s neck, twisting his body down toward Kris’s lap but always stopping just shy of contact, his hips working in a mesmerizing pattern that left Kris’s mouth dry and his blood flooding south.

  Kris wanted to unlace Rayne’s corset hole by hole and watch the muscles shift under his skin as Rayne moved; he wanted to put his hands on him and feel them to be sure this was real. He wanted Rayne to sit down in his lap, and he wanted to push his hands through Rayne’s hair and drag him down until their lips met, makeup be damned, and kiss him until Rayne was as breathless and shaky as he always left Kris.

  Rayne was supposed to be doing this with Calloway, not Kris, but there were no paparazzi backstage. No one else had to know.

  Whether it was the dream, the dance, or just the inevitable deepening of friendship to love, something in Kris flipped. Rayne made him want to fling himself into a jungle of unmapped sexuality, and to hell with ever finding his way out again. Kris wanted to taste him and touch him and be touched by him, and with every passing second the thought of announcing his sexuality to the world seemed less intimidating and more exciting. His nerves gave way to curiosity, which gave way to want that squirmed in his belly, taking up residence with his flock of butterflies, which fluttered wildly every time Rayne moved.

  Kris didn’t touch him. Not even when Rayne pressed his lips to Kris’s cheek in a lingering kiss clearly designed to leave a dark-red mark against his skin, nor when Rayne straightened and stepped back as the bands cheered and wolf-whistled. Completely wrecked and so turned on he was light-headed, Kris returned his hands to his knees and tried to pull himself together.

  Angel fanned herself with a flyer, affecting a wide-eyed, overwhelmed expression. “Damn, boy. You ever want out of music, come back to the White Rabbit with me.”

  “I think I got him a little worked up,” Rayne said in fake apology.

  Kris groaned and covered his face with the crook of his arm, careful not to smudge anything. His heart was beating in triple time and all he could think of was Calloway, fucking Calloway—he wasn’t serving as the deterrent Kris needed him to be. If they were dating for real, Kris would never interfere, but it was fake, and his whole body was burning for Rayne.

  “You better take care of that before we hit the stage,” Rayne said.

  “No touching,” Angel said, though she couldn’t keep a straight face this time. “Sorry, Kris.”

  “It’s okay,” Rayne decided. “It’s a compliment. I’m flattered.”

  “Cassie, I know you filmed that whole thing,” Kris said, not removing his arm from his face. “For the love of god, don’t show our parents. Don’t show anyone, ever.”

  “I’m conflicted,” Cassie admitted, still comfortably settled on Stef’s lap. “On the one hand, you’re my brother, and there’s no way anything you’re involved with can be hot. On the other hand—oh my god, Rayne. Oh my god.”

  Rayne nudged at Kris until he dropped his arm to glare at him. Rayne grinned, mercifully not looking at Kris’s shorts.

  “I don’t know what you were trying to prove,” Kris said. “I can’t remember. But you did it: Congratulations. You proved the thing. I hate you.”

  “No, you don’t,” Rayne said fondly. “Come on, Rocky. Up you get. If you play a good show, you might even get a repeat performance sometime.”

  There seemed to be something wistful in his tone, lingering just below the surface and unnoticeable unless you were specifically listening for it. A second later Kris thought he must have imagined it, because Rayne had him by the wrist and was pulling him to his feet, laughing with the others. Kris accepted his help in getting up, but was privately sure that a repeat performance would actually kill him, especially if he still couldn’t touch. He needed to tell Rayne how he felt; it didn’t matter if it was unrequited. Not telling was going to be the actual literal death of him if Rayne kept up like this.

  Calloway dropped by before the show, talking animatedly about how the press was already paying ten times more attention to Dead Generation on the basis of a few rumors about Rayne wearing their shirt. Rayne got caught up in his high spirits with admirable ease, and rather than watch the two of them play boyfriends, Kris joined Angel on her quest to the food trucks in search of an apple pretzel.

  “Not that I don’t appreciate the company,” she said, “but you seem like you’re avoiding something.”

  “Nope,” Kris said determinedly. “I’m just giving them space to do their thing, because I’m a supportive friend.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I’m trying to get used to moving around in this thing.” It was weird to walk in the corset; it pulled his spine so straight he felt like a toy soldier, though he looked like anything but. The sequins caught the sun and flashed it around with every step, and his limbs seemed much paler and skinnier than he remembered them being. “And I like hanging out with you.” He nudged her with his elbow. “If you want me to get lost, you can say so.”

  “No, you can stay. Honestly, I’m glad you’re here. I’m not used to wearing so much glitter in public, and having this many eyes on me outside of the club makes me nervous.”

  “I’m probably not helping you blend in though, am I?”

  “Not especially, no.”

  Angel’s afro always ensured that she would stand out in a crowd, but with the added sequins and sparkles, Kris didn’t doubt that every eye in the festival was on her. She might feel self-conscious, but she looked stunning. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, and she shot him a grateful smile.

  As soon as they set foot in the picnic area, a wolf whistle pealed out. Kris cast around for the source, but Angel just squared her shoulders and marched on, making a beeline for the pretzel wagon. Kris hovered by her side as she made her purchase, but the moment they turned to head back to the stage, they collided with a very tall, very wide man dressed in dusty leather, who sent them stumbling back a pace.

  “Watch where you’re going,” the man grunted.

  “You the one who cat-called me?” Angel asked. The man’s lip curled and Angel rolled her eyes. “Fuck off.”

  She went to step around him. Kris stayed glued to her side, though he had no idea what he’d do if he had to intervene, but the man blocked their way. An expression of dumb belligerence sat on his face. “You don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Yeah, I do. Now move, or I’ll get you thrown out,” Angel said. Kris tried to look intimidating, though he barely came up to the man’s chest, and was dressed only in a corset, his sneakers, and a pair of uncomfortably formfitting shorts.

  Whatever the man was about to say next—and it was doubtlessly going to be asinine—was interrupted by his friends. One of them gave a sharp whistle and the big one’s gaze snapped over.

  “Boar! Leave that. Come on back,” the other man ordered.

  “Yeah, go on, dog,” Angel said.

  Boar glared and stepped forward—Kris and Angel both darted away—when a second one at the table shouted, “She disrespects us!” and vaulted the picnic bench, hurtling toward them like a burly red missile.

  Angel smashed her pretzel into Boar’s face, its apple filling still hot from the oven, grabbed Kris by the wrist, and booked it. Shouts followed them, from all four of the men now, but Kris didn’t dare look back. They lost them after a few turns, the tents too closely packed for a longer chase. Once they were sure the men were
gone, Kris and Angel slowed their pace to a halt.

  “Fuck,” Angel breathed, and finally dropped Kris’s arm.

  “Fuck,” Kris agreed. “And you lost your pretzel too.”

  “Forget the pretzel—those were the same guys I saw earlier, the ones Calloway said were a cult.”

  Kris craned his neck to glance back the way they’d come, but there was no sign of the men. “No shit. That was the cult? Cal said they weren’t bad guys!”

  “Maybe Cal didn’t know them so well.”

  They adjusted their course for The Chokecherries’ stage, slower now that they weren’t being pursued. Kris took the time to catch his breath as the adrenaline faded, his heart thumping back to a normal pace.

  Passionfruit was just starting to set up when they arrived, Billie running through a mike check as festival goers milled around, drawn by the movement onstage. Kris relaxed, confident they weren’t going to get jumped by a cult of skinheads in broad daylight with so many witnesses around. Tom the priest-to-be was there too, and waved when he saw them, bright and blond in the sun. Kris waved back and tried on a smile, but stilled as the youngest of the cultists appeared by the far side of the stage, making his way toward them. Onstage, Billie paused to watch, and Tom hesitated in his approach.

  “Hey,” said the cultist. He was tall and lanky and impossibly pale, no older than Kris, and didn’t seem like he’d eaten a decent meal anytime in the past year. Kris looked to Angel for direction, and Angel crossed her arms and leveled a stoic glare at the interloper.

  “Sorry about your pretzel,” the kid said. “And, um, about Boar. And Red. They get riled easily when they’re on the booze, and they forget their manners.”

  “What do you want?” Angel asked.

  “I brought you a replacement?” He held out a little package, butter seeping through the paper. “To make up for it, if you want.”

  Onstage, Billie cleared his throat conspicuously, and Kris glanced up. The singer appeared ready to jump down and fight the kid if he made one wrong move toward Angel, though Kris doubted that even if he and Billie teamed up they’d be much good in an altercation.

  “What’s your name?” Angel asked.

  The kid broke into a smile that lit up his eyes. They were big and pale and silvery, but they didn’t seem malicious. He felt Angel relax fractionally beside him. “I’m Rikki. Do you want it?”

  Angel accepted the replacement pretzel carefully, like it might blow up in her hand. “I’m Angel. This is Kris. Your friends are assholes, you know that?”

  His smile slipped but he nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. I should get back before they miss me.”

  “Thanks for the pretzel, Rikki.”

  His smile bounced back into place before he loped off to find his cult. The pretzel dripped butter over Angel’s fingers as she and Kris watched him go.

  “You’re aware that guy is in a cult, right?” Billie said from the stage.

  Tom, perhaps sensing that not all was well, ducked back into the crowd with a little nod of goodbye and a promise to come back later to see the show. Angel tore a chunk off the pretzel with her teeth.

  “So, cults, huh?” Kris said. “When everybody was telling me how weird festivals could get, nobody mentioned the bit about cults.”

  “We should probably tell Rayne and Cal about this,” Angel said, heaving a sigh and casting her gaze heavenward.

  “And Brian?” Kris asked.

  They glanced at each other, wincing in unison. Angel shook her head. Maybe not Brian, at least not yet.

  Kris didn’t get the chance to talk to Rayne or Calloway before the show. While Passionfruit played their set, the two of them were busy flirting with the paparazzi and each other, wrapped up to the extent that Kris was reluctant to interrupt. They really did make a good-looking couple: their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, sharing earbuds as they leaned in close to whisper and laugh together, seemingly oblivious to the outside world. Of course it was all an act—Kris saw the way Rayne kept the flashing cameras in his peripherals at all times, making sure he and Cal were angled so the paparazzi saw exactly what he wanted them to see, nothing more or less.

  He could always tell them about the cult after the show, though he was no longer sure he had anything to tell. Neither he nor Angel had caught the cult doing anything particularly dangerous; they were just assholes, and that wasn’t cause for a group meeting. Lots of people were assholes, especially when you were wearing a corset, a lot of body glitter, and not much else.

  Instead, Kris took the time before the Rocky Horror show to think things over. Passionfruit had taken the stage almost immediately after Kris and Angel got back, leaving Kris a very small window to gather his thoughts. He pushed the cult aside temporarily and returned to the issue of coming out to Rayne, sexuality and feelings both. It was love, he could finally admit: full-fledged, cavity-inducing, spine-tingling love. It was hard to think backstage with Passionfruit playing a few feet away, even more raucous and impulsive than usual, as Billie belted out a Meatloaf tune to the roar of the crowd. Kris’s corset didn’t help either; he was hyperconscious of it, and the constant pressure made his stomach flip in the most distracting way, like the butterflies in there were planning a revolt. Yet despite the butterflies, the corset, and Passionfruit’s aggressive brand of music-making, Kris couldn’t stop thinking about the curve of Rayne’s mouth, half hidden in the shadows of his mane of messy hair, as he slowly danced over Kris’s lap.

  Rayne, apparently oblivious to Kris’s turmoil, wasn’t helping. His flair for the dramatic combined with the energy implicit in a Rocky Horror tribute show left Kris feeling delightfully debauched. He was grateful for being able to hide behind his guitar, because his shorts hid nothing, and Rayne knew it. He seemed to take perverse pleasure in winding Kris up—he spent the show draping himself over Kris, rubbing up against him, curling his fingers through Kris’s hair or around his throat. Kris didn’t fight a second of it—but they didn’t kiss. They touched, and teased, and Kris leaned in when Rayne came up behind him and wrapped one arm around his chest, tugging him close to sing in Kris’s ear, but their lips never met, and this time, Kris didn’t push it. People needed to believe Rayne and Calloway were a thing, and Kris wasn’t going to interfere with that, no matter how he felt. But he wasn’t the only one getting excited.

  The crowd kept yelling for more, hurling themselves against the barricade, singing along until their voices were wrecked, hands in the air, jumping in time. Calloway was up near the front, his ginger hair burnt gold in the stage lights, arms thrown up over his head as he sang along with Rayne. The cult was there too, all pale tattooed skin and black leather off to the side. They could have passed for punks, but there was something separate about them—they didn’t throw themselves into the music like the rest of the crowd. Even among the misfits who made up a music festival, they didn’t look like they belonged. Tom didn’t look like he belonged either, but from what Kris could see from the stage, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

  The band played their set and Kris stayed at Rayne’s side the whole time. He’d thought the corset would get more comfortable the longer he wore it, but it never loosened and he couldn’t stop thinking about how the laces dug into his skin and squeezed him into a new shape. Rayne’s wasn’t as tight as his—he needed the room to sing.

  As they reached the end of their set, their lipstick messed beyond hope, Stef started up the bass line to “Sweet Transvestite.” The crowd dropped to silence for a single second and then surged back louder and shriller than before. Rayne caught Kris’s eye across the stage and grinned, fluffed up his feather boa, and strutted to the mike.

  He’d said he couldn’t strip in a corset, but he managed fine. He had laced his backwards, the ties all up the front, to make for easier removal. The boa went first—he leaned over the edge of the stage and wrapped it around Calloway’s neck like a gift, dropping a fleeting kiss on Cal’s lips before retreating—and then the laces, one hole at a time. Kris di
dn’t pretend to look anywhere else but at him. His heart skipped a beat and lodged in his throat, trembling in anticipation as the corset dropped. The crowd screamed, and Rayne winked and hit the chorus. When he next stalked over to Kris, one hand coming up to trace the lines of Kris’s corset, Kris dropped his gaze to his guitar and closed his eyes, dry-mouthed and desperate for the attention. Rayne was more skin than clothes, sleek and fit, his muscles smooth and lithe and barely showing. He seemed to glow under the stage lights, his tattoos coming to life as he moved, and Kris still couldn’t touch him. Kris played until his fingers ached, but that hurt less than having all that in front of him, unable to reach out and feel it.

  He couldn’t even tell if Rayne was doing it on purpose. What Rayne knew, or suspected, or thought he knew about Kris’s feelings, Kris had no idea—other than that he was embarrassingly easy to turn on, but everyone knew that, now. That had been very publicly proven. It didn’t mean Rayne guessed anything. He was just messing around, high on the adrenaline from the show, and since Calloway wasn’t onstage—

  Kris wished they’d never agreed to Brian’s suggestion of cutting the midshow make-outs. Rayne still lavished him with attention, but it was Cal he was kissing, not Kris, and it was killing him. He’d never been prone to jealousy before, but this was enough to tie him up in knots.

  The song ended and Rayne returned to center stage to say their goodbyes, when a scuffle broke out beyond the barricade. Kris couldn’t see what happened, but a girl shouted, and Rikki the cultist punched one of his fellows, and then all hell broke loose. Security swarmed over to tear them apart as Rayne turned back to the stage, frowning, and reached for the mike.