“Very angry.”
Okay, this was getting weird. This sounded like all the freaky movies where the guy ends up being a psychopath serial killer.
She had only known him for a week.
Georgie said, “Okay.”
He said, “I think of anger as Xan’s domain.”
She smiled a little and kept her voice calm. “You’ve talked about Xan Valentine several times like he’s someone else.”
“Yes.”
Oh, so he was not a psychopath serial killer but a split-personality, psychotic nutcase.
Georgie had a feeling that nutcase was not the current, socially sensitive term, but the thought of two distinct people living inside his body screamed wrong on a macro scale. The image of Xan exploding out of Alex’s stomach like the alien larva in that movie creeped her out. “So is it like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or something?”
Alex shrugged one shoulder, scoffing. “It’s not like the movies, like The Three Faces of Eve or Sybil, where one personality takes over entirely and the others don’t remember anything about what happened. I don’t know if that really exists.”
“I don’t know, either,” she said. Her fingers clutched the bedspread behind her.
Okay, so Alex, or whoever, was denying being a raving lunatic with hallucinations and delusions. However, by referring to Xan as someone else, it sounded like he was saying that the pink elephant wasn’t a hallucination because it was really there, which is pretty much the definition of a batshit-crazy, psychotic hallucination.
He stood up, folding his hands near his chest, not like he was praying, but a very restrained, inward gesture. “I think of it as a continuum or a spectrum,” Alex said.
Or Xan said.
He continued, “Xan holds all the wild emotions: anger, passion, ambition. Alex is rational, cool and intellectual, but I can delve into Xan to access the emotions—hate, desire, rage, despair—and I can write about them. Xan holds the art, the deepest levels of the heart, but Alex holds the violin or the pen or the guitar. Xan is the blazing white light, but Alex is the prism that releases the colors.”
Georgie swallowed down her nerves. “Who was on the stage last night?”
“Xan.” He stepped toward her, his hands dropping to his sides. “Xan always performs.”
She looked up at his dark, fathomless eyes. “Who did I meet in Paris?”
He bent toward her. “Alex, mostly.”
“Who did I sleep with?”
“Alex. Always Alex.”
Her shallow breath fluttered in her lungs. “Which one are you now?”
He leaned over her, his lips nearing hers. “You tell me.”
His lips touched hers, not hesitantly but softly, a kiss of promise and depth of feeling that gentled her thoughts. Her hand stole up his arm, feeling the strong muscles of his biceps and round shoulder under his shirt, and she slipped her fingers inside his collar to the warmth of his neck and the skin below, rough from the tattoo.
His lips parted, and he kissed her deeper, his tongue stroking hers.
Yeah, he kissed like Alex.
XAN IN FULL GLORY
Georgie
Riding in the back of the limousine on the way to the sound check, Georgie watched Alex, or Xan, or whoever he was.
When they got to the black limo that was to drive them to the venue, Alex settled his guitar case in the trunk of the car. He hadn’t packed a runner bag because the arena had proper backstage facilities and the parking lot was known to empty in under an hour.
In the back seat of the limo, he reached over and held her hand. The hard calluses on his fingertips scraped her fingers. His calm smile and steady gaze reassured her. It suddenly made sense that royalty and nobility toured natural disasters these days, and in the olden days, they had comforted their peasants after the enemy had razed the villages. The sympathetic interest in Alex’s dark eyes made her feel like the chaos of the world out there had quieted.
As they neared the venue, gliding through the light traffic hours before the arena began to fill, Alex’s body tensed.
Georgie watched him out of the corners of her eyes.
First, his far leg began to twitch.
His strong fingers tapped out a complicated rhythm on the armrest on the door.
As the venue came into view—a huge arts complex like a pile of white boxes surrounded by lonely fields of empty parking lots—Alex tugged her hand toward him, and he leaned over for a kiss.
At first, his lips caressed hers, drawing out her response, an intimate and tantalizing kiss that promised more. His lips parted, and Georgie opened hers. His strong arms clamped around her waist and the back of her neck, grabbing a fistful of her long hair. He stroked her tongue with his until she felt a moan shudder in her throat, and he chuckled against her skin as he drew away.
When he lifted his head, his dark eyes held the predatory gleam of a hawk, and his lips were pinker with the blood rushing through him. He dragged her across the car seat. His burly arms caged her, and he pinned her against the seat and kissed her again, opening her lips with his and bending her to fit against his hard body.
Awareness flowed through her that she was a lot smaller than he was, eight inches shorter even though she was five feet eight. He outweighed her by possibly a hundred pounds of bone and muscle, and in the gym, she had seen him bench-pressing a whole hell of a lot more than she weighed.
She flattened her hands against his chest.
He lifted his head, looking down at her. A smile curved one side of his mouth. “We’re almost to the show, anyway.”
She couldn’t quite catch her breath. “Yeah.”
He uncoiled his arms from around her, still keeping one hand resting on her back, and he stared out the window at the arena.
His posture on the seat was wider, more possessive of the space, and his body nearly vibrated with energy.
If she hadn’t seen the change for herself, several times, she might not have believed it. It seemed more like black magic than psychology.
SHOWTIME
Georgie
The car pulled up to the rear entrance, and Xan Valentine bounded out. He held the car door for Georgie, but he fidgeted. His shoulders turned toward the building. Even as he closed the door behind her, he caught her hand and hurried toward the stage.
Even though green rooms and dressing rooms were built under the stage floor, the roadies were erecting white privacy tents just off the stage area in the tunnels. The green rooms were too far away for the musicians to sprint through the cement tunnels and cinderblock hallways for their few minutes of offstage time during the show, so they ducked into the white tents to rest.
A couple of decently upholstered chairs stood in Xan’s tent. When Georgie went to sit down, the back of her leg bonked the seat and it scooted back. “Wow, these things are light.”
Xan shrugged. “Balsa wood and fiberglass. Mustn’t tax the roadies.”
He began to pace.
Boris arrived with a flourish. He had changed into a three-piece suit, and his thrown-open arms made Georgie think that she had missed the trumpets announcing his arrival. He proceeded to brush on Xan’s stage makeup and do his hair, straightening it with a flatiron and brushing it into a tail tied with a leather cord at his neck. Xan sat in the chair for the routine, but his leg bounced with frustrated energy the whole time.
Jonas stuck his head through the tent flap and announced, “Five minutes.”
Xan was already wearing jeans and a white dress shirt, but several velvet frock coats in dark, tormented colors hung on a rack. He looked over the rack and raised an eyebrow at Georgie.
“Navy blue?” she ventured.
“Yes, good.” Xan pulled it on, then rummaged in the pockets to find several more strands of jewelry—matte silver or steel chains for his wrists and his neck, plus rings with death’s heads. His intensity focused with each piece of his costume that he slipped on.
His one earring with a huge, green crystal dangled fro
m his ear. He never took that one off.
When he looked up at her, a dark light shone in his eyes.
“Xan?” she asked.
He crossed the tent in a few strides and caught her around the waist, dragging her against him. He growled, “Come on stage with me.”
From beyond the frail white fabric of the tent, thunder shook the floor as tens of thousands of boots stomped the cement and hands slammed together, beating the air.
Ice skittered down her back, and fear shook her arms and legs at the thought. “Oh, hell, no.”
“Boris will do your make-up. No one will recognize you. You know half the songs by now. I taught them to you in the music building.”
Xan had? Or had that been Alex?
Outside, the crowd roared, and a drumbeat pounded. The lights must have just come up on Tryp in the drum kit.
Her throat clenched. “I can’t.”
Xan smoothed his hands up her sides, tracing her curves, until he gently held her cheeks in his palms. “I want to see you perform again.”
“Oh, Xan. I can’t.”
He kissed her. His lips were gentle, but restrained passion trembled in his hands.
When he pulled away, his triumphant expression confused her until he dipped his head and whispered near her neck, “Yes, you can.”
He stepped back, and Georgie almost stumbled, whether into his arms or to fall flat on her face, she wasn’t sure.
The tent flap rattled. From the other side, Jonas said, “Xan? Showtime.”
Xan held out his hand. “Come watch the show.”
She took his hand. “All right.”
He led her to the dark tunnel where Jonas leaned against a concrete wall, dropped her hand as he dodged between the black curtains, and strode onto the stage.
And he released the beast that was Xan Valentine.
He had changed earlier, Georgie thought, but it was like Alex had said, a continuum, a spectrum.
Out on that stage, he jumped, he sang, and he touched the life of every person in that building. His arms spread to the balconies, and he pointed, singling out the wildest fans, who lost their shit. He crouched and sang to the front row. Soft hanks of his hair escaped the ponytail and hung over his shoulders, and beads of sweat from the blazing stage lights ringing the front of the stage rolled down his cut cheekbones. Every single one of them thought that he was singing directly to him or her, and they were right.
Sunlight may wither vampires, but the spotlight invigorated Xan. He inhaled it like he was sucking in the bright lights and the screams beyond.
The other band members played their music. Georgie watched Rade and Grayson, looking to see if they were still stoned from that afternoon, but either they had sobered up or they were such phenomenal musicians that they could play while hammered.
Indeed, Rade and Grayson were spot-on perfect, as if the foul drugs in their system had turned to crystalline precision. Rade didn’t drop a note when his hands floated on the keyboards, and Grayson strummed the bass with tick-tock precision.
Late in the first set, Xan flung his blue frock coat into the wings. Boris caught it out of the air and bustled off.
Right after Xan walked onstage for the second set after intermission, he yanked the leather cord from his hair, letting it fall over his shoulders, and flung it into the audience.
Three times, Xan jogged off the stage. He took a five-minute break during each of the two sets, and the three-hour show had a thirty-minute intermission built in. During those breaks, he paced in his privacy tent, singing softly under his breath, keeping his vocal cords warm.
Georgie sat in one of the chairs, legs curled up, watching Xan Valentine in full concert mode.
Even while he was singing under his breath, he gestured with his long, strong hands, perfecting notes and phrases for the end of the last set or the next show. He met her eyes once, and he blinked and his pace stuttered like he was confused to see her there, but the music drew him back.
At intermission, Tryp, the drummer, ran off the stage past Georgie and badgered Jonas for his headset, then spoke into it, his face lighting up, for a few minutes before he chugged a bottle of sports drink and sprinted for the green room to use the facilities.
Rade and Grayson, the Terror Twins, stumbled into the wings for intermission. Grayson ran face-first into the cement block wall, and Jonas caught him before he fell and bashed his head on the concrete floor. Rade vomited in a corner, spitting and coughing, and Jonas called the janitorial staff to clean it up during the next set with a resigned sigh.
When Rhiannon walked off the stage and surveyed Rade puking his guts out and Grayson semi-conscious in Jonas’s arms, she said, “Okay, I get it. Stability over talent.”
Jonas nodded.
After the last break, when Xan sprinted back to the stage like a junkie late to meet his dealer, Boris snagged Georgie’s arm when she tried to follow him.
He said, “Not you, sweetheart. I’m under strict orders to give you a make-over.” He picked up the ends of her hair from near the waistband of her jeans. “I don’t suppose you’d consider a small trim.”
Boris flicked his bangs away from his brown eyes, and he had that predatory glitter that hairdressers get when they think they will see long strands of hair on their floor.
Georgie said, “No, but I would appreciate an updo.”
“Someday, my pretty, I will get my scissors on that hair of yours.”
Georgie wrinkled her nose at him. “Keep your blades to yourself, Maleficent.”
Boris shrieked a cackle worthy of an evil witch, louder even than the rock band wailing on their instruments just yards away and the howling crowd mere feet beyond that. Georgie joined him in laughing.
An hour later, Xan stormed into the tent, wrung out from his own adrenaline, with his breath grating in his throat.
He fell into one of the armchairs, still winded from the long show and mad dash off the stage. He leaned his head back, and his hands grasped the arms of the chair.
Boris stepped away from Georgie, tossed a plaid blanket over him, and returned to finish poking the last hairpins into Georgie’s chignon.
Georgie watched Xan through the mirror as Boris fussed with the curls he had made in her hair. Tremors ran through Xan, and he clutched the blanket to his throat. His teeth didn’t chatter, though, and he didn’t seem as bad as in the car the night before. After only a few minutes, Xan breathed more easily and began to hum, then to softly sing. He sang in a breathy tone, passing air through his larynx to cool down his voice. His head rested on the back of the chair, and his eyes were closed. His damp hair lay limp down the side of the chair, and he pressed cool blue packs to his throat.
After he had whispered a few songs, Xan’s eyes opened to slits, and he glanced over at Georgie. One of his eyebrows rose. He grated out, “Wow,” in a wrecked whisper.
She stood and smoothed down her slinky dress. “Um, thanks.”
Georgie was a runner and generally athletic, but even when she wore formals, she usually dressed comfortably in floor-length slips that accentuated her long, slim frame.
Boris had bought her a corseted dress that cinched her waist and pushed up her boobs, such as they were, giving her a smooth, if slim, hourglass figure. He had yanked and ratted and curled and tied her hair into what looked like a soft Grecian bun with draping curls but was actually a marvel of modern engineering. That structure didn’t even bobble when she shook her head.
He had painted smoky eye shadow on her lids and massaged rouge and lipstick onto her until a totally different girl looked out of the mirror. Her face even looked more heart-shaped rather than her usual, common-as-dirt oval, like her cheekbones stood out more and her jaw was more pointed.
Maybe she was unrecognizable. Maybe it would be all right to go out with Xan tonight.
Even at The Devilhouse, Georgie had gone for a minimalist look because she was kind of the jock and the wholesome-looking girl.
This updo and glamorous makeup w
ere disconcerting. She actually looked like a sexy woman that a guy would come over to, one he might court and seduce, rather than the bold jock girl who took guys home and fucked them.
Xan’s lips turned up in a wan smile as he looked at her through the mirror. He whispered, “You look great.”
She set her lips in a prissy line. “I didn’t before?”
Xan rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I know better than to answer that.”
Boris cackled behind her. “Men have no eye for details, so you have to use make-up and push-up bras and corsets to exaggerate everything for them so they know where to look.”
Xan was staring into her eyes from across the tent. “I know where to look.”
“Of course you do, mon petit chou.” He swept the last of his make-up supplies into his bag. “Xan, I’m going to raid the buffet before I do you up for your club-hopping tonight.”
“It’s an appearance,” Georgie called after him as the tent flap settled. “It’s not for fun.”
Xan shrugged, his broad shoulder moving under his white shirt. “There might be a bit of fun.”
“Really?”
He took a long look down her body—her cleavage, her nipped-in waist, her hips, and the long chiffon skirt that did little to conceal her legs below the short slip. Delicate embroidery sketched flowers and paisleys on the scalloped hem and feathered out near her knees. Georgie shifted her hip under his gaze, not merely to be coy, but to move the filmy skirt around her thighs.
“Yes, we’ll have some fun.” He gingerly sniffed under the blanket and grimaced. “There are showers in the dressing rooms. I’ll be right back. Don’t, um, don’t go anywhere.”
He staggered to his feet, stretching his back, and gave her one last exhausted but fascinated glance as he made his way out of the tent.
The tent flap fell behind him, but it flopped back open as Boris returned with two plates heaped with rolls, sandwich makings, and sides. “I threw some extra on for you,” he said. “You should carbo-load before you go out with Xan.”
Wild Thing Page 5
