Here he comes.
He takes the stage and as one, we in the crowd surge to our feet, staring up at the perfect man in the spotlight.
I’m too affected to cheer. The only time I’ve seen him move so sensuously, is when he was inside me. Every step is measured and intense; he’s a panther about to claim everyone in the audience and instead of running away like we all should, we’re all breathless with anticipation of his first note. He’s the focal point of the band as well and they wait for his cue, holding steady while he makes his way to the microphone, unhurriedly, like there’s all the time in the world.
It’s the same way he moved in bed, and I can’t breathe, I want him again right now.
Paul shifts beside me, bumping my shoulder with his, bringing my awareness back to myself, and I simultaneously hate him and am inordinately grateful. I’m drowning in Dylan. My body’s gone rigid with awareness of the man who played my body better than I play my cello—and I’m damn good. It’s only been a couple weeks, but he looks leaner, more dangerous. Maybe it’s the lighting or the angle, or my memories are faulty. He steps closer wearing black jeans and a black and red tank top showing off his long, lean muscles and the ink on his arms.
Those arms were around me.
He’s as sexy as I remember, maybe sexier.
He raises a clenched fist and the band’s first notes roar over us. We roar back, the tension holding in our silence torn to pieces now that he’s broken it.
I’d roar if the sight of him wasn’t rendering me incapable of sound.
He sings.
He covers us in a deluge of perfect, soaring notes that live inside beautiful words. No greetings. No introductions. None are needed. It’s rock star arrogance at its most narcissistic.
I hate myself for lapping it up with the rest of the crowd, but he’s a meteor on stage, burning up, taking us along in the gravity of his wake.
Instead of joining us together, his singing solidifies around him, forming a cocoon of melancholy that makes him seem remote and untouchable.
I’d heard his voice live before, but the quick ditty he jokingly sang in my apartment was nothing compared to this. Shivers crawl up my spine and over my scalp. I want to jump on stage and scream at him for not telling me who he was, for not telling me he’d be in Boston so soon when he knew I’d be here too. He hid himself on purpose and it feels like he didn’t trust me with the truth.
Maybe he didn’t.
But maybe he would have tried if I’d given him my number.
He wrenches notes from his soul, so sad and filled with regret it reminds me of the look in his eyes when he asked for my number and I refused to give it.
He paces the stage, voice pure and true, but I can barely focus on the music, too tense, waiting for him to see me, now praying he doesn’t because I’m so fucking pathetically turned on, so close to losing it I don’t want him to see me now. I close my eyes to savor his voice instead of focusing on his hands and the slim lines of his torso and what I know is beneath his clothes, but it’s not enough I need to watch him.
He grips the microphone the same way he grabbed my ponytail. My mouth goes dry, my knees go weak at the memories, and at the way his lips curl into a sexy smirking grin, sweat starting to glisten on his chest, the same way it did when—
He kicked my feet apart and nearly split me in two with the depth of his first thrust. I cried out and pulled on the scarf, wanting desperately to brace my hands on either side of the window, to push back against him to better feel every inch of his cock plunging inside, unable to do more than spread wider and moan, taking what he gave me.
He hits a high note and I feel it everywhere, arching into the note with a shudder.
Along with most of the audience.
I close my eyes. Grow up, Rachel. I was a notch. A fling on the tour—another warm body in a long line of women. Nothing more than that. Yeah, he asked for my email, but probably only because he thought I was about to ask, and didn’t want me to have his personal information. Come to think of it, he didn’t really protest too much, or push back at me like he would have if he was really interested in keeping in touch.
And why would he want to stay in touch with someone like me? A nobody, really. Another conquest in a sea of bodies who’d do almost anything to be with him. I should feel grateful I got to taste what it’s really like to touch a star.
Instead I feel burned. Burned and hungry for more.
No amount of pillow talk changes things. Nothing’s changed. We still can’t be together. At the end of the day, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, where I’ve fought hard to get to.
No hot, tattooed rocker’s going to change that. No matter how much I want him to. It was only ever going to be a fling. Soon he’ll be back in LA and I’ll belong to another.
The band finishes the song they’re playing.
“Here’s a little something no one’s heard before from our next album”—Dylan waits as the crowd cheers, and I’m unable to squeak out a sound—“releasing next week. It’s a new one.”
Paul throws his arm around me and I’m about to shake it off and explain that this isn’t a real date when Dylan growls into the mic, “This song’s called, Tilted.”
The minor chords swell and strain, filling my chest with disbelief. A flood of memories from our tryst at Tilt bombards me in wave after wave. Surely it’s not about that? About me?
“Glass above, glass below.
I wanted to break through with you.
As above, so below.
You smiled at me like you knew,
how to trust, I could be myself.
But you wouldn’t let me steal you.”
His eyes meet mine, there’s no doubting that he sees me, and I fucking die.
Dylan runs his hand through his hair and sings at me.
“What’s enough? Money’s not wealth.
I hope that I’ve corrupted you,
The way you’ve tainted me.”
It's my imagination of course. It’s got to be. There's no way he can see me with the lights in his eyes, but he's looking right at me and I want it to be real. He could step offstage, the crowd parting for him, and take me by the hand...or he could gesture for me, I’d pretend I didn’t know it was me until he nodded and shone that killer grin at me. And I’d step up onstage and he’d serenade me while every other woman in the crowd was caught in the throes of jealousy. Then he’d whisk me away after the show. We’d go to his hotel room and...
Hot breath hit my inner thigh as he threw one of my legs over his shoulder and tugged my panties to the side. “You’re killing me with this little sweater and sensible shoes and soaking wet pussy. Such a contradiction. But you taste so fucking good, Rachel.” He swirled his tongue around my clit. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
Dylan slowly walks down the stage, arm stretched out to someone in the balcony, singing to her like his heart is broken. Part of me crumbles inside, despite my now soaked panties. It’s his job to make everyone feel like he’s singing directly to them so they get sucked in by the songs. It’s a performance, not reality. He wasn’t singing to me, wasn’t going to whisk me away anywhere. He wasn’t singing to or about me. Of course that's probably what all the girls are pretending. I’m not special.
I never was.
The rest of the songs are tinged with sadness for me, passing too quickly though I try to hang on and memorize each moment. It really is goodbye for us. Maybe a stupid little secret part of me came here for, I don’t know, some kind of validation? I take a deep, cleansing breath, and breathe out the last regrets. Knowing is better than dreaming because it’s real. Dreams are usually lies.
The music is still beautiful, though. At the very least, I’ve got another band’s music to cherish and enjoy. Or, I could, if it wasn’t for the bitter taste in my mouth and the strange empty feeling filling my chest at the thought of never seeing Dylan again.
Of being this close to him and him not seeing me.
&nb
sp; “Thank you, Boston! You’ve been amazing!” Dylan gives the rock horns with his hand and the band leaves. There will be no encores. Fallen Angels don’t do encores. They leave it all on the stage and there’s no coming back when the music stops.
The fact that it’s a perfect metaphor for us doesn’t escape me.
Still, we clap and cheer our appreciation until our hands hurt and our ears ring.
Paul’s grin is huge. “That was awesome!” I read his lips more than hear him, but I nod and grin back because it really was something special, and it’s easier than explaining why I’m sad the lead singer of a famous band wasn’t singing directly to me. Wasn’t validating these lingering feelings or reciprocating the sleepless nights and distracted days.
But I’m wrung out and tired, and want to go home and change into dry panties and sleep without dreaming about Dylan St. John.
“Can I give you a ride home?” Paul asks, leaning closer than necessary. His cologne smells like something artificial pretending to be fresh. Green tea or fresh laundry or something that should be pleasant, but I’m overstimulated right now and need fresh air.
I should take a cab, but with everyone leaving at once, I likely won’t get one for an hour, if I manage to get one at all, so I nod. “I have to use the restroom before we go.” I don’t, but need a moment to process the evening. The loss I didn’t realize I was mourning because it took until now to understand the finality.
“Okay. I’ll walk you and wait so we don’t get split up.”
“Sounds good.”
We veer off down an aisle, following the signs in silence. I don’t know what’s going through Paul’s mind, but I’m too wrung out to make small talk.
“Third row?” A staff member, a twenty-something woman with short brunette hair and huge, green eyes holds her hand out to us, hand held to her Bluetooth earpiece, blocks me when I try to walk around her, and eyes my scarf.
“Yes. Why?” Paul’s words raise my eyes from the floor.
“The band has requested you come backstage.”
CHAPTER TEN
Paul keeps up a stream of excited, but semi-smug chatter, not outright saying it, but implying that he had something to do with this happening. He thinks we were chosen because of our seats, or the way we look, and he’s way too pleased about that. Keeping pace, I nod and smile and try my best not to freak out.
None of the other band members know who the hell I am, so the chances of one of them choosing me is next to impossible. There’s no way this is random. The woman on staff looked at my scarf. She knew who I was and there’s only one band member with a connection to the article of clothing around my neck. My stomach is one giant knot and I can’t feel my legs.
Dylan saw me. Dylan wants to see me backstage.
Why does he want to see me? Excitement buzzes beneath my skin.
“This is so awesome,” Paul says in a low voice. Again.
His hand bumps against mine and I tuck it into my back pockets, hoping it looks natural. He might not have been about to take my hand, but the last thing I need is to be touched right now. I’d give my kingdom for a sensory deprivation tank and a week to mull things over.
Will Dylan think Paul and I are a couple? I’m taken with the urge to shove Paul forward like a human sacrifice and run out of the building as fast as I can, but I’m unable to think of a reason why I don’t want a free meet and greet with the band I told him I love. We quoted lyrics back and forth, there’s no way he’ll believe any flimsy excuses I give him now. So far, the best I can come up with are gastrointestinal, and I can’t bring myself to go there.
And a part of me wants to see Dylan.
The long hallways on the way backstage are surprisingly empty until we turn a corner and the corridor is clogged with long-haired rock guys and heavily made-up women my age. Some younger, some older, most look like they’re trying too hard.
I don’t feel better when I realize I fit in with them with my clothes and hair.
The air is warm and thick with the smell of bodies and incompatible body sprays and perfumes. Paul scrapes his hair back into a fresh ponytail. Even he’s acting like a groupie.
I don’t want to be here. The times I imagined Dylan and I meeting again, we were always alone. I don’t want to do this in front of a crowd. I’m not ready, I’m not dressed properly—I’m not dressed like myself. Despite the heat, I wish Paul had a sweater I could borrow to cover up with. The scarf burns the skin of my throat.
Why did I wear this thing? As soon as Dylan sees it... My clutch is too tiny to put my scarf into, but I want to tear it off and hide it, for it makes me seem like just another groupie with a trophy.
The edgy brunette in front of us turns with a grin. “Hey! You guys win the radio contest as well?”
I shake my head. “We were chosen.”
The guy ahead of her with a huge beard turns and smiles. “My ticket got picked as well at the door! Awesome luck. The meet and greet packages sold out in less than three minutes. I tried online, but my wi-fi shit the bed on me. You won the radio contest?” He nods at the brunette.
She turns to him and they strike up a conversation, so I don’t bother correcting him about our ‘win,’ and neither does Paul.
He leans closer. “It is weird how we got chosen for this if it was sold out all over—not that I’m complaining. It will be awesome to hang out with them, though. I bet they get up to all kinds of crazy things we can’t even imagine.”
Oh, I can imagine.
I lick my dry lips. “We’re probably not going to be hanging out. It’s more likely going to be a quick photo op and a handshake.”
He tucks a flyaway piece of hair back behind his ear. “I know, but it’s still awesome.”
“I didn’t know you thought so highly of them, Paul. You seem a little more impressed than I expected. We’re no strangers to the stage.”
He shrugs. “It’s different. We’re from different worlds. People like them don’t hang out with people like us.”
I lean weakly against the wall. Yeah they do. Sometimes they take over your world for a couple days, obliterating things you thought you knew about your life and yourself. But it’s never for long.
“Okay, you are trouble.” He shook his head and bit his lip, and that last soft kiss he gave me almost changed my mind about giving him my contact information. If he’d asked me again...but he hadn’t.
He’d slid his shades onto my face and walked out of my life.
Was I something more to him than a one-night stand? That’s the question haunting me. Did I affect him the slightest bit, or is he like that with every woman he sleeps with?
“What did you think of that new song? Tilted? Tilt?” Paul leans against the wall, mirroring my posture.
I think that the lead singer took our very public sex act and made it into a very public song, exploiting what happened between us and I should be offended, but instead it feels like a gloriously inappropriate secret between Dylan and me. And thinking about talking to you about it makes me want to die a little. “It was good. Different.” It was mine.
“Definitely.” Paul prattles on more about signatures and progressions, but my thoughts turn inward.
Dylan wrote a song about me. And in a couple minutes, I’ll see him and he’s going to smile that cocky grin at me, and I’ll shake my head and act scandalized, and then I’ll get him alone and find out every detail I can about the song.
Or maybe not talk at all.
“Right?” Paul nudges my shoulder. “Right? You noticed that too?”
I blink hard and focus on his face, but I have no idea what he’s said, so the safest course of action is a small nod and enthusiastic smile.
And that’s what I’m doing when the band comes into the hallway to much fanfare from the thirty or so people ahead of us in the line.
A tall man in jeans and a suit jacket, probably their manager, steps forward with his hands up to shush us. “Okay, everyone, listen up. Photos are allowed. One item
per person for signing. You know the drill.”
I turn to Paul. “Do you know the drill?”
His expression is perplexed. The brunette turns back and rolls her eyes. “The line moves fast, so have your things ready if you want something signed. It’s meet and greet, not hang and share life stories. There are, what, thirty of us? If we only get a minute each with them, that’s half an hour the band’s standing around after they’ve just performed a full set. You’re not getting a full minute. The band can touch you, but you can’t touch them—not that I’m going to listen to that,” she whispers with a lecherous wink. “You’d be surprised what you can ‘accidentally’ get away with. First chance I get, I’m grabbing a handful of Dylan.”
“Thanks for filling us in,” Paul says.
I want to slap her eyeliner off her face. Dylan’s not hers, he’s a human being and she’s plotting to invade his personal space like he’s an object for her personal pleasure. Outrage on his behalf surges through me before I sag against the wall, deflating.
He’s not mine either. God, what is wrong with me?
He’s getting closer.
Dylan hasn’t had time to change, and he’s still sweaty. It only makes him look more badass and sexy. Grungy and taboo, and I remember the way his male scent mingled with his citrusy cologne, and it makes my mouth water. The band members make their way down the line fairly quickly, but I only have eyes for Dylan. I try not to stare, but I’m dying to see his reaction to me. Will he be happy I’m here? He did ask for me specifically. Will he pull me into his arms, hug me, kiss me in front of Paul?
Shit, I keep forgetting about Paul. How the hell will I explain a kiss away? I’ll be casual and play it off like I planned it all along to surprise Paul because Dylan and I are old friends and isn’t it funny haha.
Too many frantic heartbeats later, I smile nervously at him, now only a couple feet away and moving closer.
“I’m Dylan.” He holds out his hand to Paul, who takes it and vigorously shakes it.
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