“You stand on the street in the middle of the night in a fairy costume. That’s fearless enough for one person, Jade,” he replies, reaching out to stroke my cheek. “And now that you mention it, I’m kind of looking forward to seeing those unmentionables.”
“Ah, I knew you were a scoundrel,” I reply with a laugh.
“A total cad and a bounder,” he says, voice low and hushed as he leans over to my ear. The way his breath caresses my neck gives me tingles and by the look on his face I’d say he knows it, too.
“You’re a cruel master, Shane Arthur, to tease me the way you do,” I tell him with false indignation just before Keith starts ushering us up onto the stage.
Those participating in the installation include me, Shane, Ben, Clark, and three other pairings, all male/female. Keith puts on some peaceful sort of meditation music and hands us each a marker, and then we begin to take off our clothes. I’m aware of the fact that this is going to be the first time Shane has seen me sans clothing, and me him. I caught one or two glimpses of him at the photo shoot, but nothing substantial. The night we had sex doesn’t count because it was dark and we only exposed the parts we, uh, needed to expose.
Although I’m not getting into my full birthday suit on this occasion, so there will still be parts left to the imagination. I’m like a high-class French courtesan who knows that partially covered flesh can be far more enticing than stark nudity. The unknown is sexier than the revealed. All magic tricks are a disappointment once you learn how they’re done.
Not that I want to be enticing here. Ah, crap, this really isn’t working.
Shane is already in his boxer shorts by the time I’ve dragged myself from my thoughts. He’s watching me, waiting. Only a minute ago I was the one telling him not to worry, and now I’m the one who’s stalling. Quickly, I lift my top over my head, revealing my ivory silk bra. I undo the zipper at the back of my skirt and shimmy it down my legs until there’s nothing left but the matching panties underneath.
“Do you want to go first?” Shane asks, his voice throaty, his eyes on the swell of my breasts.
I grip the marker in my fist, my palm growing sweatier by the minute. I’d been so caught up on the stripping part of this installation that I didn’t get the chance to think about which words I’m going to write on his skin. What do I see when I look at him?
I nod and swallow before stepping forward. Like all Band-Aids, it’s best to pull them off quickly. Uncapping it, I raise the marker to his collarbone and begin to write.
Chapter Thirteen
A few seconds later the word “vulnerable” is scrawled across Shane’s collarbone. For some reason he has his eyes closed, and I’m glad he probably isn’t going to be able to see half the things I’ve written on him unless he gets his hands on a mirror.
I’m hoping he decides to forgo the mirror and simply wash himself clean, because this shit is going to be embarrassing in the cold light of day. I lift his hand, and on each finger I write one letter until they form “skill.” His eyes are open now, and his attention is solely focused on what I’ve written.
I take his other hand and turn it palm up before scribbling “warmth.” On his abs I simply write the word “hot,” and he cranes his neck to see, looking pleased with himself when he reads it.
“Did you ever think this was what you’d be doing when I asked you here tonight?” I say, smiling up at him as I lower myself to my knees.
“In all honesty, I had no idea what to expect. You’re full of surprises, Bluebird.”
“Hmm, that was a good answer. By the way, those two girls sitting on the red bean bag are eyeing you up like you’re a prize turkey.”
His eyes crinkle. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Sure,” I reply sarcastically before lifting my marker to the defined muscle on his outer thigh and writing “strength.”
“Jade, you’re on your knees, and your face is right by my crotch. That’s the only thing I’m noticing right now,” he replies, all husky.
I start at his words and glance up at him again. Our eyes lock, and there’s a definite moment, though what we’re trying to communicate I couldn’t say.
“You’ve got a dirty mind, Mr Arthur.”
“And you’ve got the best cleavage, Miss Lennon. I mean, like, the best cleavage I’ve ever seen. I just want to put my mouth on it.”
“Somebody’s feeling frisky,” I observe, trying to sound calm and ignore the hot blush that’s spreading across my chest. In my head all I can see is Shane bending over me, his tongue flicking my nipple.
I stand again and move on to his shoulder. For some reason the word “regal” pops into my head. There’s something refined about the sharp lines of his muscles there that reminds me of royalty. On his inner forearm, the one that holds the bow when he plays, I write “strings.” On the left hand side of his chest, right where I imagine his heart to be, I write “pain.” I don’t know how he’s going to react to that, but I’m being honest when I write it. When I look at him, I see a heart that was badly broken and is only just sewing itself back together.
He stares at the letters for a long time and swallows deeply, his Adam’s apple moving. His eyes close then, and I wonder what he’s thinking about.
“You see a lot,” he whispers a moment later.
“We all see a lot when we decide to truly look,” I respond as I write “sex” on the “V” of his hip. He opens his eyes to see what I’ve written, and his gaze heats up.
“Why sex?” he questions intensely.
I smooth my hand over the word and bite my lower lip. My voice is barely a whisper when I say, “Because when I look here, all I can think about are your hips thrusting when you fucked me.”
“Jesus.”
“You asked the question.”
From across the room where he’s sitting in the audience, Keith rings a little bell and calls, “Okay, now it’s time to switch.”
Looking anywhere but at Shane, I screw the cap back onto my marker and wait. I was wrong when I thought being the “writer” was the hard part, because being the “writee” is much worse. The anticipation of knowing you’re going to find out what someone thinks of each part of you strips you bare. You’re completely at the mercy of their judgement, and that judgement could make you either plummet or soar.
This whole thing suddenly makes sense. Who we think we are is completely dependent on what others perceive us to be.
I now realise that Keith must have had a moment of pure genius when he came up with the idea for this installation. And to think I thought he just wanted to get his rocks off.
The first place Shane decides to write is on the side of my neck. I hold completely still, barely breathing as the soft brush of the marker moves across my skin. His other hand is on the opposite side of my neck, as though to keep me in place, but the only thing it’s really achieving is making me burn. Jesus, I’m practically panting here, and all he’s doing is touching my neck.
“What did you write?” I ask on a deep swallow once he’s finished. “That felt like a long word.”
To be honest, it probably just felt long because every second he has his hands on me feels like an hour.
“Wait and see,” he replies, and when I meet his gaze I find his eyes still haven’t lost their heat.
His marker goes to my breasts, where he scrawls “soft,” and then to my hip. I have to bend slightly to see he’s written “need.” Oh, God. His attention moves to my chest again, to my heart, and I swear I feel tears forming when I see him write “too big,” but I swallow down the emotion. Let it sit in my belly; better there than to seep through my eyes.
He turns me around, brushes my hair aside and begins writing along the expanse of my shoulders. It doesn’t feel like he’s writing, though. It feels more like he’s drawing something. I twist and glance over my shoulder, but it’s pointless.
I can’t see a thing.
“That’s cheating,” I pout, and he reaches up quickly, rubbing his thumb over my bottom lip. I suck in air.
“You look cute when you do that.”
He bends down and writes something on the lower part of my arse, and again, I can’t see what it says. Damn him, it’s almost like he’s intentionally selecting parts he knows I’m not going to be able to read. His hand cups my cheek lightly, the touch making my heart pound. Moving along, on the top of my belly he writes “still” and on the bottom “life.”
Ha. That was clever. When I’m being a living statue, I find stillness in my core. I’m alive but I’m also a statue.
He takes my hand, and on each finger spells out the word “touch.” Then he turns it over and writes “me” in the centre of my palm. Wow. Does that mean he wants me to touch him?
I look at him, and it’s like he can read the question in my head because he answers, “All the time.”
My entire body is burning up, and right now I’m just hoping for this to be over so that I can wash his words off me and try to forget how he makes me feel. A moment later I get my wish when Keith rings his bell, signalling the end of the installation. Unfortunately, movement catches in the corner of my eye, and I realise that it’s not quite over yet.
Curtains that have been hung all around the stage, and which I thought were there simply for decoration, begin to be pulled back to reveal dozens of mirrors. There are big ones and small ones, round, square, and rectangular ones. Some of them have fancy wooden or metal frames, while others have no frames at all.
Okay, that Keith is one evil genius. I really hadn’t been expecting this, hadn’t thought that there would be a big finish. The audience is clapping and gasping as the lights in the room reflect off the mirrors.
Suddenly I’m catching glimpses of myself from all different angles. The other couples are going to the mirrors to study themselves and see what’s been written on them. For a long time I can’t move at all, afraid of what I might see. Then somebody’s taking my hand in theirs. Shane. He pulls me over to a large full-length mirror and positions me in front of it.
I stare at his elegant handwriting, and now I don’t want to wash it away. I want to tattoo it onto my skin so that I can keep this feeling, become the beautiful thing he thinks I am.
On my neck he’s written “swallow,” but for some reason I imagine the bird rather than the action. He knows I have a thing for birds. I turn around and crane my neck over my shoulder to see my back. My eyes trail to my arse cheek, and I giggle when I see the word “peach.” But that’s not what holds my attention. What holds my attention are the musical notes he’s drawn from one shoulder to the other. “What do they mean?” I ask.
He purses his lips, holding in a smile before answering, “It’s the musical notation to ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’ by The Beatles.”
I laugh. “I love that song!” Sometimes I think my brain might be a Beatles track. You know, one of the trippy ones that don’t make any sense.
“Well, I would imagine so. You did write it in another life,” he teases.
“Ah, yes, very true,” I agree with a pleased nod.
He lets the smile free now. “It reminds me of you, the girl with kaleidoscope eyes.”
“My eyes are green.”
“Not to me. I see a world of things in your gaze, Jade,” he replies mysteriously.
I look at him through the mirror for a second but I don’t get the chance to question him because Keith hops up onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you ‘Words and Skins,’ and I’ll leave you with one question. Is your identity an organic thing or dependent on what other people perceive of you? Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed this installation. If you’d like to take part in the next one, you can contact me on Twitter, Facebook, or through my website.”
The audience claps, and I go to grab my clothes. As I’m pulling on my top, Shane comes up beside me, buttoning his pants. “I think he kind of ruined the message with the social media bit at the end,” he whispers jokingly.
I roll my eyes in agreement, trying not to stare at his bare chest. “I know. I was thinking he might have some real substance until he did that.”
The doors are opened as the audience members start to leave, and loud music streams in from the other room. Once I’m dressed I look around for Ben and Clark, but they’ve already gone. They’re headed home to shag each other’s brains out, no doubt. Not that I’m jealous or anything.
Shane and I go in the direction of the music, back to the big room with the painted walls. Inside are an instrumental band that consists of an acoustic guitarist, a keyboard player, a drummer, a violinist, and an accordion player. Mary is going around the room with a tray of drinks as the band plays a rendition of Coldplay’s “The Scientist.” She hands Shane a plastic cup with some sort of orange cocktail, and I wave her off when she tries to give one to me. I can smell the rum in it from here.
We go and sit on a couple of pillows a few feet away from the band, and I notice the violinist’s eyes widen when he sees Shane. He definitely recognises him. Perhaps he’s even a fan. This is so exciting. I’m friends with a “sort of” famous person. I think Shane’s noticed, too, because he’s shifting uncomfortably as he sips on the cocktail Mary gave him.
“How’s the drink?” I ask.
“Completely awful,” he replies, and I burst out laughing.
“Why are you drinking it if it’s awful?”
“I didn’t want to be rude.”
I shake my head and take the cup from him before setting it aside. The song comes to an end, and I watch as the violinist goes to whisper animatedly to the guitarist. The guy is only about nineteen or twenty, so it’s very likely that Shane is someone he looks up to. My suspicions are confirmed when both the violinist and the guitarist start waving Shane over.
“I think you’re wanted,” I tell him with a pleased expression.
His posture goes rigid. “No, I’m not.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “Yes, you are. Now stop being antisocial and go over there and talk to them. Make some new friends.”
He gives me a long-suffering look before getting to his feet and walking to the musicians. I watch as the violinist gives Shane a big excited handshake and a pat on the back. The band all clamour around him, chatting animatedly. I sit back and watch. They’re obviously trying to get him to play a song with them because Shane’s shaking his head and I’m lip reading a whole bunch of “no” and “I can’t” responses.
I wonder how he can be so comfortable playing on stage with an orchestra, or even before with his string quartet, and yet he looks like playing here for this relatively small gathering of people is the last thing he wants to do. Perhaps it’s because there isn’t an actual stage here. There’s no formal line between him and the general public. Here he is the general public, and not some untouchable virtuoso on a grand platform. There’s no shield of distance.
Finally, it looks like the band has convinced him to play. He’s nodding his head and then making his way back over to me.
“They want me to play a song with them. Just one song. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, not at all.” I smile. “Go knock ’em dead.”
He gives me a small smile in return and then goes back to join the band. The violinist hands over his instrument to Shane and then retreats into the audience. The band starts up, and it takes me a second to realise they’re playing a modern song. Apart from his attempt at David Bowie in my bedroom, I haven’t yet heard Shane play a non-classical piece. I recognise it immediately as “Just the Way You Are” by Bruno Mars. The beat of the drum fills my ears, purple sound waves drifting up to the ceiling. The violin is like the voice, the rest of the instruments the backing track.
Whoa, he looks hot up there. He catches my eye then and doesn’t st
op looking.
Feeling uncomfortable under his attention, I try to fix my stare on the other players, but it’s no use. I can still sense his gaze on me. Some people get up and start dancing to the catchy beat, some even sing the lyrics. It’s the kind of song that you can never feel sad after.
Once it’s over, Shane accepts some applause from the room before returning the violin to its owner.
“That was amazing,” I exclaim when he reaches me and sits back down. “I didn’t know you played modern songs, too.”
He shrugs, his eyes alight. I’ve noticed he always seems more energised after playing, more centred. “I learn them sometimes to take a break from my usual repertoire.” Pausing, he looks like he’s considering whether or not to tell me something. “My counsellor encouraged me to learn that one.”
It’s news to me that he sees a counsellor, but I don’t want to pry about it. “The Bruno Mars song?”
He grimaces. “She said I should learn some happy songs. There was a period of about six months where all I could play was funerary music.”
This piece of information concerns me, but I file it away for later. Deciding to make light of it instead, I whisper, “Did you go through a Goth phase, Shane?”
He laughs. “No, I was just sad.”
I venture a guess. “Because of Mona?”
“She was a part of it. Anyway, once I agreed to move on, I was glad. Funerary violin is beautiful, but it’s also pretty depressing.”
“I can imagine. So, have you had fun tonight?”
He grins. “Yes, in the most bizarre way possible.”
“Will you come again? Get to know the people.” I nod over to the band. “You’ve already made some new friends.”
“I’ll come again, but only if you’re here.”
“I’m here every few weekends. Next time I’ll bring you up onto the roof. It’s great to just sit in the dark and look at the night sky, see how many stars you can count, see if you can count any at all.”
Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians Page 38
