by Lauren Rowe
I swallow hard, my heart feeling like it’s bleeding. “Will I see you at my shows on the East Coast?”
She pauses, like she’s considering it. But, ultimately, she shakes her head. “Let’s make a clean break. I’ve told you about my life. I’ve got baggage. I’ve worked on myself, really hard, but if you’re looking for a cool, carefree girl with no issues or hang-ups, who’s gonna video chat with you on occasion and then show up to fuck you in New York and then disappear again with a happy wave goodbye, then I’m not that girl. I’m scared to death of abandonment and this entire situation is going to fuck with my head. I know I seem like a hitwoman to you, but, trust me, I’m not.” She wipes her eyes. “Just go and have fun, Dax. I want that for you, sincerely. Make your dreams come true. Do whatever—and whoever—you want, without being tied down in any way to some chick in Rhode Island who’s sitting by the phone. Have the time of your life.” She kisses my cheek and shocks me by heading quickly toward the door.
“Violet,” I blurt, panic flooding me. “Wait.”
She turns around, her hand on the doorknob.
My eyes and nose are stinging. I swallow hard. “Can I come see you after the tour? I’ll come to Rhode Island.”
As she considers my suggestion, her face contorts like she’s hosting a tug of war inside her brain. She exhales. “If you’re still thinking about me when the tour finishes up in L.A., call River Records and ask for Miranda. She’s interned there for the past two summers and she’s planning to work there full time after she graduates in May. If the planets are aligned by then—if we’re both single and still thinking about each other—then, yeah, maybe we’ll reconnect then.”
My bleeding heart fills with hope. “I’ll see you then.”
Violet doesn’t look convinced. “A lot can happen in eight months, Dax—especially to a guy going on a world tour with Red Card Riot.” She smiles mournfully. “Enjoy the ride, David Jackson. I swear, I’ll be cheering you on, every step of the way. No matter what happens, even if our paths never cross again, please know I’ll never, ever forget you or this magical night.”
With that, she blows me a kiss and slips out the door, taking a piece of my heart with her.
As the door closes, I get up from the bed and stride to it, intending to chase her down. To beg her to meet me tonight. Or to at least give me her phone number.
But I don’t open the door. Instead, I lean my forehead against it and sigh.
Getting Violet’s number would only create the expectation that I’ll use it. And regularly, at that. And that’s not something I can promise to do. Reed warned us tours are grueling and exhausting and that even the most well-intentioned guys lose their grip on the outside world while they’re in the eye of the storm. As addicted to Violet as I’m feeling in this moment, as certain as I am that I want to stay in close contact with her—shit, if I’m being honest, I feel psychotically certain I could pledge myself to Violet forever, right here and now—a piece of me knows I can’t rationally deliver on what I’m feeling. And the last thing I want to do is break a promise. Or a heart. Least of all, my own.
Fuck.
As much as it pains me to admit, I think Violet was right. She just did me a huge favor. She set me free to fully experience whatever’s coming my way, without guilt or trepidation. She gave me the gift of complete freedom, coupled with hope that, one day, when and if the timing is right for us, we’ll reconnect.
My heart aching, I shuffle to the bed and sit. Why did I have to meet Violet mere hours before heading off on the greatest adventure of my life? Why couldn’t I have met her—
There’s a sharp knock on the door. “Housekeeping!”
“Just a fucking second!” I shout, and then immediately regret my asshole tone. “Sorry! Just gimme a minute, okay?”
Sighing, I grab the pillow Violet slept on last night, bury my face in it, and inhale her flowery scent. My heart aching, I strip the pillowcase off the pillow, deciding I need a memento of the best night of my life—and then I shove the pillowcase underneath my arm and drag my sorry ass to the door.
Chapter 10
Violet
When Miranda pulls up in front of the hotel, I swing open the passenger door, tumble into her car, and burst into tears. “He’s in a band called 22 Goats that’s opening for Red Card Riot on their world tour.”
Miranda gasps.
“I only found out this morning—about twenty minutes ago—after I’d already fucked him a hundred million times and fallen head over heels for him.”
Miranda palms her forehead. “I knew he looked familiar. Damn. How the hell did all that not come up before you left the party with him?”
“It’s not my fault. I asked him how he got into the party and he said his buddy is Aloha’s bodyguard. He said nothing about being signed to River Records.” I cover my face with my hands. “I asked all the right questions, Miranda. I swear.”
Miranda sighs. “Okay, calm down, Vi. It’s not the end of the world.”
I come out from behind my hands and look at her incredulously. “It’s pretty damned close.”
“Would you have done anything differently last night, if you’d known?”
“Of course. I would have run the other direction.”
Miranda laughs. “You’re such a liar. The minute you saw that boy, you were a goner. Wild horses couldn’t have kept you from doing exactly what you did with him last night, complications or consequences be damned.”
“No.”
“Yes. Violet, I’ve never seen you so instantly attracted to anyone in your life.”
She’s right about that. The lightning bolt I felt when I saw Dax was all-consuming—and definitely a first. “At least, I would have told him the trouble he was getting into if he messed with me,” I say, rubbing my forehead. “Drive, Miranda. God forbid Dax comes out here and sees me and I lose my willpower and agree to come back here tonight, like he wanted me to.”
Miranda pulls out from the hotel. “He said he wants to see you again tonight?”
“And I said no. Well, I said yes, at first, before I found out about the tour. And then I said no, even though it physically pained me to do it.” I groan. “Oh, God, I already feel addicted to him, Miranda. He’s not like anybody I’ve met before. He’s magic.” I gasp. “What if he says something about me to someone on tour?”
Miranda chuckles. “Not trying to be harsh, but even if it was the best sex of his life, he’s almost certainly not going to mention a one-night stand to anyone. At least, not in detail.”
“But what if he does? It could be catastrophic for him if he says the wrong thing to the wrong person. His band could get bounced off the tour.”
“Okay, let’s say he mentions you—this random girl he fucked one night in L.A. What are the odds he’d mention you by name? When was the last time I mentioned a one-night stand by name to you? I always say ‘that hot cop,’ or ‘the guy with the Porsche.’”
My shoulders relax slightly. She’s got a point there.
“He’d never say, ‘I fucked this girl in L.A. named Violet Rhodes.’ If he says anything at all, he’d say, ‘This one time, I fucked this amazing girl in L.A. and she was a freak in the sheets.’”
I let out a long, slow exhale. I think Miranda’s right about that. “Just to be safe, though,” I say, “do you think I should call him and warn him? You could get his number, right? Did I blow it by not getting his number?”
“Don’t contact him, Vi. The best thing you could do at this point is leave him alone and let him do his thing. You know how musicians are—they have the attention span of a gnat. A week from now, he won’t even remember his own name, let alone yours.”
I look down, feeling like Miranda just punched me in the stomach.
“Oh, sweetie. I was just trying to be reassuring. I’m so sorry, love.”
“It’s fine. I know what you meant.”
We come to a red light and Miranda turns to look at me sympathetically. “You really like him, huh
?”
I don’t know how to adequately describe the otherworldly connection I felt with Dax. So, I decide to use Dax’s stunning words to explain it. “I told Dax he gave me butterflies, and he replied that I gave him more than butterflies. I gave him fireflies. Because, he said, I made him feel lit up from deep inside.”
Miranda exhales. “Wow.”
“And I swear on all things holy, it wasn’t a line. Our connection was just that amazing. It was like nothing I’ve felt before.”
The light turns green and Miranda drives her car through the intersection. “Never?”
“Never.”
She pauses, letting that shocking statement sink in for a moment. “What did you say to him when you left?”
“The truth. Just not the whole truth. I told him I can’t sit by the phone and do something ‘casual’ with him when I’m feeling such intense feelings for him. It was all true. I just didn’t tell him the rest. The stuff he doesn’t need to know.”
“I think you did the right thing,” she says. “Why stress him out when he’s about to have the adventure of a lifetime?”
“Exactly. I didn’t want to put that on his shoulders.” I look out the passenger window. “It was for his own good, as much as mine. If he got kicked off the tour, I’d never forgive myself.”
“Absolutely. You did good, honey.” She glances from the front windshield to scrutinize me. “You didn’t give him your number?”
“No.”
She returns to the road ahead of her. “Good girl. If it were me and I had that kind of connection with a guy, I probably wouldn’t have been as strong as you. I would have broken down and given him my number. I’m proud of you.”
We drive in silence for a moment, until I feel the need to confess my sins.
“Okay, I wasn’t quite as strong as I’m pretending. I told him you’ll be working for River Records by the end of the tour and that, if he’s still thinking about me by then, he can track me down through you.”
“Violet.”
“I know, I know. I just couldn’t resist. I figured... or, rather, hoped... he might be bulletproof by then—so successful, no one could fuck with him or his band, even if we gave it a whirl.”
Miranda looks at me like I’m a puppy that just took a gigantic crap on the carpet.
“You think I’m wishing for rainbows and unicorns,” I say.
“I think if you let yourself sit around, wishing and hoping for him to be bulletproof enough to date you, you’ll just be setting yourself up for disappointment.”
I look out the passenger window again. “It’s probably a moot point, anyway. The odds are slim he’ll track me down after the tour. We had an amazing night—but, still, I have to remind myself it was just one night, even though it felt like so much more. I’m the one going back to my quiet life at school. He’s the one whose entire life is about to be turned upside down. I’m sure last night will stick with me a whole lot longer than with him.”
Miranda says nothing. But she looks extremely sympathetic.
“Plus, why would he want to mess with me when he gets back, a girl with so much baggage, when there are infinite girls out there who wouldn’t screw things up for him in the slightest?”
Miranda looks pained. “I’m so sorry, Vi.”
I force a smile. “It’s fine.” I look out the passenger window again. “Just do me a favor. Don’t bring him up again, okay? From here on out, just for my own sanity, I’m going to try to pretend last night with Dax never happened.”
Chapter 11
Dax
Everyone relaxes with their newly filled glasses and dessert plates as my sister, Kat, stands at the front of the room trying to figure out a glitch with the restaurant-supplied projector, aided by our family’s fixer—our big brother, Ryan. My entire family is here in this private dining room. Colin and Fish were here throughout dinner, but once dessert was served, they left to meet up with a bunch of Colin’s cousins.
Finally, the screen behind Kat fills with bright light from the projector and my family cheers. As Ryan resumes his seat next to his wife and baby boy, Kat turns to the room, a huge smile on her face.
“Family Morgannn,” Kat booms like an announcer at a prizefight. “I giiiive youuuu... my co-Wonder Twinnnnnnn... the boy I’d be if I were a booooooy... the boy we’ve called Rock Star since age twooooooo... our beloved Baby Brother... the one, the only... the man, the myth, the legennnnnd... Daxyyyy Morgannnnnn!”
As the crowd cheers, Kat brings up her first slide—the most “rock star” image of me ever captured—and the crowd’s cheers turn to enthusiastic hoots.
The shot on the screen was taken by Kat last year during a 22 Goats show at a small club in Seattle, and it just so happened to capture clichéd rock-star perfection. In the photo, my hair is wild and tinged electric blue from the overhead stage lights. My muscles are taut and flexing and glistening with sweat as I play my electric guitar and sing my heart out. And best of all, the thing that’s making everyone howl and scream the most: I’m making my patented “guitar face” in the shot—the expression that consumes my features whenever I’ve reached maximum musical ecstasy. I’m assuming it’s the same face I make when I have an orgasm. And in the instant caught in this photo, it’s clear my soul is splooging to high heaven.
“The dude in this photo is now a bona fide rock star,” Kat says, pointing at the screen. “But the question is: how did he get here?” She addresses me, a huge smile on her face. “Daxy Morgan, this is your life!”
She brings up a new photo, and, again, the room erupts. It’s a Morgan family classic—our mother’s all-time favorite shot of her five kids. In this one, I’m a newborn in diapers, held by a smiling, ten-year-old Colby. Eight-year-old Ryan is standing at Colby’s shoulder, holding our sister, a towheaded preschooler, and the two of them—Ryan and Kat—are laughing hysterically as they perfectly mimic Colby and me. And what’s Keane, our family’s designated neon sheep, doing in the shot? Well, a handstand, of course. As one does.
Her face aglow, Kat returns to the crowd. “From the day Mom and Dad brought ‘David Jackson’ home, we knew he was special.”
“Dackson!” Ryan bellows... because that’s what Ryan is legally required to bellow whenever someone utters my given name. It’s a contraction of “David Jackson.” The nickname Ryan coined the minute he saw me for the first time.
“Hey, that’s Dax, son, to you!” Colby shouts in reply to Ryan, right on cue... because that’s what Colby is legally required to say whenever Ryan bellows “Dackson!” It’s the same thing Colby said twenty-two years ago when he heard Ryan’s off-the-cuff nickname for me.
According to Morgan family lore, it was thanks to this exchange between Ryan and Colby twenty-two years ago, on the day I was brought home, that I became Dax forevermore, rather than David. Apparently, right after Ryan and Colby had their aforementioned exchange, they told our mother they preferred the name Dax to my actual name. And much to their surprise, our mother agreed with them. She liked Dax, better, too. And since our father didn’t give a shit what his fifth kid was called, and Kat and Keane were too little to get a vote in the matter, I became Dax from that moment forward.
The sound of my parents’ laughter to my right draws my gaze to them. They’re sitting together, their hands clasped, staring at Kat’s presentation. They look happy together. Proud of their family. The sight of them fills me with warmth.
Kat’s voice draws me back to her at the front of the room. She says, “Daxy, from day one, you melted our hearts with your sweetness, amazed us with your intelligence and talent, and, of course, entertained us all by constantly letting us paint your little toenails, style your hair, and practice makeup techniques on your cute little face.”
“Pretty sure all that last stuff was just you, Kitty Kat,” I say.
“And you loved every minute of it,” she replies brightly.
She’s right. I did. But only because it was Kat who was administering the happy torture. Growin
g up, as long as Kat was paying attention to me, for good or evil, I was thrilled.
Kat brings up her next photo—another Morgan family classic. In the shot, I’m a towheaded toddler in diapers, enthusiastically playing air guitar in front of the TV while Kat cheers me on. From what my mother has always said about this shot, some famous guitarist was shredding on TV and two-year-old me leaped up and passionately started mimicking his actions, thereby earning myself a lifelong family nickname on the spot: Rock Star.
“This was the moment we all knew you’d grow up to play arenas,” Kat says. “Or, at least, I did.”
Ryan snorts. “Kat, you were six in this photo. You didn’t know what an arena was, let alone that Dax would grow up to play in one.”
“Oh, let the girl be hyperbolic,” our mother says. “We all know Kitty’s full of it sometimes, but it’s part of her charm.”
And so it goes. Kat brings up photo after photo, each one eliciting laughter and snarky commentary from my family. We see my first haircut—a shot in which, predictably, I’m bawling my eyes out. There’s a photo of Keane and me, dressed in our dinosaur jammies, jumping on our respective twin beds in the room we shared until Keane turned ten. There’s a shot of Ryan wheeling me around in a wheelbarrow as my mom gardens in the background. One of fourteen-year-old Colby teaching four-year-old me to throw a football. There’s ten-year-old Kat painting my six-year-old toenails blue, and a later shot of Kat and me, ages sixteen and twelve, dressed as the Wonder Twins for Halloween.
Photo after photo lights up the screen, and with each passing slide, an overwhelming serenity—a lightness of being—washes over me and fills my crevices to bursting. A feeling of rightness I only ever feel with these specific people—plus Zander, Fish, and Colin, too, of course. A feeling that...
Violet.
Out of nowhere, she hijacks my thoughts. Suddenly, I’m right back in that warm bath with her—staring at her lips and eyes and gorgeous tits—touching her bare thigh underneath the water—and feeling this same kind of serenity I’m feeling now. I know Violet said she did me a big favor by sending me off without any ties, and my brain believes her. But my heart can’t help feeling rejected. Kind of stomped on, to be honest. If only she would have given me her number, I’m sure I’d be texting her right now. Telling her I can’t stop thinking about her... probably shamelessly begging her to meet me tonight, no matter what she said earlier.
