Obsessive Temptation: A BWWM Romance Limited Edition Collection

by Peyton Banks

  Stevie was the band’s drummer, and as I spoke, he was air-drumming, sticks in hand, tapping out slow and steady rhythms in front of himself, with no kit in sight. He was rarely seen without sticks in hand. Running drum combos and getting drunk and/or high was his way of passing the time, and if there was one thing we had on the road, it was bucketloads of time. I’d underestimated before we got into this gig life just how fucking boring a lot of it really was. Stuck in cramped quarters like this band room or the tour bus waiting for something. Waiting to get to the venue. Waiting to get on stage. Waiting to get paid. Waiting to get to our shitty motel. Waiting to see, speak to, or otherwise hear from Marnie.

  I pushed that thought from my mind and focused back on Stevie, settling my gaze on his dark-gray eyes as they stared through me, not at me. His pupils were mere pinpricks. Again. Oh shit.

  “Yeah,” he said absently, digging into his pocket and pulling out a blister pack of pills. “I got Oxy.”

  Of course he did. My guess was he’d already indulged, following up with a vodka or ten. That was Stevie these days—always fucked up in one way or another. Sometimes more than one.

  Arlo shot us a both a look that suggested he’d like for us to rot in hell.

  “Eat shit and die. No way I’m taking that and then going on stage. I want to create a vibe out there, not kill it. If anything, I could use some nose candy, or cookies.”

  Oh hell no.

  The last thing we needed was Arlo more amped up than he already was. I glared at him, hoping he’d get the message without me having to verbalize it, and therefore avoid an unnecessary fight. After four months on the road together, tempers were frayed and we were all more than a little frazzled. The cracks were starting to show, for sure. Jake and Ryan were low-key watching the conversation unfold, like they so often did, ready to extinguish the flames of mine and Arlo’s tempers if they flared to flash point.

  If it wasn’t for the level-headedness and reliability of our bass and keys players, respectively, I didn’t know where the band would be by now. Possibly no longer in existence. In their own different ways, the two of them drove the bus from the back seat. I did a lot in that regard too, but the truth was, no matter what I did, Arlo would always be less inclined to listen to me than just about anyone else on the planet. So having the two of them as impartial referees running interference between us helped keep the both of us in check. Not that I needed it, except when it came to Arlo. He was without a doubt, my Achilles’ heel. Arlo and Stevie were a different matter. Unlike the rest of us, they each needed to be managed and ‘handled’ pretty much 24/7, though in totally different ways.

  I recoiled into myself, slumping lower in my seat. I had no intention of kicking off with Arlo. We were back in New York after so many endless weeks on the road, and I wanted our homecoming gig to be a sweet one. I was also both hoping and dreading that Marnie might make an appearance. I was pretty sure she was due back from shooting in Paris either yesterday or today, and had said she swing past if jet lag wasn’t smashing her six ways from Sunday. I’d put her name on the guest list just in case.

  Seeing her was always bittersweet in Arlo’s presence. I liked hanging out with her, as long as he wasn’t there—which was almost never. She seemed like a different person around him—way more air-headed and superficial-acting than she was when we were alone together, and it was torturous witnessing his poor treatment of her, and watching her take it with a smile. She deserved better, way better, and knowing that she didn’t believe that to be the case made me feel like someone had gouged out my heart with a poisoned spear.

  2

  Natalie

  If you’d told me ten years ago that this was where I’d be now—a drunk divorcée, with a PhD, sitting in a bar on a Friday night, getting wasted—alone—I would have told you to eat a bag of buttholes. Yet here I was sitting in a bar on the wrong side of town getting slowly wasted, and ticking another item from my Fuck It List.

  The Fuck It List was a list—no shit—of a whole bunch of things I wanted to do or achieve since I was now not-so young, free, and most definitely single, after my soon-to-be ex-husband had ended our marriage almost two years earlier, on our wedding anniversary. To say that the move had blindsided me was an understatement of tragically epic proportions. I’d had literally no idea. Not even an inkling.

  So much so that when he delivered the devastating news, I’d almost choked on the piece of steak I was swallowing at the time. Scratch that, I did choke on it. That was an extra level of humiliation I’d forever hate Douglas just that little bit more for. Firstly, what kind of a person ends their marriage at La Forge? Secondly, who does that while the dumpee has a mouthful of food? A sociopath, that’s who.

  When I could breathe again—only after Doug had had to perform the Heimlich maneuver, sending the offending piece of meat spinning across the room—I think I was more distraught about making a spectacle of myself in one of the city’s finest restaurants than the fact that my husband was ending our marriage of five years, and our relationship of ten.

  Maybe that in itself was a sign. As embarrassing as choking undoubtedly was, surely that shouldn’t have been my biggest concern at a time like that? I rationalized that maybe because I was in shock—and I most definitely was—my brain wasn’t working properly. Maybe focusing on the horror of choking rather than the end of my marriage was a coping mechanism.

  As the thought crossed my mind, my body seemed to go into auto mode. I got up from the table and bolted across the restaurant toward the door. Douglas, ever the athlete—not—took off running after me, yelling my name at the top of his lungs as he did. I knew I’d never be able to show my face there again, and noted for the second time that I was more pissed about that than the break-up.

  Maybe I was just a vain and shallow person, or maybe there was a legitimate reason for the numbness I was experiencing. I couldn’t be sure, but one thing I did know was that I didn’t want to talk to Douglas at that time. Hell, I didn’t want to breathe the same air as him, let alone listen to the rest of the lame platitudes he was laying on me to explain why he’d basically lost interest in our union, but had found an interest in another woman.

  I stopped running, and pivoted sharply to face him. The abrupt stop took him by surprise, and though he skidded to a halt, it was too little, too late. He slammed into me, knocking me to the ground like a lone skittle. As I landed in the gutter at the feet of one of the valets, I remarked to myself that we must have been in the running for the world’s most humiliating breakup.

  I was sure that Doug had chosen to deliver the news at the restaurant because he was short-sighted and cliché, and just about every romcom tells us that public breakups were the “safer” option. I should know, I’d seen pretty much all of them. It was both an occupational hazard and an obsession. Actually, it was probably more accurate to say that it was an obsession I’d turned into an occupation.

  Evidently the plan had backfired horribly on this occasion, and if I wasn’t the wounded party in that farce, I’d have been glad. Douglas had definitely deserved the red face he’d been left with. He stood next to me, looking nothing short of horrified, before remembering his manners and reaching out to help me up. I swatted him away with my purse. The last thing I wanted from him at that point was physical contact, no matter how minor.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  The words jumped from my lips with a force and venom that had surprised me. It seemed in the few moments since being delivered the fatal blow to my marriage—and with it my ego, and the previous decade of my life—I’d cycled through of the stages of grief from shock to anger. I appeared to have completely bypassed denial, but maybe it had happened so fast I just hadn’t noticed. Or maybe it had been the brief moment after Douglas had first dropped the bombshell, and I’d asked him if it was some kind of joke. In any case, I was definitely angry.

  I scrambled to my feet, digging in my purse for my parking card, grateful that we’d driven my car, not Douglas’
s. As I rifled through it, Douglas tried again to placate me.

  “Listen, Nat.”

  “Don’t call me that. My name’s Natalie.” Nat was for close friends and relatives, and given that Douglas was no longer either of those things, he didn’t have the right to speak to me in such familiar terms.

  “Listen, Natalie, I ca—”

  “No.” I didn’t look up from fishing around in my purse, getting more frustrated with every second that passed.

  “What do you mean no? You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “Yeah I do. I’ve seen this scene a thousand times before, I can fill in the blanks.”

  “But this isn’t a fucking movie, Nat. Natalie. It’s our lives.”

  “Damned straight it’s not a movie.” If it was, I’d have found the goddamned ticket by now and would be riding off into the night, giving Douglas the finger as I did.

  “It’s not our lives, anymore, either. It’s your life and my life. And right now, I don’t need your feeble words in my life, so save it. Actually, don’t save it. I’m never going to want to know.” In a move that was reminiscent of a movie, I finally found the ticket and flicked it to the valet, and he caught it swiftly between his thumb and index finger like Mr. Miyagi catching flies with chopsticks. I silently applauded him.

  “Now you listen. You’ve said as much as I want to hear right now, and possibly ever. I’m going home, and I need to be by myself, so don’t bother coming back there tonight.”

  “What?” The look of shock on his face was priceless. “But where am I supposed to…” He stopped speaking before I could interrupt him, which I had definitely been about to.

  “You surely can’t be asking that question and expecting me to give a flying crap? Not my circus, not my monkeys. Not my problem.”

  As if on cue, the valet sped out of the underground carpark, pulling up to the curb with impeccable timing. I felt like high-fiving him, but didn’t, not wanting to ruin the slick moment. I jumped into the car and slipped the valet a fifty—it was worth every cent for the sense of power I got from driving away, leaving Douglas standing on the curb with his jaw agape, literally eating my dust.

  3

  Luke

  I stared out into the crowd, not wanting to admit that I was scanning for a certain pair of inky-black eyes and mile-long legs. I didn’t see them, but I did note that there were a lot more people out there since I’d last popped my head out of the band room. The Basement was typical of the kind of place we’d played up and down the country, basically a dive bar with a “stage” and a makeshift dance floor. Still, grotty as the place was, it was an iconic music venue, and I had the feeling that the unkempt look of the place was now more for effect than lack of funds. It was almost as though being a hole was so woven into the place’s identity that they now couldn’t smarten it up, even though they probably had the resources to do so. It kind of just was what it was.

  The room was filling up nicely, though I wasn’t as surprised by that these days as I used to be. Not only had we been starting to pull decent crowds at all our gigs around the country, but we’d decided to make this a free gig as a homecoming treat for our local fans. I still struggled to get my head around the fact that we actually had fans, and not only that but ones who were prepared to part with actual cold, hard cash to see us play. Not that we were about to fill Madison Square Garden or anything, but the fact that we could even partially fill any room bigger than our garage was still kind of mind-boggling.

  The four of us—Stevie, Jake, Ryan and myself—played the intro to You Can’t Save Me, the track that DJs and music journalists were calling our breakthrough song, building the drama on the stage, dark except for a spotlight soon to be filled by Arlo. I scanned the room again. Just before Arlo strutted onto stage, a tightly woven ball of tension, rage, and free-flowing testosterone, I saw her.

  She was sitting at one of the raised booths that bordered the now crammed dance floor, side-on to the stage. She appeared to be alone, which, while not the norm, wasn’t the most unusual thing about her. Not only was she flying solo, but she was wearing ear buds and looking at her phone, the color bouncing from it projecting moving light onto her face in the gloomy room. Was she watching TV? The look of focus on her face as she stared at the illuminated screen seemed to confirm this hunch.

  As Arlo started singing, the melodious chords of his pitch-perfect, yet raw and rough voice rang out across the room, and he had everyone’s full attention. Actually, we had everyone’s attention. I was noticing more and more as we toured and played that we were able to command a room, to hold the crowd’s focus, and take them on a journey of discovery with our music. Arlo in particular could grab and hold people, not letting them go until he was good and ready, though that had always been true, on and off stage.

  Everyone was locked in with us—high when we wanted them to be, low when we didn’t. Nothing fired the adrenaline coursing through my body like the power our music had over a room full of individuals, united as one cohesive mass, because of us. The feeling of knowing that for those ninety minutes we played, we were in control, we were Geppetto to the audience’s Pinocchio was like nothing else, not even sex. Tonight was no different. We were rocking the joint and everyone was loving us. Except her.

  I wasn’t sure if anyone else in the band had noticed her, but I couldn’t focus on anything else for the rest of the set. It was as though she was illuminated by a spotlight, obliterating every other rapt face in the room. I watched her for that hour and a half while she watched her screen, barely aware of our existence. Suddenly, for me, the gig became about nothing more than commanding her attention, wooing her, impressing her, having her see me the way I saw her.

  I played and sang harder than I ever had. Every word, every chord, every note took on new meaning, now that I was directing them at her. When I stepped forward to sing Fight Mode—one of the few songs where our roles reversed and I took center stage, singing lead vocals and playing lead guitar while Arlo backed me for once—it was as though I truly understood the lyrics for the very first time.

  * * *

  Never knew I was searching til I found

  You in my world, making my heart pound

  Every day you deny, every day you fight

  Yet deep in your soul, you know it’s right

  Why are you running scared that you may

  Feel something for me you can’t brush away

  Don’t get me wrong you’re not under attack

  Give me your love and you got mine right back

  * * *

  I wailed my heart out with a depth of feeling I’d never experienced before when singing that song, or any other, for that matter. As I serenaded the side of her head, I willed her to look my way. She didn’t, and as the final notes of the song rang out, I found myself inexplicably deflated, until it happened.

  The audience erupted into mad, riotous applause, the volume of which must have been enough to make it through the sound in her headphones. She looked up like a startled rabbit, as though she had forgotten she was in a packed-out dive bar with a loud indie rock band playing on the stage a few feet away.

  I watched as she quickly drew her gaze away from the screen. She scanned the room in slo mo, once, twice, three times, as if she was searching for someone. Then in one heart-pounding moment, her eyes found mine, and she stopped, almost as though it had been me she’d been looking for all along. I knew that wasn’t the case, but still, as she stared back at me, the activity in the rest of the room seemed to wind down and fade into the background. Everything was blurry, submerged in darkness, except her.

  In contrast, in my mind’s eye, she was bathed in a halo of light, like the spotlight that often shone on Arlo while he stalked around the stage. As my heart thudded, I wondered what to do next. Then in a move inspired by my a-hole brother, I winked. Shit. She blinked myopically, but seemed to look right through me. Double shit.

  Moments later the house lights went off, the whole room
was pitch black, and she was gone. That was our cue to exit. As we left the stage and walked back into the tiny band room, laughing, joking, and dissecting the gig as we always did, Arlo addressed me at the top of his voice.

  “Jesus, Douchey, what the fuck was that?”

  I feigned nonchalance. “What was what?”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You sang and played like your life depended on it. I’ve never heard you bring it like you did today. It’s like your chops just kicked up a gear overnight, like you just activated Beast Mode. Either that, or you’ve been holding out on us all this time and you’ve secretly always been a monster.”

  The other guys muttered their agreement.

  I shrugged, noncommittal as ever.

  “Nah man, same old me, same old chops.” I was hardly about to admit that I’d been playing and singing harder than I ever had trying to earn the attention of a complete stranger who didn’t know, or care, I was alive.

  “Bullshit. It’s like you went to be and woke up a motherfucker.” In this context mofo was a compliment—the highest level of musical attainment. “I swear, after you finished Fight Mode, there wasn’t a dry pair of panties in the room.”

  Except TV girl’s. She had been completely oblivious to, and therefore unmoved by, my performance.

  4

  Natalie

  I realized how weird I must have seemed to everyone else in the room that I was wearing earbuds and staring at my screen in the middle of a gig, but I hadn’t realized there was going to be a band when I’d arrived at the bar. Once it became clear that was what was happening, I’d considered leaving, but after thinking about it had decided I wasn’t ready to see an end to the night just yet.