by Eden Finley
“Shouldn’t you be working?” I grumble. If the date likes EDM, he’s on his own.
Gray snickers. “The raffle’s about to start, so good luck. Hope you and Radiohead are happy together.”
I grit my teeth. He knows it’s Radioactive, not Radiohead. He’s trying to get a rise out of me like always. Instead, I flip him off and rejoice at the retreating sound of his laughter as he goes to serve someone else at the other end of the bar.
Radioactive aren’t big in Australia yet—they’re a relatively new band out of New York—and the only reason I know of them is because I saw a video on YouTube and fell into an obsession.
I listen to them when I study, when I work out, when I sleep … basically, they’re all I listen to.
The obsession is deep with this nerd.
The raffles start getting called, and everyone else seems more in the spirit about the whole thing than I am. They all look excited with love hearts in their eyes when they meet their dates. I should feel guilty about being here for the wrong reasons, but … it’s Radioactive.
My heart leaps into my throat when the festival date comes up. First name: not mine. I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that they’re gonna Primrose Everdeen me. Someone with only one entry will win it.
The first guy takes to the stage, and I’ve already forgotten the name that was called, but he’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. I’d totally volunteer as tribute to climb that.
He’s wearing a tight T-shirt, loose jeans, and muscles. No wait, he’s not wearing muscles, his muscles are wearing him.
The only downside of the look is it’s completely ruined by a backwards baseball cap.
Seriously? Where’s the class?
A burp flies out of my mouth, and all I taste is beer.
Oh, right. Ain’t no class here either.
I’m so busy checking him out that I don’t hear my name being announced until Gray shoves me from behind the bar.
“You got it!”
I won? Holy fucking shit, I won.
I’m one step closer to Jay falling in love with me.
2
Luce
The guy who’s supposedly my date for the night bounds up to the stage in an excited ball of energy. Almost to the point he looks like that cartoon Tassie Devil going a hundred miles a minute. While cute, his floppy light-brown hair and black polo shirt make him peppier than a One Direction concert. Shit … he’s probably younger than all the 1D boys.
Kill me now. He looks about fifteen years my junior. This … kid isn’t going to want to go on a date with me.
Jesus H Christ, when did I get old?
Maybe since working nonstop after graduating high school? Paying your dues, working your way up …
I shake that thought free and grab our tickets and tram passes as we’re sent on our merry way to the sound of cheers and applause. Some of the dates up for grabs don’t take place until next week, but ours is one of the few that start right now.
“I’m Marty,” he says when we step outside.
“Luce.”
“Loose? Not really a great name if you’re a bottom.”
I come to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk, wondering if I heard him correctly. Who says shit like that? Then I look him over again, from head to toe, and realise teenagers say that kind of shit. “L-U-C-E.”
“Oooh. My bad. Is that short for something?”
“For something,” I mumble and keep walking.
“What is it?” His legs are about half the size of mine, so his strides are fast and bouncy, which makes him look like an excitable puppy.
“My personal assistant doesn’t even know my full name, so you’ve got Buckley’s, kid.”
It’s his turn to stop walking. “Kid? How old do you think I am?”
“If you weren’t in a bar just now, I would’ve said … seventeen? Are you even old enough to vote?”
“Man, I’m twenty-three, but I don’t know whether to kiss you or tell you to fuck off.”
“Bullshit you’re twenty-three.”
Marty pulls out his wallet and shows me his driver’s licence. Well, shit. He’s twenty-four in a month.
“Are you sure this isn’t a fake ID?” I ask.
“Trust issues much?”
Another card in his wallet catches my eye. “University of Melbourne. That’s the fancy school in Parkville, right?”
Marty snatches his wallet back off me. “Geez, didn’t your mother ever teach you not to snoop?”
“Why are you still at uni if you’re twenty-three? Shouldn’t you have graduated last year?”
“Bitch, I graduated three years ago, got my master’s at twenty-two, and now I’m in a PhD program. What have you done with your life, old man?”
Old man? I have to hold in a laugh, because he’s even cuter when he’s angry. I’d like to dispute what he said, but I feel a hell of a lot older than I am. The greys in my hair don’t help. Hence the baseball cap. I haven’t had a chance to dye my hair recently, and until this afternoon, I had every intention of blowing this charity event off. But I need these festival tickets.
I grunt. “I’m not old. I’m thirty-two.”
“Look, I have a proposition for you. Obviously, you think I’m too young, and I think you have too much arrogance going on. How about you give me my ticket, we’ll part ways, and then maybe we can enjoy the show as singles?”
My eyes narrow, and I realise he was never here for the date. I’d be offended if I wasn’t here for the exact same reason.
I split the prize and go to hand over his passes but don’t let go. “You just wanted concert tickets.”
Marty’s mouth drops open as if forming an excuse, but nothing comes out. I can’t help noticing his plump lips.
When I cock my brow at him, he scowls and snatches his ticket from my hand.
“That may be true, but I was at least open to going on this date until you opened your mouth.”
“You’re dismissing me because I said you look young? Fuck, I’m a monster. Are you even gay? Or are you some straight boy trying to score free tickets?”
“Did you seriously just accuse me of faking being gay for festival tickets?” When he storms off, I can’t help following.
He had no intention of going on this date, yet when I call him on it, he’s the one who’s pissed? For some inexplicable reason, I find his attitude funny and a tiny bit adorable.
“Throwing a hissy fit doesn’t really have the desired effect if you’re both going the same way,” I say and try not to smile.
“Hissy fit this.” Marty throws up his middle finger.
That just entertains me more. “Are you sure that’s not a fake ID?” I taunt. “What with your stellar maturity and all …”
I expect him to get more pissed off. Instead, his feet falter and I hear the most heartwarming laugh I’ve ever heard in my life.
“I don’t think anyone has ever called me out on my shit before. Most guys would’ve let me run off.”
Most guys are idiots.
“How is it possible you’ve never been called out when you have such a stunning personality? What kind of people do you hang around?”
Little dimples appear in Marty’s cheeks. “Molecular engineers, mostly.”
Damn, the kid is smart. “Ah, so you all got picked on at school and don’t know how to smack talk each other?”
“Hey, I never got picked on at school. I was on the rugby team.”
This guy? With his skinny frame and being so … vertically challenged? Not that I’m complaining about his tight little body, but rugby? “Seriously?”
“No, dude. Look at me! You know what’s worse than being a nerd growing up? Being a gay nerd. High school was not fun. Adulthood hasn’t been much better, but at least I have the balls now to tell people to fuck off if they’re a wanker.”
Meaning me. I think I’ve been so removed from social situations I have no idea how to behave like a normal human anymore. My entire life
since leaving school has been about proving to my mother that I don’t need to go to university to be successful. I was stubborn with a one-track mind about working and making a big name for myself. And what do I have to show for that? No social life and an empty, but fancy, apartment. Yay, middle management.
“I’m sorry.”
Marty’s eyebrows shoot up.
“For being a wanker,” I clarify. “And for what it’s worth, you certainly don’t look like a nerd now. You’re gorgeous.”
He stares at me as if I’ve been smoking crack.
“I mean, you’re still young, but gorgeous.”
“And we’re back on the young thing. Just when I thought we could turn this conversation around.” He walks faster, but I keep up.
“Wanna know what my first thought was when you took to the stage? You know, apart from get this guy some ADD medication, stat.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his lips quirk as if trying not to smile.
“First thought was that you are way out of my league. Young, hot, and fun. Everything I’m not. I’m in my thirties, look like I’m in my forties, and I work eighty hours a week. It might’ve made me defensive from the beginning.”
Marty slows to another stop and just stares at me. His eyes are soft, but his lips are pursed, and I don’t know what he’s thinking. Then his eyes roam over me, agonisingly slow, and I feel his gaze as if it’s burning my skin. Vulnerability seeps in, and I run my hand over the back of my neck. The move makes his eyes catch on my arm and the muscles there. I may work a lot, but hitting the gym in my apartment block is the way I de-stress after a long day.
A tram heading for St. Kilda pulls up to the stop ahead of us.
“Is that …” I point.
“Shit, that’s the one we need.” Marty legs it to the platform, and I’m right behind him.
I’m met with his smug smile as he settles into the last available seat. It’s one of the sideways facing rows, right next to the standing section.
With a sly grin, I ask, “Isn’t it customary to give up your seat for the elderly?”
Marty lets out more of that amazing laughter but doesn’t move.
“All right then. I’ll just have to stand here.” I step forward and reach for the bar above my head, knowing it puts my crotch right in Marty’s face. Maybe this will get him to move.
I stare down at him and pretend I have no idea why his cheeks are suddenly pink, and he licks his lips as if his mouth is dry.
His really pretty mouth.
I forgot the worst part about cockteasing someone is it backfires. My dick generally wants in on the action too. Instead of being put off by the growing bulge in my jeans, Marty smirks.
Then the fucker looks down at his shoe. “Damn. My laces are undone.”
They’re so not undone.
He keeps his eyes trained on me as he bends forward, reaching for his shoe. That pink tongue darts out again, licking his lips, and his mouth is so close to my groin, I can practically feel his breath on my cock.
A growl rumbles loud in my throat.
Marty’s shoulders bounce as he laughs. “Sorry, I need to tie my shoe.” His shaggy hair lightly brushes against my thigh as he “ties his shoe.”
“Fuck,” I mutter and take a step back.
Marty grins up at me. He has to know what he’s doing. Those lips, his head so close to my cock …
“You’re the devil.” Which is funny coming from me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He sits back in his seat again and has the gall to wipe his mouth suggestively, which makes my cock even harder.
“Smug kid.”
He shakes his head. “We’ve already established I’m not a kid.”
“According to your birthdate. I’m still trying to figure out if your shoe size is a more accurate comparison to your age.”
Marty bites his lip as if he’s trying not to smile, and either the older woman next to him is disgusted, or takes pity on my cock tenting in my jeans, but she gets up and moves towards the door of the tram.
I immediately throw myself into her vacated seat, and when I think it must’ve been a coincidence and her stop is next, she sends a glare our way as the doors open and she rushes off.
I tsk him. “Corrupting little old ladies. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“You’re the one who put a cock in my face.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining.”
“From what I could see, there wouldn’t be much to complain about.” The challenge in Marty’s compliment isn’t lost on me, and I’m reminded of how much fun it can be to flirt.
I check my watch. We’ve still got a while on the tram, and I’m going to make the most of it.
“So, who are you excited to see?” I ask. “At Joystar?”
“Radioactive.” The name flies out of his mouth without so much as a thought put behind it.
I try to place the band, but there are more than seventy acts performing over the course of the weekend. It takes a few minutes, but then—
“Small American band? Mix between rock and grunge? Lead singer is gay …” I don’t know why that detail seems important right now.
Marty pulls back in shock. “You’ve heard of them? None of my friends have heard of them! They don’t get my obsession. And Jay is not only gay, he’s my future husband.”
That makes me laugh. “Wow, you really didn’t want this date, did you? Apparently, you’re already spoken for.”
He sees my amused expression and rolls his eyes. “He just has to meet me.”
He might have a point. Marty definitely has an alluring quality to him.
“So, are you gonna tell me your real name yet?” Marty asks.
“It’s Lucas.”
He narrows his eyes. “I call bullshit.”
“You’re calling bullshit on my name? The origin of Luce is Lucas.”
“You said no one knows your real name. If it was something normal like Lucas, you wouldn’t keep it a secret.”
“Damn smart people,” I mumble. “Maybe Lucas is my dad’s name and I have daddy issues.”
His eyes do the scrutinising thing again. “Nope. Not buying that either. Is it Lucille? Naww, Lucy!”
“I wish it were Lucille.”
“Come on, it can’t be that bad. Can’t be any worse than being named after Marty McFly.”
My entire face lights up. “No way.”
“Way.” His lips form a thin line and his forehead scrunches in concentration. “Hmm … is it Lucius? I know I wouldn’t want to be named after a villain in Harry Potter.”
I nod. “Yup. There you go. You guessed it. I, uh, hate that Lucius character.”
Marty cocks his head this time. “And which character is he?”
“The one with no nose?” My voice cracks, and Marty’s eyes widen.
“You don’t even know Voldemort’s name? What kind of grown-up are you?”
“Uh, one who doesn’t watch kids’ movies?”
He gasps. “You refer to them as movies and not books? I … and … you … I can’t … I can’t even.”
I chuckle. “That’s good, because our stop is here.”
And playtime is over. Now that I’m here, I have something I need to do.
3
Marty
As soon as we step off the tram and begin to make our way toward Catani Gardens where the festival is held, Luce flips his baseball cap around to the front.
Because in his mind it’s cooler? I guess?
I don’t have the heart to tell him he should lose it altogether, but then again, it seems whenever I give this guy attitude, he thrives on it and shoves impressive appendages in my face.
And for some inexplicable reason, I don’t find that as creepy as I should. In fact, I find it so far from creepy, that old lady is lucky she didn’t get an even more explicit show on the tram.
His dismissive attitude over my age still pisses me off, but it’s almost refreshing in a way. A lo
t of older guys love having a young twink-looking guy on their arm—to the point where it’s annoying, even. They want me to be the pretty thing to play with and don’t expect me to have a voice. They generally lose interest once I open my mouth.
We arrive at the entry gates, and Luce follows closely behind me. Almost too close. His hand goes to the small of my back as if this were a real date.
After showing our lanyards to security posted out front, Luce puts distance between us again.
“So …” he says. “I guess this is where we part.”
Even though it was my idea to go our separate ways, I thought, maybe, that our little tram encounter might’ve changed that plan.
Obviously not.
“Oh. You’re … so we’re … okay …” Tongue and mouth, get it together! A normal sentence would be good right about now.
“I wouldn’t want the lead singer to think you’re taken.” He winks.
Damn him.
It’s not that I actually think Jay from Radioactive will give me a look-in, let alone fulfil my fantasy of jumping off the stage and dropping to one knee to ask me to marry him on sight. I mean, the hope is there, but I’m not delusional, and I thought Luce and I … I thought we might’ve been able to scrounge up a real date in between the bickering.
“Sure,” I say with what I hope is a nonchalant shrug. “Wouldn’t want him to think that. Well, you know where I’ll be hanging out if you want to come find me later.”
He nods. “I’ll do that. I just wanna go check out the main stage first, but I’ll meet you. I wouldn’t mind seeing your man play.”
When he teases me about Radioactive, it doesn’t piss me off like when my friends do it. It’s more like he’s playing along with me and entertaining the insane notion that rock stars fall for their fans mid-concert all the time.
I watch as he walks away, and my gaze gets stuck on his tight butt in those expensive designer jeans. Then I stare down at my cheap clothes and realise …
I’m young and broke. He’s so not gonna come find me.
It seems stage three is where they send all music to die, and after only an hour and a half, I pray for a zombie apocalypse to break up the concert. Right now, I’m not sure if Radioactive is worth it.