by Shey Stahl
We walk up the street, silence filling the awkwardness that follows.
“It’s not you,” he mumbles under a passing street light. Burnt orange dances across his cheekbones.
“What is it?”
He stops and faces me, his jaw tight. “I don’t think I even know, just that if I’m alone with you, I won’t stop myself.”
Sighing in relief, I can’t help my smile. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m different?” I’m teasing, but then again, maybe I’m not. Maybe this is my way of asking if I mean anything at all to him.
He surprises me when he begins walking again, our shoulders brushing. Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out a cigarette, lights it, then draws in a breath. “This is the part you realize you’re a secret sin,” he whispers, smoke rising over his head as he steps into the shadows of the dark street.
Be still, heart. He’s so much trouble.
GIVE ME YOUR HAND
REVEL
Temptation is a silent plea whispered by the devil.
That’s what Oma used to tell me.
I used to give in every single time.
Used to. . . until her. You don’t know what temptation is like until you’re trying to resist a woman like Red. That temptation, it’s fucking lethal.
A deadly sin.
I envy every man who has ever touched her, and want to murder them just the same. I want her so fucking badly. She gives me hope to the chaos. A silence to the uneasy. And the only thing stopping me?
Her. No one who touches her goes unpunished.
“I’ve been to France more times than I care to admit,” Red tells me, picking all the yellow Skittles out of the package in her hand. “But I’ve never once seen the Eiffel Tower up close. Isn’t that like, so sad?”
“You should go sometime.” She hands me the package. I eat all the red ones just to piss her off.
She stares at me and then bursts out laughing. “You ate me!”
Yeah, I fucking wish.
I think about her words. She’s never seen the Eiffel Tower. Girl like her, worshiped by so many, yet prisoner to her fame. I can relate to her more than she understands. I’ve been all over the world and remember very little about the places I’ve been. My memories since I was seventeen, were seen through tour buses and hotel windows. The stadiums and arenas, I sometimes, not usually, remember the smallest details about them. Like I fell off the stage at the Key Arena once, or that at a concert in Brazil, I smacked my head on a drum riser and it bled for most of the show only to find out I needed two staples and managed to get some kind of blood infection. Or when we were somewhere in Australia, and I got in a fight with some dude on stage all without missing the chorus.
Being on stage, it pumps so much adrenaline through you that you feel like a god. It gives you a false sense of security you will never find in the shadows. With Red, I don’t feel like a god. I feel like myself for the first time, and the scary part? I don’t know who I am.
Red props her feet up, smiling up at me. “Tell me something no one knows about you.” We’re sitting side by side on a rooftop building I convinced her to climb with me, high above the city lights of Los Angeles. I’m not drinking. I’m not smoking. I’m listening to her talk, and thankfully, with no ecstasy in her blood, she’s less random.
“Ah, the great mystery of the world.” I laugh, shaking my head.
Her eyes narrow and she points her finger in my face. “I’m serious.” She turns her head and the soft glow of the street lights catch her eyes. They’re the color of deep sea-green shimmering under sunlight. “I want to know something I can’t read about, and nobody else knows.”
“When you’re in a glass box, it’s hard to have secrets.”
“Fair enough. Then tell me something barely anyone knows.”
“I. . . can beatbox,” I tell her.
She sits up, facing me, curiosity sparking life to her already bright eyes. “For real?”
Twisting around, I swing my legs over the edge of the platform we’re sitting on. “Yep.”
“Prove it.”
I wave my hand around and then lean back on my hands. “Nah.”
Her arms cross over her chest, a pointed glare my way. “Then I don’t believe you.”
I don’t budge, at least not at first but this girl, she’s hard to resist. It’s another five minutes before I cave.
Standing, I widen my stance, cupping my hands over my mouth and swaying from side to side. “Bt-pft, bt-pft, tuh-suh. . . .” I go on like that for about a minute and then stop, breathing heavy. “There. Happy?”
Red dissolves into a fit of giggles before me, covering her mouth with her hands. I’m captivated, joining in her laughter. Though my amusement is only brought on by hers, I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in ten years. As we gather our composure, I sit down on the ledge again, her joining me moments later.
“You’re sort of amazing,” she says when her laughter subsides.
“My brother Bonner and I used to annoy my grandma with it to the point she’d lock us out of the house.”
“You don’t talk about your brothers much.”
I shrug. “Not much to say.”
“Are you close with Bonner and Landon?”
It’s publicized everywhere what a fucked-up past I have. “Not really. I see Landon every once in a while, and Bonner lives down in Santa Monica I think.” My muscles tense up, everything inside me begging to shut the fuck up. “I don’t like to talk about my family. To anyone.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t. It’s a fucked-up story, ya know.”
She nods, and I think she’s done with the fifty questions, but then she hits me with, “How long ago did you and Hensley break up?”
“A while ago.”
“She cheated on you?”
I nod.
“It’s none of my business, but are rock stars ever faithful on tour?”
I turn to look at her. “Something tells me that’s not what you’re asking.”
Red draws her bottom lip between her teeth, though it’s barely visible in the shadows. The pink in her cheeks gives her away. “I suppose not.”
“Then why not ask what you really mean?”
“Did you sleep around?”
“Not while we were exclusive.”
“Who did she cheat on you with?”
“Didn’t ask.” It’s a lie, but I refuse to be the one to tell her dad is a piece of shit. I won’t be that guy. Something inside me screams to tell her about him, the money he offered me, but I don’t. At least not yet. “What about you and what’s his face?”
She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Breckin?”
I nod. “I refuse to say his name.”
She laughs. “He cheated on me with one of the backup dancers from his tour.”
“Figures.”
“We stayed together even after that, but it ate at me. I thought to myself what kind of girl stays with someone who doesn’t respect her enough to remain faithful? I mean, I get it. We weren’t married, but still, trust is everything.”
“Yet so easily destroyed.”
“People take it for granted. Do you ever feel like a puppet?” she asks.
I bump my shoulder to hers, smiling as the sky begins to lighten over the Hollywood hills. “Yeah, but I think it comes with the territory of being a performer. We’re outcasts of our own lives.”
“We’re broken and belong to everyone but ourselves,” she tells me, sighing heavily. Light hits her face.
I touch my fingers to her cheek, stroking softly. Taylan Ash isn’t beautiful. You can’t justify her beauty with a single word. If you’re going to describe her, you need to use words like intoxicating, talented, strong, determined, and yet simple… and all those things, the parts that leave me in awe that someone like her exists in the world, every single one of them, that’s the definition of beautiful. Don’t ever think she’s just one.
And when I look at her now in the early morning
light, never have I had such an image burn itself in my brain. I’ll never not think of her.
“The way the world sees you will change, but never let yourself change with the image they create for you.”
“How do you do it?”
“There’s no handbook for it, and I think I’ve done a pretty shitty job at handling it.” I push out a breath, hoping for relief, but nothing comes. I want a drink, badly. “You can’t prepare yourself for overnight fame. You grew up in it, I didn’t. I’m just a little southern rebel shit, carrying around my grandpa’s Gibson. One minute you’re a nobody and then everyone wants a piece of you. And they pry into your personal life and air your shit all over the fuckin’ place. Shit you don’t want to remember, let alone talk about. So I drink and avoid because it’s easier. That’s not dealing with it.”
“So that’s why you never talk about yourself?”
“I don’t find me that interesting. I find music interesting. But me? No.”
Reaching up, she strokes my jaw with her fingertips, mirroring my actions. “Do you think you’re broken?”
Without a doubt. I shrug, unwilling to see for myself just how deep the cracks run. Like being caught in a current, the more I fight this feeling she brings out in me, the weaker I am. “I was broken from the beginning. And I should leave you alone, but we both know I won’t.” I stare at her, and though I don’t know the expression I’m giving her, I think maybe she finally sees that I’m not who she thinks I am.
“When you look at me like that, I question your intentions.”
I stare at her innocent eyes. “If you knew what I was thinking, you certainly wouldn’t be questioning my intentions.”
We sit in silence until Red lies down, her head on my lap. All I can think about is her mouth being so close to my cock, but I push those thoughts aside when she looks up at me. Running my hand through red locks, I’m fascinated by how comfortable she seems up here, feet from the edge of a fifty-foot drop, yet careless and free. For now, away from the blinding spotlight, I can pretend this means something, but does it? Does she feel the same way?
Does it matter?
It fucking matters.
Everything inside me screams to push her away, but I’ve never been one to listen, especially to myself. That shithead never knows what he’s talking about. Sometimes even the devil inside me whispers, What the fuck are you doing?
Taking her hand in mine, I pull out a Sharpie I stole from the diner lady from my pocket and write on her palm.
So I give you these roses of revenge because I don’t know any another way.
Smiling, she pulls her hand back and reads it. “That’s beautiful. What’s it from?”
“‘Roses of Revenge.’”
“What’s that?”
“Our song.”
“Kiss me,” she whispers.
I stare at her until it hurts. “Your heart makes my favorite sound,” I tell her, just before sunrise.
AN INVITATION, SHOULD I TAKE IT.
TAYLAN
I don’t think I’ve ever been talked about in the media more than I have since coming on this tour. And I can’t decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.
The moment we step out of the hotel the next morning, we’re bombarded with press digging into our personal lives.
They catch us outside the Hyatt in Beverly Hills, as expected. “Can you comment on your recent involvement?”
“No,” I tell them. Ha. I’m getting good at this. “Thank you.” I had to be polite, right?
I look to Revel for approval, only he rolls his eyes at me. Frowning, I thought I handled that well.
“Revel—” That’s as far as they get before he shoves his hand in the guy’s face, effectively dropping the phone in his hand.
“No comment,” Revel mumbles, looking at the guy, then his phone on the pavement as he kicks it out of reach. Finally, his eyes lift to mine. “That’s how it’s done, Red.”
I sigh and get into the limo waiting to take us to the venue. “Noted.”
The burning curiosity gets even worse once we’re at the venue.
“What’s the nature of your relationship with Taylan?” one brave reporter asks Revel.
Everyone looks to him. “You really expect me to answer that?”
“Why do you avoid it?”
Revel flashes a smirk behind dark shades. “Next question.”
“Are you together or not?” he presses. “That’s all anyone wants to know.”
“Jesus Christ, man. This is a concert venue. We’re performing in about three hours. So unless you’re going to talk about that, this is over.”
“The tour managers want to see more of what happened with Revved and Taylan the other night,” Liz says to the group of artists in the conference center at the Aria in Vegas. “One Vibe is about genres coming together, isn’t it?”
Immediately, my attention shifts to Revel and his reaction. Leaned back in a chair, he looks bored, waiting for the building to collapse around him and put him out of his misery. He says nothing. Doesn’t even look at Liz. Or me for that matter.
I’ll admit, he’s been rather quiet since the other night and I wonder if it has anything to do with me asking him why he wouldn’t sleep with me. I don’t get it. Isn’t that what most men want? And here, this rock god was denying me. I’ll be honest, it makes me feel inadequate. Like I’m not good enough.
Conversations flow around us, managers and artists throwing out ideas when Hensley huffs out a breath, seated next to Hardin at the table. “I’m not doing it,” she barks. “Fuck, that. There is no goddamn way I’m getting on stage with the princess.”
Like I wanna be on stage with you, slut!
I swallow against the lump in my throat, my eyes darting around the room only to fall on the livid Revel as he scowls at Hensley. I take a deep breath, then another, closing my eyes to the hard thumping of my heart.
Everyone’s eyes are on him, the one who commands and dictates the mood of others. He shifts, his jaw clenching, his eyes narrowing. Dramatically, his foot falls off the table as he leans forward, laughter on his lips. He sets the flask down on the table with a thud. “We’re doing it.”
Hensley’s outraged stare cuts to his. Hurt, betrayal, longing, it’s all in her eyes and directed at the one who refuses to take her back. “And since when do you make the goddamn decisions for everyone here?”
With a lazy lift of his hand, he gestures to the windows facing the strip. “Since my band is headlining, sweetheart.”
She rolls her eyes and leans back into the plastic chair. “Just because you’re the headlining headcase doesn’t make you God, Revel.”
Revel laughs, and you can tell he’s just about to tell her off when Cliff—Revved’s tour manager—stands. “Okay, that’s enough between you two. The plan is for the bands to come together at the end of the show and do one song together. Covers, originals, I don’t give a shit what it is. Just do it and make it work.”
Cruz hits his drumsticks against the table dramatically. “And the plot thickens.”
The room fills with laughter as a door slams, but it’s Revel’s stare on me that keeps me in the room. When we’re the only two left in the room, I linger and obsess over something to say. He watches me carefully, his eyes drifting to my face where they remain. “I uh. . . .” I fumble over the words I want to say and decide a thank-you isn’t good enough.
Revel’s hand reaches toward me, palm up, eyes hard. I take it, and he draws me in close where I melt against his side. Breathing against my neck, he whispers, “No one calls you princess but me.”
“What do you think of this?” Revel asks, sliding a notebook across the table toward me. It’s past one in the afternoon, but we’re eating breakfast in a small diner, both of us wearing hats and sunglasses. We look like we’re half-assing witness protection.
Blue eyes that haunt and tease search my own and make my head throb waiting for my response. I look down at the torn pages of his notebook he pens a
ll his songs in. I feel like I’m holding a piece of history and it’s really hard not to turn every page and read his haunting lyrics. It’s brown leather with thick cream paper that reminds me of canvas. Fascinated by his artful handwriting, I run my fingertips over the ink. “Is this our song?”
He nods, cutting into his pancakes. I’ve never seen him eat so much as he is today. His attention shifts to something behind me, and I follow it, finding Ben standing outside, patiently standing watch.
With the notebook still in my hand, my eyes drift to words scribbled on the side under the title “sin.”
Taken from another place and welcomed by a sin
I awakened with a different face
My last ones in the bin
The writing seems to interlace
Let’s watch the way they spin
God, this guy is deep. The way he writes is unparalleled to any other song writer in the industry. I write most of my own songs, but Revel, he’s written everything Revved has produced. Every single word has come from the madness of his mind, and I can’t help but want to reside there to understand him.
The waiter approaches as I trace patterns on the water glass, the water beading beneath my fingertips. “Can I get you anything else?”
Revel hands him the half-empty glass of orange juice next to his plate, his knee bounces beneath the table, his eyes narrowing as he shifts his eyes to the waiter, then quickly away. “Yeah, add champagne to this.”
The man pauses, eyeing Revel. “Hey, aren’t you—”
“Nope.”
Though he hesitates, confused by Revel’s reaction, the waiter leaves, returns with the drink, and then Revel tells him to leave the bottle. We’re celebrating apparently.
I trap my bottom lip between my teeth. “What are we celebrating?”
His gaze flickers to my mouth, his lips parting. “Our song.” He pours me a glass of champagne, then adds more to his. Lifting his glass, he winks. “To the sweetest act of revenge. Not giving a fuck.”
Stifling my laughter, I take a sip of my champagne, setting the glass gently on the table. Revel pours himself another glass. His third of the morning.