by Monroe, Max
When Ansel caresses the skin of my cheek with a rough, sexy hand, I realize just how badly I need to get out of here.
Ansel
If Indy’s desire to run were a volleyball game, the ringing phone was the set, and the feel of my hand on her cheek was the spike. And just like that, it overcomes her.
“So, it’s getting late,” slips from her pretty little lips as she heads toward the top of the stairs to collect her jacket and purse. I follow in her wake but do it slowly enough so as not to make her even more uncomfortable. She’s putting her arm into the sleeve of her coat when I come to a stop in front of her, and she verbalizes what her actions have already made pretty clear. “I think I should probably be heading home.”
Even though I don’t want her to go, I understand why she needs to, so I don’t even entertain the idea of pushing her to stay.
Instead, I concentrate on making sure she gets home safely.
“I’ll call my driver,” I say without hesitation.
She slides the last button on her coat through its hole and settles it into place while shaking her head. “No, I can—”
“Indy, I’m not taking no for an answer on this,” I say softly but firmly. “I’m making sure you get home safely.”
It’s a Friday. The city is bustling, the sidewalks and subway are crowded, and the roads are slick with black ice. As a survivor of a traumatic car accident and a realist with a grasp of just how much evil there is in the world, I’m completely unwilling to yield on this particular issue.
Before she can protest again, I pull my phone out of my pocket and call my driver, Hank. He’s been with me for years, and while I don’t need him twenty-four seven now that I’ve got my sight back, it’s a rare occasion when he can’t accommodate my request.
“Ansel,” he greets on the second ring. “What can I help you with this evening?”
I tell him the situation, and he doesn’t hesitate to oblige.
“Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there.”
“Perfect,” I respond into the receiver and hit end on the call.
Indy’s mouth turns down at the corners. “You really didn’t need to do that.”
“Yes, I did.”
With my hand at the small of her back, over the material of her jacket, I lead her out of the studio, down the stairs, and toward the entryway of my home. The entire way, I can sense something is on her mind, on the tip of her tongue. Several times, she glances back at me and opens her mouth, but then snaps it shut before words come out.
“Everything okay?” I ask as we stop in the small foyer near the front door.
Indy glances down at her boots and then at me and then back at her boots, and it only takes about three more circuits before she finds the strength to meet my eyes and stay there. “I enjoyed spending time with you today.”
“I can assure you the feeling is mutual.”
“W-why do you think I look like the girl in your painting?” she blurts out the question, and her own surprise slides its way onto her face in the form of parted lips and widened eyes.
Why do you look like the girl in my painting?
That, my sweet Indy, is a question that’s been on my mind ever since I came face-to-face with you.
“I don’t know.” It’s the only answer I have right now.
Her big blue eyes stare up into mine, and her voice drops to an almost whisper. “I don’t know what your intentions are—and I’m definitely not assuming you have any sort of intentions—but I should probably let you know I’m in a relationship, and the only thing I can offer you is friendship.”
Her words are weak at best, feeble and flimsy. It’s like she doesn’t even believe them herself, but the ins and outs of her relationship are none of my business.
“Matt, right?” I ask with a forced smile, and she tilts her head in confusion. “Your sister mentioned he was your boyfriend at dinner, remember?”
“Oh.” She purses her lips, and her mouth forms a tiny, exquisite heart. “Right, yeah.”
“And, Indy?”
“Yes?”
“I’d be honored to be your friend.”
If friendship is all she can give me, then friendship it is. Even if I fucking hate it.
“Maybe that’s why it feels like the universe is pulling us together,” she adds. “So we can be friends.”
Friends. Fuck.
Do I like that she has a boyfriend? Hell no.
But when it comes to Indy, I’ll take what I can get.
Even if that means I have to put my own emotions aside.
It isn’t long before I’m saying goodbye and helping her into Hank’s Escalade. I don’t make a big thing of it, and I don’t press for the next time I can see her.
I’ll see her again. It might be the one of the only things of which I have no doubt.
Once Hank’s Escalade is out of sight, I head back inside my house and lock the door behind me. I make my way back up the stairs and into my studio, and I don’t stop my progress until I’m standing in front of her painting.
Maybe I’m biased, but Indy Davis is better at art than she thinks.
With the light of the moon filtering in through the windows, I stare at the wet paint of her work.
She may be gone, but I can still feel her in the room.
My private studio.
The one place that is my safe haven.
Indy and Bram are the only two people other than me who have ever been inside.
I can’t decide if it’s all a bit John Cusack holding a boombox over his head or completely batshit crazy.
With careful fingers, I take Indy’s painting and carry it downstairs with me. Once I reach the first floor, I set it on an empty bench by the window and head into the kitchen to make some fresh coffee.
I’ve got several missed calls and texts and even more emails to answer, and I’m going to need the bitter bean’s assistance if I have any hope of getting through them all.
Nigel asking if I want to sell a painting I most likely will not sell.
Lucy bitching at me for cutting out early today and not signing the paperwork she left out for me.
My mother asking me God only knows what.
Bram letting me know his band is playing at Rookwood Music Hall tomorrow night.
It’s an endless list of people who undoubtedly deserve at least a cursory response. But I don’t bother with any of them. Instead, I open up my texts and find the one and only person I feel like talking to right now.
Me: Did you make it home okay?
Her quick response surprises me.
Indy: I did. Hank was very accommodating.
I grin and type out a pithy response.
Me: Exactly how accommodating?
My phone vibrates with her response a moment later.
Indy: He stopped at Taco Bell on the way home and bought me dinner.
A laugh escapes me when I read her message. Apparently, I’m not the only one under Indy’s spell. My fingers fly over the electronic keyboard, and before I know it, I’m doing the exact thing I claimed to be above during her exit—pushing her to see me again.
Me: Are you busy tomorrow night?
I watch the text bubbles appear and then disappear several times, and I know she’s mulling over my question. She probably doesn’t know what to say, and I’m coming to find, with Indy, it’s a lot of push and pull. Even when she wants to do something, she has to consider it carefully before allowing herself to concede.
I don’t know why I know these things about her, but I just do.
All I can do is let it guide me.
Indy: I guess that depends…
I grin at her cryptic text.
Me: On what exactly?
Indy: On what you’re about to ask me to do.
Me: Let me guess, if it’s something you don’t feel like doing, then you’re going to be conveniently busy…
Indy: Good guess. If it’s something I’m into, then I’m free.
Another
laugh escapes my throat at her cheeky response.
Me: My brother is playing a show tomorrow night. Rookwood Music Hall. 8 p.m.
Indy: Is that so? How neat.
Neat? My eyebrows pinch together with suspicion.
Me: Yeah. He’s the lead singer for New Rules.
Indy: Oh wow. That is brand-new information!
I chuckle and type out a teasing message.
Me: Crazy thought here. Did you, by any chance, already know who my brother is?
Indy: It’s possible that I’ve seen it before on the Google.
The Google. Hah. I wonder if that means she’s been Googling me. God, I hope so. Seeking out information via an internet search may not be the way a man usually wants a woman to learn his secrets, but I can only see the positive. It would confirm that she wants to know more about me.
Me: So, does that mean you’ll go?
Indy: Yes. It turns out I’m free, after all.
Tomorrow night, I’ll see Indy again, thanks to my brother’s concert.
Maybe his help isn’t so bad, after all.
Indy
I’ve been a ball of emotions all day. A pressure cooker of excitement and guilt and anxiety, all of which turns to complete overload where I feel one thousand moods all at once and everything falls apart. Kind of like a rump roast.
And Ansel is at the forefront of it all.
My new bestie.
Good grief.
Friendship really is all I can offer. I know that, and I mean it. But post-declaration of that, my heart feels sluggish and my skin is clammy, and I’m so confused about what I want out of life that my willpower seems to have completely left the building.
So, despite the doubts, not once do I ever consider canceling my evening. Nope. Instead, I rationalize.
Friends go to concerts together all the time. If anyone else had tickets and backstage passes to see New Rules, I’d be there in a heartbeat. We’d sing and dance, and nothing else would matter.
If I’m going to commit to being friends with Ansel, we have to really act like friends, and that means doing things like going to the concert and supporting his brother.
It’s completely innocent, and assigning it any more consideration is way more offensive to my relationship with Matt than going to the concert.
Right?
Right.
I dress for the weather, slipping on my favorite pair of jeans, brown ankle boots, a cozy cream sweater and the soft pink pleather jacket that I’ve had for at least three years but love dearly. I keep my hair and makeup simple—a natural color palette and my brown locks long and wavy.
The living room is quiet as I sit down on my sectional, dressed fully and ready to go—almost an hour early.
My knees bounce and my fingers fiddle, and when I finally can’t take the silence anymore—a whopping fifteen seconds later—I turn on the TV and mindlessly flip through the channels. The episode of Mike and Molly where she’s trying to write a book is on, so I settle on that, knowing it’ll make me laugh.
About thirty minutes before Ansel is supposed to pick me up, I get a text message from Matt.
Matt: Sorry I missed our FaceTime call today, baby. I was stuck in meetings all day. It’s close to one in the morning and I’m dead on my feet, but I’m also missing you. Do you want to chat real quick before I go to bed?
I glance to the clock and back to the show. I really like this episode. Who knows when I’ll get the chance to see it again, and Ansel could be here anytime. It would be rude to keep him waiting.
Me: How about you get some sleep, and we’ll chat tomorrow? I know you have to be exhausted.
Matt: Okay. Talk to you tomorrow, my beautiful girl.
Me: Sleep well, Matt. XOXO.
I feel a little guilty about forgoing the call, but Matt’s exhausted and I’m going through something. The last thing I want is to make him start worrying I’m sick again while he’s so far away. I just got him to stop asking me to go to the doctor.
There’ll be plenty of time to talk to him tomorrow after I’ve spent the evening with Ansel as friends. I know I’m in a relationship. He knows I’m in a relationship.
Everything will definitely be different tonight.
Fifteen minutes later, when I finally have my needlessly guilty conscience persuaded, my sister calls me. I stare at her name flashing on the screen, but I don’t answer. Instead, I tap decline on the call, put my phone on silent, and slide it into my purse.
I’m avoiding her. But what if she would have asked me what I was doing tonight?
I haven’t even told her I’ve been spending time with Ansel Bray, so dropping the news of his brother’s concert would be a little too reminiscent of a bomb.
The reporter in her would have all sorts of questions, and I don’t have the kind of time to devote to the call that it would take to answer all of them.
Plus, she’s shameless when it comes to celebrities, and she’d end up wanting to come along. Ansel and I really need the time alone to find our friendship groove.
I will eventually tell her. I silently resolve my guilt. Just not right now. Just not today.
And, lucky for my subconscious, I don’t have the opportunity to think any more about why I’m avoiding everyone because two knocks against my door grab my full attention. Molly’s in the middle of her dramatic flip through the pages of her book, trying to tear the pages apart because of how much she feels like it sucks, but I grab the remote and flick it off without hesitation.
When I open the door, Ansel stands across the threshold, a soft smile on his lips and a lightness to his brown eyes. The way the moonlight hits them tonight makes me wonder what color his eyes used to be.
He greets me with a gentle hello and a friendly hug, and it takes all of my willpower not to shove my nose into the leather of his jacket and inhale the familiar, delicious scent I’m coming to find is his signature. A heady combination of mint and leather and soft vanilla, and my nose is a fucking fan.
“Excited to see New Rules?” he asks, and I smile like a loon, equal parts thankful for the distraction from my annoying thoughts and eager to see his brother’s band play.
“You have no idea.”
Instantly, all of my doubts and concerns and second-guessing pretty much go poof and disappear into thin air.
We don’t waste any time at my apartment, and once I grab my purse and lock the front door, we’re walking out into the frigid February air and into Hank’s Escalade.
It’s all very friendly, very laid-back, and I mentally give myself a little pat on the back.
As the car rocks us with the gentle lullaby of the road, I let go of all the tension I’ve been holding. We’re going to see New Rules at Rookwood Music Hall, and I can’t think of any other place I’d rather be.
Our commute isn’t too bad, a brief twenty minutes or so, and once we reach the venue, it isn’t long before we’re inside and Ansel is playing his “I’m related to the band” card. I cling to his arm in an effort to play a card of my own—I’m with him.
“Are you ready?” he asks as we step past security and head toward the backstage area of Rookwood Music Hall.
“Uh huh.” He doesn’t miss the ridiculous smile all but tattooed across my face, but honestly, I’m pretty sure the astronauts on the International Space Station don’t miss it either. It’s been forever since I’ve done something this fun, this young. I’m prepared to go full fangirl.
The building is a relic, a bit old and rickety around the edges, but that only seems to add to its charm. Rookwood Music Hall is a shrine to famous musicians who started their careers in this very building, their memorabilia cluttering the walls around us, and I have to fight the urge to squeal as Ansel leads us toward a room in the far back.
The instant we step inside, I nearly have a stroke.
New freaking Rules is standing right in front of me.
Bram and Lee and Nix and Tom. The entire fucking band is in this room, and I’m not sure whether to laugh
or cry. This is a band I’ve been following for the past six or so years. I fell in love with their indie rock vibe and haven’t stopped listening to them since.
It was literally love at first listen.
Holy shit, I’m backstage with New Rules.
“Well, look who decided to make an appearance at one of our shows!” Lee, the drummer, bellows when he spots Ansel in the doorway.
The rest of the band turns around, and similar jabs and teasing ensue.
From what I gather, it’s been a while since Ansel has been to a New Rules concert, and I bite my tongue when the words what the hell? threaten to slip past my lips.
I mean, his brother is the lead singer, for fuck’s sake.
If that were my brother, I wouldn’t miss a single show.
Bram steps up and gives his brother a friendly hug and a playful fist to the bicep. I’d probably bruise like a peach if he hit me that hard, but Ansel doesn’t even blink.
My eyes flit back and forth between the brothers, taking in their similarities. They have the same nose and strong jaw, and they’re both tall. Deep and raspy, their voices even sound alike.
No doubt, they’re both incredibly good-looking, and I have to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Bray are no slouches either. I mean, you don’t create human beings that look like this without some damn good genes.
“When you said you were coming, I honestly didn’t believe you,” Bram says, and Ansel rolls his eyes. “I mean, I told security you might show up but not to hold their breath.”
Ansel scoots me out and more into his side when one of the backstage runners bumps into me, and the subtle movement makes Bram take real notice of me for the first time.