by Jo Raven
A bearded guy with a huge stomach wields the barbecue tongs like samurai swords, and he barely glances up when we arrive. However, a thinner, long-haired guy with a T-shirt reading ‘Count your dressings’, has plates stacked with burgers and sausages in front of him, and he passes on two to us.
Deciding that’s as good a distraction as any, I stuff my face as I follow Dylan to a pool with a bar. Someone waves at us from the bar stools, and I recognize Ash and Tyler, then I see Erin and Audrey.
No sign of Dakota. Damn.
“Where’s Rafe?” I plant my ass next to Erin and filch one of her fries. She slaps my hand. Typical. “Is he coming?”
“Nah, something came up,” Tyler says and licks his greasy fingers.
“Like what?”
“Something to do with his uncle, I think.” Tyler’s dark eyes narrow. “Why? Anything I should be worried about?”
“No, nothing.” I chew the bite I took of my burger and swallow with difficulty. I almost choke. Rafe’s uncle. Family issues in that household never bode well. I look for the bartender. “Hey, can I get a beer?”
“Slow down, man.” Tyler frowns at me, and I really don’t need a motherfucking nanny.
“Slow down yourself. This was a party, last I looked.”
His brows lift. Yeah, he’s not used to me in such a mood. Tough. It’s not like I can help it. Though a few more beers might help.
The bartender appears and gives me a beer, no questions asked. I salute him. He deserves a medal. The cool alcohol helps me swallow, and I breathe more easily. I pull out my cell and call Rafe.
He doesn’t pick up. Not that that’s unusual, but with my mindset these days, I can imagine accidents, knives flashing, guns cocked, triggers pulled and pools of blood… I have a good imagination, made all the more vivid by the nasty crap it’s been fed during my less than stellar childhood.
“He’s okay, Z-man,” Ash says, nailing me with a look. “I talked to him earlier. Just some paperwork about his house.”
I nod vaguely and down the rest of my beer. Yeah. I bet he’s as fine as I am. Fine as rain. Rafe’s demons are so bad I don’t even know if I can ever help him.
As for Dylan… I glance at him sitting there, wolfing down his burgers, and swallow a sigh. I once thought he’d be the first of us to bounce back and resume his life. Star school quarterback, college scholarship in his pocket, best grades, a girlfriend who loved him…
When it all went to shit, I thought one of those things would push him back up to the surface. But he kept sinking. Things at home only got worse and worse, until he hit rock bottom. I sometimes I wonder what I think I’m doing. If there is anything I can do.
And now… Hah. Fuck it, now all I want is to forget everyone’s problems.
Especially mine.
***
The music is pounding in my ears as I stumble through the garden, crossing the immaculate lawn. Someone is calling my name, I think, but I ignore them. Leaving my collection of empty beer bottles on the bar, a freshly opened one in hand, I make my way through the gate and out, onto a small beach. Two torches have been stuck into the ground, shedding flickering light on the water of the lake and the sailboat moored at the dock.
This evening sucks. The beer isn’t enough to take my mind off the present. I lift my bottle and take a swig. Or maybe I haven’t had enough? I try to count in my head how many I’ve had so far and can’t remember for the life of me.
Still. Not enough. And the bartender had no hard liquor to offer. Orders of the parents of the friend of… Dylan, was it?
Frowning, I stare out at the lights on the other shore and wonder if I can swim there. Why? I don’t know. Just sounds like an activity that could stop me from thinking.
I’m really considering it, taking a step closer to the water, when I hear the gate open and close behind me.
“Hey, Zane,” a girl says—a familiar voice. “The guys said I might find you here.”
I turn around so fast I almost faceplant. “Hey,” I say and manage to slur even that little word. For shame, Zane. “Dakota.”
She’s standing right next to one of the torches, and the light dances on the pink streaks in her dark wild hair and her elfin face. Tonight she’s dressed more goth than punk—in a super short lacy dress and black stockings up to her thighs. She’s even wearing lacy cut-off gloves. They seem one with the colorful ink swirling on her forearms—a mirror of my own ink sleeves.
My mouth goes dry. Something like electricity zaps through my body, making my nerve endings hum, and my dick rises to say hi.
Fairly predictable, aren’t you, Dick the dick?
“Having a good time?” Dakota asks, shifting her weight on one foot, and placing those black-clad hands on her hips. Dark lashes flutter over her eyes.
“Awesome,” I croak, wondering if it’s possible to pass out from getting so hard. All the blood has flowed south to a certain happy part of me.
She tilts her head to the side, slender dark brows drawing together. Damn, it’s filthy hot when she does that. My cock throbs and swells, trying to bore a hole through my jeans. It’s so hard it just might.
“Zane?” She sounds exasperated.
Have I missed something? Was she talking to me? “Yeah?”
“I asked how much you’ve had to drink.”
I shrug, lift the bottle and discover it’s empty. Damn bottles are defective. They keep running dry. “A few.”
“You’re wasted.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Wasted ain’t the same as drunk.” I drop the bottle and scrub a hand over my face. “The difference is small, but distinctive. When you’re drunk, you sing or slur your words.” Like I’m doing now.
“Uh-uh.”
“When you’re wasted, you puke your guts out, and you find yourself in strangers’ beds without knowing how you got there.” At least that’s my definition, and I’m sticking to it. “I should know. I’ve done both plenty of times.”
“You have, huh?”
Another thing typical of the drunk variety: talking without any input from the brain. The automatic mouth.
Dakota laughs, and it’s like small bells tolling. “You’re funny. You’re a funny drunk.”
Did I say that out loud? I groan. “So how is it going?”
“Good.” She steps closer, and the breeze ruffles her black hair and dress. Her eyes seem to glow. “How about you?”
I open my mouth to lie, and I have to swallow around a knot in my throat. Why can’t I lie to her, say everything is okay?
So of course I end up saying nothing. Her scent floats up at me—warm stone, warm grass, flowers and honey—and she’s so near I can touch her.
I want to touch her. Dying to.
“Erin told me you’re looking for a roommate.”
I blink. “Yeah, so…?”
“As it happens, I’m looking for a roommate, too. The girl I’m living with is moving in with her boyfriend, so...”
I blink again. She’s not asking…
“Want to be roommates?” She still isn’t looking at me. I can see her chest rising and falling rapidly.
“No.” Hell no. That would be a royal fuck-up. I don’t do relationships, don’t even bring chicks home, and to live next door to someone I want to fuck into the wall… Best recipe for disaster.
Because there can be no repeat performance once we screw. If we screw. No holding hands, and no plans for a future, or even a friendship. I’ve seen it a thousand times. It would mean I'd never see her again, and why that bothers me, I don’t know.
“Okay.” She bites her lip, and damn, I want to draw it into my mouth, taste her, make her moan.
“Okay,” I echo.
“Then the least you can do is ink me,” she whispers. “To make up for this.”
She has turned her head toward me, and her face is now in shadow. The flames illuminate her pale shoulder. The dark lines of a tattoo creep under her dress and wr
ap around her slim arm.
I lick my lips, my brain on pause. “Ink you?”
“The dragon tattoo I’ve been asking you for.”
Oh, that again. “I said no.”
“So you have.” She winks and I relax.
Familiar territory. Teasing. This is turning into a running joke between us. An insider thing nobody else understands but us. And it’s fine. She has no dark past, remember? She’s clean of misfortune, clear like crystal. Maybe that’s what draws me to her, this promise of pure calm and pleasure with no drama attached. No need to save her, like everyone else around me.
Call me selfish. I call it a sense of self-preservation. Give me one more fucked-up person to look after, and I’m going over the fucking deep end for good.
“Why do you always say no to me?” She’s closer all of a sudden. One more step, and she looks up at me. “Why, Zane?”
“I don’t…” It’s damn hard to think straight when she’s all but pressed against me. Even from the few inches separating us, she has to feel my hard dick making a bulge in my jeans.
“Then say yes.”
She’s so close, so damn close. But she isn’t touching me. I want her to touch me, and this hasn’t happened to me in a very long time. “Yes to what?”
“Just say yes,” she whispers and places her hands on my hips, closing the small gap, pressing on my straining erection.
I swear I see stars. “Yes. Yes.” I don’t even care what I’m agreeing to. It can’t be normal, to be so hard for so long just from staring at a girl. Something’s seriously wrong with me.
She lets out a breathless laugh. “Good.”
“So what did I just agree to?”
“Saturday night we’re performing in a bar. Come see us.”
Shit. “Us?”
“Our band, Deathmoth. Rafe’s the drummer. I’m the lead singer.”
Right, I knew this. Come to think of it, Rafe also invited me, but I forgot about it. She wants me to go see her… I imagine her on a small stage, holding the long pole of the microphone in her hands, pressing her lips to it, her hips swaying, her large eyes sparkling…
I jerk back, about to come in my pants. What the hell am I doing?
She sighs, pouts a little. I reach for her lips without much thought, trail my thumb over their softness. They part, and her tongue darts out, licking my skin.
Holy hell. My cock is leaking now, and I move forward, a hand on her arm. I can’t stop myself, I have to hold her, do her, have her—
She draws back. “See you Saturday, then,” she says, smiles and turns to go.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “Fuck.”
I think that one word covers it beautifully.
Chapter Two
Dakota
Why did I invite Zane Madden to our concert? How could I be so stupid? Why do I keep trying to get a rise out of him?
Other than a physical one, that is. Because, oh boy, his hard-on was impossible to miss.
But that’s not enough. There’s a barrier in his gaze. He won’t crack, won’t let laughter and smiles reach his eyes.
Who cares? I shouldn’t. He’s over six feet of pure, hot, muscled male, and he’s been watching me as if he wants to do very bad things to my body.
I should let him. I can’t deny I’ve been fantasizing about licking my way down his pecs and rock-hard abs, to follow that thin treasure trail vanishing into his pants, and dive lower, touch his cock, see if it’s as big and beautiful as it appears under the cloth.
The thought makes me groan. He’s so sexy.
What possessed me to lick his finger? He tasted salty and sweet, and like Zane. I swallow hard and try desperately to focus on other things—like getting dressed for the concert. On my make-up and hair—not the image of Zane, stuck in my mind—light gilding his square jaw, his long lashes, the three hoops piercing one eyebrow.
I wonder if he has more metal elsewhere on his body. In winter, with all the thick layers of clothes, it was hard to tell, but last night, in his thin T-shirt, I thought I saw studs in his nipples. I imagine taking them into my mouth, tugging with my teeth. I imagine the sounds he’ll make, how much harder he’ll get, how he’ll fist his hands into the sheets and arch his body off the bed…
Oh God, is it suddenly too hot in here? I fan myself. Sweat beads my brow.
Slow down, Dakota. Sober up and think.
Okay, so Zane is a walking wet dream, and I want him badly. But what I want most is to break through his walls and see the real him. To crack the enigma that is Zane. I’ve been duped by appearances before—almost to my death. I think of Collin, and I shudder. I remember the hurt of his betrayal, then the fear as he pushed me, the terror of falling, the pain… And the despair that followed.
Taking a deep breath, I add the final touches to my face, grab my bag and step outside.
***
The bar is slowly filling. Rafe is there, checking the electronics. He glances up and nods as I pass him to go backstage. There’s a small room where we can leave our bags and stuff during the concert.
When I return, I find Luke, our lead guitarist, checking his electric guitar.
He grins at me, his green eyes lighting up. “Hey, Koko.”
“Hey. Where are Quinn and Riley?”
Quinn is the second electric guitar and vocals. Riley plays the bass. And they’re late.
“Quinn is on his way,” Luke says. “Don’t know where Riley is.”
Stress knots my stomach, as it always does before a concert. I reach over my shoulder, rub the incision scar between my shoulder blades in time-honored ritual and remind myself this isn’t worth getting scared over. What’s important is that I’m here, alive and well. Walking, for chrissakes, and not stuck in a wheelchair. I made it back to my feet, and I’m working on finding again my trust in people.
In men. I think of Zane again, and a pleasant shiver runs up my spine.
Besides, it’s not like this is a big event or anything. This is just a small bar, and we only have one hour to do our thing, but still. I need this. It’s my moment of release, where I vent my anger at the world and all the filth it harbors, the people who hurt me and got away with it. Or didn’t quite get away, but that doesn’t make them any less guilty.
Anger at my past naivety and innocence. I’m a survivor, but the price was steep and makes me wary of people, leery of their smiles and pretenses. Their facades and all that’s hiding behind.
Damn you, Collin.
“Koko? Riley’s here.”
I turn to see Riley’s slender frame at the door of the bar. He’s slouched, his bass case at his feet, and even from here I can tell he’s wasted.
Like, really wasted, not just drunk. Zane’s voice echoes in my ears, explaining the difference, and I can’t help but smile at the memory.
Riley walks unsteadily toward us, and my smile slips. This is so not good. “Heya, Koko. Luke.”
Luke ignores Riley, his face twisting into a grimace of disgust as he bends over his guitar. Riley glances from him to me, uncertainty flashing across his face. This could get ugly. I’m close to losing my temper. He’s done this way too many times, and it’s not funny.
But Quinn’s arrival defuses the situation. He swaggers in, his posture and easy grin reminding me again of Zane.
God. Lately everything reminds me of Zane. How is that even possible?
I force my mind on the concert. I warm up my voice as the guys unpack and tune their instruments. Rafe plays different rhythms on the drums, and we start rehearsing a few tricky parts. Even Riley seems to sober up enough to do this.
More people trickle in. I realize I’m searching the crowd for a tall Mohawk and groan out loud.
Stupid, Dakota. Why did you invite him, practically force him to say he’d come? He clearly has no interest in such a thing, and he isn’t coming.
I think again of how he stood at the party, alone on the shore, the water lapping at his boots. He looked as if he was about to jump into the lake.
I shake my head, doubt buzzing at the edges of my consciousness. Zane is strong. It’s what attracts me to him. He’s a survivor, like me. He wants to make sure everyone’s okay, like me.
Laughter, voices, the clinking of glasses, shuffling of feet, screeching of barstools being shoved back and forth. I know this cacophony. It relaxes me. It’s almost time.
Delaney, the bar owner, nods at me from a corner, and it’s time to start. Rafe bangs his drums, getting everyone’s attention, then drops into the rhythm of our first song. They are all old punk rock songs, full of pure, unadulterated rage at a world gone wrong.
As I launch into the first line, my voice seems to thunder, echoing against the walls. Tension seeps out of me as I sing. It bleeds out of my pores like poison, and it feels good. The bass is a throb inside my bones, deep and constant, while the guitars scream over the destruction like birds of prey.
I yell and rage, about my past, about my bastard ex-boyfriend Collin, about myself. The harmonies fill my head, my heartbeat synchronized to the drum beat, so that I am the music. I am the song. It’s my heart beat that’s filling the bar from side to side. My anger. My pain. My indictment.
One song flows into another, the beat changing, harsher, faster. The faces in front of me blur. It’s a sea, a landscape, and I’m the wind blowing over them, blasting across the surface, raising waves.
I’m shaking when I shout out the last word, and the drums stop. The clapping starts, and the faceless crowd cries “Deathmoth!” again and again. I take a step back as the details resurface, as the world returns. The faces are unknown, but a little to the right I recognize Audrey and Asher, and behind them are Dylan, Tessa, Tyler and Erin. If Erin is here, it’s a good bet Zane is nearby. They’re good friends, after all. But I can’t see him anywhere.
He didn’t come.
A weight settles on my chest. I force a smile on my face, and I wave at people as I step back, trying to catch my breath. I always feel a bit out of sorts when a concert ends. That’s all there is to it, I tell myself as I turn around to climb off the small stage. Nothing out of the norm.