“I’m not dropping this yet, Dahlia.” His voice was stern but there was an undercurrent there. One I didn’t quite understand. “Do you know what brought it on? You should avoid your triggers. That worked for my mom. Most of the time.”
I snorted. “I avoid life.” The silence built. I met his patient gaze. “I liked holding your hand.” I swallowed. “A lot.” I shrugged, trying to cover my embarrassment. “Feel free to go back to the next band. I can hear the music. Seems pretty good.”
I closed my eyes again and waited for him to walk away from me. It was inevitable.
“If you’re feeling well enough, let’s walk. My mom said endorphins solve just about anything.”
I opened one of my eyes. “Your mom sounds smart. But I don’t want you to feel obligated. You could be having fun. I’m so not a good time. I just proved that.”
“Fun gets me into trouble. And my mom was smart, I miss her.”
“When did she die?” I asked, my voice soft.
“A few years ago.”
“My dad died in a peace-keeping mission in Eastern Europe. It was terrible.”
“You’ve had your share of shitty, too. The panic attack is nothing to be embarrassed about.” He tucked my hair behind my ear, his hand lingering for a moment before dropping to his side. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”
“You could be inside the bar, talking licks and chords with Simon.”
“Nah, I’m all about introspection these days. Walk with me, Dahlia. Please.”
A thrill shot through my chest at the sound of my name, not just my nickname, coming from Tristan Asher Smith’s mouth.
Maybe we shouldn’t have reconnected. If he’d picked a different seat, a different bar, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now.
But if I’d learned anything since Doug’s death, it was to be thankful for the moments you were given. To treasure them because they were fleeting. This moment with Asher was a mere passing-in-the-night.
That made the entire situation even more intoxicating.
He’d been my favorite lyricist ever since I heard him sing in a dingy garage not far from Doug’s apartment. The band was short-lived, but I was hooked. When his first Supernaturals album came out, I’d scraped together my change to buy a copy. And for the next week, I sat close to the speakers whenever Doug was out, listening over and over to Asher’s rough, sexy voice sing about depression, drugs, and unsatisfying sexual encounters.
As I matured, I’d realized he was singing about universal tropes most people identified with, at least at some point in their lives. He seemed as sad as I was, but he was still willing to express compassion.
He slid his hand against mine, lacing our fingers together. “I like touching you. This okay?” he asked.
“Yes. Really good. Especially now that I’ve realized how much I’ve missed it. Thanks.”
That clasp, our hands the only thing that touched, was intimate.
I couldn’t let go.
The Spirit Seducer (The Echo Series Book 1) Page 23