by Caisey Quinn
“I’m coming to see y’all at MusicFest this week. I was so excited to see that y’all had gotten added to the lineup. Me and my girlfriends could only get general admission tickets though. The VIP ones sold out superfast.” She sticks out a pouty bottom lip, and I grip my own knee until it stings to force myself to remain silent.
“You got a pen?”
I tear my eyes from the exchange that’s causing me more pain than it should. Swallowing the angry persistent lump forming in my throat, I stare at the red and black laminated menu as if there’s going to be a test on it.
The jingle of the waitress’s bracelets as she hands Gavin a pen grinds against my exposed nerves. I know in my logical mind that I’m on the verge of losing it for no real reason. But logic has never had much say when it comes to my feelings for Gavin.
It’s when he takes her hand and slowly slides up the sleeve of her dress shirt so that he can write on her wrist that I lose my mind completely. The table rattles with the vibration of my suddenly jerking knee. I release it and exhale slowly, quietly, in an attempt to have my jungle-cat jealous-rage breakdown as discreetly as possible.
“That’s my number . . .”
“Marissa,” she offers helpfully.
“Marissa,” he says slowly, giving her his trademark panty-dropping grin and gifting her a look at his stupid fucking dimple. “You just shoot me a text—or call so I can hear that pretty voice—when y’all get to the festival and I’ll make sure you get a front-row spot when we go on.”
I snort because we don’t have that kind of control over the crowd. We barely even made it here. But then I feel sick because I’m sure he’s giving her his number so he can give her a private show. Bile rises in my throat as they make let’s-get-naked eyes at each other. The fist squeezing the heck out of my heart finally loosens its grip just as he releases her wrist so that she can get our drinks.
Gavin turns back to me like I haven’t been sitting here for three and a half minutes plotting his gruesome death with flatware.
“So whatcha gettin’?”
My chest heaves with the effort it takes to sit still and breathe air instead of lunging across the table. I lower my menu and give setting him on fire with my glare a try.
“Bluebird? I asked what you were—” His words die in his throat when he meets my narrowed eyes. “Um, you okay?”
Focus, Dixie Leigh.
“You never touch me,” I say evenly, surprised that I don’t sound nearly as crazed as I feel.
“What?” He glances down at his menu as if it will contain an explanation of some sort.
“You never touch me. We’ve known each other for ten years and you don’t casually sling your arm across my shoulders, or link arms with me, or hold my hand when we’re walking together. You don’t hug me or put your hand on the small of my back.”
Gavin clears his throat and glances to the side like a cornered animal, probably looking for the nearest escape route. “Okay. So I don’t touch you. So what? Can we order now?”
Reaching across the table I lower the menu he’s holding up like a shield. “So you’ve known that waitress for five seconds and you caressed her arm like it was your dick. And yet we’ve known each other for forever and you never touch me.”
I watch as his eyes widen and the knot in his throat rises and falls. “Please tell me you’re joking. Do you seriously want to do this right now?”
“Just tell me why. Tell me why you have no problem putting your hands on a complete stranger and you avoid touching me as if I’m diseased, which I’m not, for the record.”
“You know good and damn well I don’t think you’re diseased.” His expression hardens and I can’t read it. It almost looks as if he thinks I’m playing dumb, like I already know the answer.
I scoff at him. “Don’t blame it on Dallas. I hardly think he’d lose his mind just because you put your arm around me or something.”
His hooded gaze gets even darker and I’m confused. The waitress returns with our drinks but Gavin doesn’t look away from me to acknowledge her.
“Are y’all ready to—”
“We need a minute,” Gavin practically growls at her.
Once she’s gone, I take a sip of my water while maintaining eye contact with him. Whatever is happening between us, it’s important. And I don’t want to miss a single second of it.
“You act like I’m trying to lure you into bed. I’m not. I just want to know why you don’t ever—”
“Listen to me, and listen close. You and me? We are not having this conversation. Not here, not now, and not ever. Is that clear?” His words, his tone, his penetrating glare—all of it—jump-starts my heart until it’s a battering ram inside my chest.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Oh yeah? Well I say we are.”
“Well you can have it with your fucking self then. I’ll get my food to go.” He shoves back from the table, scraping his chair roughly against the tile floor as he stands.
I flinch because he doesn’t talk to me like this. Or at least he never has before. I both love it and hate it. It’s hot and terrifying all at once.
“Gav, wait. Please. I’m sorry.” I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist, which he jerks from my grasp as if I’ve electrocuted him. I fold my hands in my lap and stare up at him with pleading eyes.
He glares at me for what feels like ten lifetimes before he lowers himself back into his seat and trains his attention back on his menu. For the next few minutes I try to make eye contact, to bring him back to that place we were in moments ago when we were connected. But he’s dead set on ignoring me.
“I’m torn between the pesto penne and Olivia’s Alfredo,” I say, to let him know he’s off the hook. For now.
He cuts his eyes back to me, cautiously, as if testing to see if I’ve really let it go. I haven’t, but I’m going to have to take it easier on him if I want actual answers.
“Order the pesto and I’ll get the Alfredo. We’ll split halfway,” he relents.
I let the hint of a smile play on my lips and nod. When we were kids, I could never decide between chocolate and strawberry ice cream. Gavin always got chocolate and then traded me for my pink cone when I was ready. Even though Dallas gave him hell about it.
“Wipe that smirk off your face. I was going to get the Alfredo anyways.”
“Mm-hm. Sure you were.” My lips twitch and I’m about to remind him about the ice cream when the waitress returns.
“Y’all ready?”
Gavin gives her that freaking grin again. The one he never gives to me. “Yeah, darlin’. We’re ready.” He orders our pasta and hands her the menus. Once again my stomach tenses and turns.
“Put the claws away, baby. Let’s just enjoy our dinner.”
My face has betrayed me by putting my emotions on display. I contort it into a smile that he can probably tell is forced.
“I’ll try. It’d help if you’d stop eye-fucking the waitress.”
Both of his brows go up in surprise. His intrigued gaze drops to my mouth and I’m reminded of what he said about dirty words and clean mouths. I roll my lower lip between my teeth and lean forward.
“Gavin,” I say, drawing his attention back to my eyes. “I’m not trying to piss you off. But we do need to talk. Soon.”
“No,” he says evenly, his eyes latching on to mine. “We don’t.”
“We’re in a band together. We’re about to spend a week practically living together. You can’t just pretend there’s nothing going on, that you don’t feel it. I know that you do.”
The tension rolls off him and crashes into me with the same kind of force he beats the hell out of his drums with. I know I’m pushing it, but if we don’t at least acknowledge that there is something between us, then I am going to implode. And when I do, it won’t be pretty. I’m afraid it will ruin everything. Ruin us, the band, everything good in my life—in all three of our lives. Maybe Gavin’s content floating along in the river of denial, but I’m drowni
ng in it.
He tilts his head from side to side, stretching his neck and then sighing. “Look, I’m a guy, and you’re a girl, and yeah, there are moments when . . .” Gavin glances around as if there might be secret spies hired by my brother listening in on our conversation. “When things get a little intense,” he finishes.
A little intense?
More like there are moments when I want to tear his clothes from his body and trace his intricate tattoos with my tongue. Moments I foresee coming this very week in which I will have to clutch my bedsheets with both hands to keep from reaching out for him in the middle of the night. Moments when I’m so overcome with a painful need I know only he can soothe that I might accidentally on purpose ravage him without bothering to care who’s around.
A little intense is a gross understatement.
“And,” I prompt.
He gives me a slight shake of his head. “And nothing. There’s nothing we can do about it. Do I think you’re beautiful? Of course I do. I have eyes. Every guy in this room is wishing he was me right now. But we’re more than that. You and Dallas are all I have. Do you get that? Do you know what would happen if we . . . if we . . .” Another shake of his head and his gaze clouds over. “So do us all a favor and drop it. Okay?”
My head and heart are reeling from his admission. He thinks I’m beautiful, he’s attracted to me, but he wants me to drop it because I mean too much to him. The waitress, on the other hand, apparently means just enough to him.
She returns with our food and lingers beside Gavin. After she sets our steaming plates in front of us she turns to him and slips the black leather padfolio into his hand. I suspect it contains more than just the check. I watch helplessly as their eyes meet.
“If you decide you want dessert,” she says to him, her tone deepening and dripping with suggestion on the last word, “let me know and I’ll take care of it for you.”
I look down at my plate of pesto, suddenly not hungry at all. Gavin catches her wrist, and my heart leaps into my head and hammers out its anger inside my skull. Without even a glance in my direction, he pulls her to him and whispers something in her ear. She smiles and nods before walking away.
My feelings for Gavin have always been uncontrollable and pretty much impossible to identify by name or articulate. But right now, I hate him. I freaking hate him with every fiber of my being. My hands are trembling and I’m in danger of being blinded by rage.
Sucking in a breath as my vision blurs behind a red haze, I shake my head at him.
“You know,” I begin on a shaky breath, “it’s one thing if you don’t want me. Or if you just don’t want me enough to risk it. I can probably live with that. But watching you parade your conquests in front of me is too much. Even for me.”
Gavin doesn’t say a word as I stand and storm away from our table.
I just made a humiliating scene in front of the one person I’ve worked so hard to keep my cool in front of. But if I don’t escape to the safety of the ladies’ room in the next five seconds, I’m going to make an even bigger one.
Chapter 5
“OH, DON’T WORRY,” I OVERHEAR THE WAITRESS TELLING SOMEONE on the phone as soon as I step into the ladies’ room. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes. We’ll be in the VIP for sure.” She laughs and I glare openly at her as she makes a crass joke about taking one for the team. “Hey, Stace, I’ll call you back when I get off, okay?” Another harsh laugh and a pointed smirk at me. “Well, after I get off Gavin Garrison that is.”
Her casual use of his name provokes a murderous rage inside of me. Her confident grin tells me she knows this. The lyrics to “Jolene” begin playing on a steady loop in my mind.
“Hey, you’re the fiddle player, right? Have you and he ever, you know, before? Is he as yummy in bed as he looks?” She yanks her sleek red locks into a low ponytail and appraises her reflection in the mirror.
Yummy? Who uses such a childish word to describe sex? This chick, apparently. Well, now I just want to slap her on general principles.
A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “Guess you’ll be finding out for yourself. Excuse me.” Stepping around her, I brace my hands on the marble counter surrounding the sink. Determined not to have my breakdown in front of this random waitress, I take a deep breath and splash a few handfuls of icy water on my face. Straightening, I grab a paper towel and dry off. My mascara ran just a little so I dab it under my eyes until the smudges are gone.
Glancing over I see that she’s applying lip gloss and leaving. Thankfully.
“I hope I’m not like encroaching on your territory or something.” She smiles, but it’s not genuine and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I mean, I have a boyfriend and all. I just have a soft spot for musicians.”
“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of musicians in your soft spot,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes brighten and I can tell this is what she wants. A catfight. A confrontation. Half of the reason she wants him is probably because I had my defending-my-kill face on out there. Well to hell with both of them.
“Oh, aren’t you precious. You’ve got a thing for him,” she practically singsongs while squealing with delight. “How sweet. But, honey, that’s a man out there. Bless your heart. You’re just a kid, sweetie.” She tosses me a falsely sympathetic head tilt on her way out.
I don’t bother informing her that he’s barely a year older than me. I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about physical age anyway. I’ve lived in Texas my whole life. So I know when someone says, “Aren’t you precious?” they mean, “God, you’re stupid.” And when a woman blesses someone’s heart she’s really telling him or her that they’re too damn dumb to live.
Maybe she’s right. My eyes narrow critically at my reflection. I’m tallish for a girl, five foot six and thin, but I have some shape to me. Enough that I haven’t been mistaken for a boy since I was fourteen. My naturally curly hair is dark and has gotten far too long, nearly reaching my waist, but I haven’t had time to get it cut since we’ve been on the road so much. It lightens a little in the summer, picking up tones of red when my pale ivory skin, reminiscent of my mom’s tone, turns a light shade of golden brown. My eyes are large compared to the smaller features on my face and are a version of blue that looks like clear gray bordering on green in sunlight. But in the fluorescents of the restroom, I look washed out and faded.
I’m not hideous or anything, but I’m not a walking sex stick like Gavin Garrison, either. The waitress’s words linger in my head. Maybe Gavin has had so many women he’s tired of regular sex and is into cuffs and whips and God knows what else. And that’s just not me. I sigh and watch as my shoulders drop.
I know what I am. I’m lace and daisies and a fiddle on my grandparents’ back porch. Dirt roads and dandelions, like Papa says. Vinyl records in a world of digital downloads. Papa also used to say I had an old soul and that’s why I had an appreciation for things before my time. But Gavin is the kind of man every type of woman wants. He’s dangerous and daring where I’m sweet and safe. Hard where I’m soft, rough edges where I’m smooth.
We don’t belong together and I’m an idiot for thinking I could ever have him. I feel foolish for daring to even dream that I could tame someone who’s had every type of woman in his bed and never asked a single one of them back for round two.
Jaggerd McKinley was much more my speed. He works at his dad’s body shop in Amarillo. He’s a nine-to-five fella—a blue-collar guy with blue-collar dreams. He’s right smack in the middle of my league. Heck, he’s the epitome of my league.
I vow to myself then and there to let go of this lust-fueled need to have Gavin Garrison in any way other than as a friend, a bandmate. Maybe I should consider myself lucky to get to be a part of his life in any way. He’s white-hot, burning flames licking up everything in his path. And I’m just a little bluebird flying dangerously close to the fire.
When I finally pull myself together and exit the women’s restroom, I run smack into Gavin and his
new friend. The redhead is wrapped around him like a vine, like the ivy that used to cling to Nana and Papa’s oak trees. Papa used to tear it off and burn it—said it choked the life out of the trees.
I’m having a similar fantasy.
“Dixie, wait,” Gavin says, extracting himself from the grasp of his company for tonight.
“I’m gonna catch a cab and head back to the hotel.” I swallow the nauseating pride clogging my esophagus. “Enjoy your evening.”
I’ve barely made it five steps when a tall, dark-haired man steps in front of me. “Your leftovers, Miss,” he says, thrusting two heavy takeout boxes into my hands.
“Um, thanks.” I take them and bolt out the door.
Gavin can get the check, if he hasn’t already. It’s the least he can do for twisting me up into this human pretzel of messy, ugly emotions.
As soon as I’m out the door I sling the boxes into the nearby Dumpster with all my might.
“What if I wasn’t finished?”
The deep timbre of his voice comes from directly behind me. Close enough to cause me to freeze for an entire second before turning around.
“Then you should’ve gotten them yourself.” I shoot a quick glare at him before sticking my arm out and hailing a cab.
“I wasn’t talking about the food. I think you know that.”
My fists clench at my sides. “You know what, Gav? If you weren’t finished with your little cherry-haired dessert item, then you’re free to take your happy ass right on back in there. Don’t let me stop you. You never have before.”
Gavin’s hands fly up in exasperation. He so rarely loses his composure it rattles me even more than his yelling.
“What do you want from me? Tell me what I’m supposed to do, because for the life of me, I can’t seem to stop pushing your buttons.” His forehead is creased and he’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.
Oh, he pushes my buttons all right.
All my resolve to let this go evaporates instantly. I may never be able to have him, but I want him to know. I need him to know how I feel. And even more than that, I need to know whether or not he feels the same way I do, if he feels the pull, the connection between us. If I haunt his dreams the way he owns mine.