by Caisey Quinn
Mustering every once of courage I have, I take a step closer to him. When I open my mouth, my heart falls out.
“I want you to touch me. To take me, to own and possess me like you know you already do. I want you—all of you. The good, the bad, and that secret darkness inside that you never show anyone else. I want to be the one you spend your nights with, the one you wake up with, and the one you can’t stop thinking about.”
Everything about him suddenly seems harder. His eyes, his jaw, the set of his shoulders. “You’re playing with fire, little Bluebird.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But I can’t stop. I don’t want to.”
For a moment we are just two still beings, breathing and existing together in the same space on a busy street in the middle of the night.
A cab pulls up next to us and Gavin reaches around me to jerk the door open. “Get in,” is all he says.
But I see the panic and determination swirling in his eyes and I’m afraid of which will win out. Afraid that if I get in, he’ll slam the door and send me on my way.
“You go first,” I barely manage to whisper.
“Get in the damn cab, Dixie. Now.”
“Not until you promise me you’re coming with me.”
He scrubs a hand roughly over his face. “Get in the cab and go back to the hotel before I call your brother to come get you.”
My eyes begin to sting. I told him how I felt, ripped back my carefully crafted exterior and bared my soul, and his grand response is to get me the hell away from him?
“Threatening me, Gav? You can’t handle what I have to say so you’re going to run and tell on me? I’m a big girl now. A simple ‘thanks, but no thanks’ would’ve sufficed.” A choked sob reaches my throat and somehow finds its escape.
“Bluebi—”
“No. You know what? I’m going.” I step forward, into where his arm is holding the cab door open. Turning, I tilt my face so it’s only a hair’s breadth from his. “But tonight, when you’re with your random waitress, another one that you won’t feel anything with, won’t remember, and won’t ever care if you ever see again, deep down we both know you’ll be thinking of me. Good night, Gavin.”
With that, I lower myself into the cab. I flinch when he slams the door shut. I don’t miss that he does it much harder than necessary. It takes every single ounce of my self-control not to turn and look back at him as the cab pulls away.
Dallas isn’t in the room when I get back, but just walking through the door strings me tight enough to snap. Gavin is everywhere I look. One of his vintage T-shirts is slung over a chair and his drumsticks are on the table. Dallas’s cot is blocking the path to my suitcase. I stub my toe on it and it becomes the stupid fucking cot and all I can see is Gavin looking at that damn waitress.
Even blinking is infuriating me because every time I do, a flash of him flirting with her, his hands on her, that damn grin, every heart-battering touch—appears behind my eyes in a torturous montage.
My brother is going to have to get over the whole starving artists thing. We aren’t rolling in cash by any means, and there have been times we’ve had to survive on week-old pizza, but enough is enough. From now on, I need my own room if we stay in a hotel overnight. I’ll happily risk starvation for the sake of my sanity. But living in close quarters with Gavin is not going to work for me. I yank my suitcase up onto the bed and begin throwing my things into it. Once I’ve packed all my belongings, I grab the nearest pen and flip past Dallas’s scribbled lyrics to an unused page of hotel stationery.
I scrawl out a quick note telling them, well, mostly telling Dallas because I’m pretty sure Gavin couldn’t care less and won’t be back to the room tonight, that I needed my own space and am getting a separate room. On my way down to the lobby, I take out my phone and text my brother in case he doesn’t see my note.
Don’t freak. I’m getting my own room. Need some space from all the testosterone.
By the time I’ve spoken with the front desk clerk and explained that I need a room as far from my previous one as possible, my phone chimes with a text notification. After I’ve been given the credit-card-style key to my sixty-five-dollar-a-night sanctuary, I read my brother’s message.
What’s going on? Just got back to the room. Where are you?
I’m so not in the mood to explain. Not that I could even if I wanted to. After I’ve settled into a room on the fifth floor on the opposite end of the hotel, I text him back.
Just need my own space, D. Female reasons. I had some extra cash put back. I’m in room 549. See y’all in the morning.
There. Female reasons is usually a surefire way to ensure my brother doesn’t ask any more questions.
He texts back a single word. Okay.
God bless female reasons.
I unpack as much as I usually do, which isn’t much at all. Then I flip through the television stations twice before shutting it off. Despite my best efforts, my mind won’t let go of Gavin. Won’t stop rewinding and replaying each painful second of our encounter. Won’t stop falling into the gaping black holes wondering what he’s doing right that moment. If he’s with the waitress, if she’s getting to see him, to touch him and feel him in a way that I never will.
Before I rocket off into complete self-propelled insanity, I take the hottest shower of my life. As if I could burn my need for him off my skin.
Slipping into the faded navy blue shorts I cut from sweatpants and a white tank top, I realize the one critical flaw in my hasty getaway. All the snacks and drinks are in the boys’ room.
Damn.
I run a comb quickly through my still-soaked hair and step into my running shoes. Counting up a few bucks in change, I slide it off the nightstand and into my palm. Then I grab my room key and head to the door in search of sustenance. My stomach is painfully aware of the fact that my stupid heart made me miss dinner.
After unlatching the dead bolt, I pull the door open. The man standing there steals my breath and causes me to completely forget why I was leaving.
“What are you—”
“There is a reason,” he says, staring at me as if I’m standing there stark naked instead of in pajamas he’s seen a million times. “That I do not ever touch you.”
“Oh-kay,” I say slowly, because it’s the only word that comes to mind. He’s exuding visceral need and anger and something else I can’t quite put my finger on. His tortured eyes meet mine and I’m adrift in a sea of want. “So tell me your reason.”
My voice is barely above a whisper, but apparently he hears me because he grips my door frame and answers my question. Though it’s practically through gritted teeth.
“If I ever touched you, ever let myself so much as lay a hand on you, I might not be able to stop.”
I ache to test his theory, to touch him, to pull him to me and claim his mouth as mine. But the force of his confession and his fierce glare root me where I stand.
“W-what if I didn’t want you to stop? Or what if I touch you, Gav? What will happen if I stop playing nice, stop worrying about controlling myself, about my brother, about the band, and give in to what I want for once?”
The truth is, it literally would be the first time I imposed my will, my wants and desires, on anyone. I’ve always taken life as it came, never manipulating the forces of the universe in any way. Somehow I’ve become a flower in the breeze, or maybe a stubborn weed, swaying gently whichever way I’m blown but remaining grounded. But now, in this moment, I want to rip up my roots and take. Take Gavin in the way I’ve only dreamt about.
His broad chest expands with the considerable effort he’s making to breathe normally. Raking a hand through his hair, he glances over his shoulder.
“I don’t know. But I think that would be about the worst thing you could do. For all of us.”
My mind, heart, and body are suddenly at war with each other. I’m caught in the crossfire of their conflicting desires. It’s like I’m plucking my own petals playing He wants me, He wants
me not, with hands that don’t know what they want the answer to be. Old insecurities creep up on me and come out victorious.
“Why?” I whisper. “Why don’t you want me, Gavin? What is it about me that literally seems to repel you?”
For a long time I knew he only saw me as Dallas’s little sister. I used to have frizzy hair and knobby knees and a chest as flat as both boys. But somewhere along the way, I changed. I’m having a hard time convincing myself that he really sees me for who I am now. Maybe he still sees knobby knees, frizzy hair, and freckles on my shoulders.
His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. No. “Don’t. Don’t do that to me. I just told you. You know why.”
I frown involuntarily while swallowing the knot of emotion that’s rising steadily in my throat. “How could I possibly know? You treat me like we’re related most of the time. You put your hands on random waitresses right in front of me. You sleep with anything that moves. Except me. I tell you how I feel and you can’t get rid of me fast enough.”
Suddenly Gavin is a burning man, coming toward me with angry, gleaming eyes. He steps into the room, forcing me back against the wall. The door slams heavily behind him, and he braces his arms on either side of my head. I’ve only seen him this worked up when playing his drums. My heart morphs into a hummingbird inside my rib cage. It’s trapped and wants to escape. Desperately.
His words come out with such force that they would shove me backward if there were anywhere for me to go. “As flattering as your honest opinion of me is, how about you just tell me what the hell you want from me so we can both get on with our lives. You want to hold hands and go steady, Bluebird? Because I gotta say, you’re not as smart as I thought you were if you’re looking for that from me.”
I jerk my chin upward, faking a confidence I don’t have but refusing to let him intimidate me. “Did you sleep with that waitress? I want to know.”
He snorts out a harsh, humorless laugh. “No you don’t.”
“I do. Tell me the truth.” I look up into his eyes, praying the answer is no. Something about that specific waitress is really bothering me. Maybe because I saw their initial flirtation or maybe because of what she said to me in the ladies’ room. I don’t know. I’m well aware of the fact that he’s been with countless women, but somehow this one feels different. More personal. Because this time, he knew how I felt and if he slept with her anyways, then he actively chose her over me. “Please,” I add to my already pathetic plea.
He releases me from my forearm prison and shoves both of his hands into his hair. I inhale a much-needed breath and relax just a little. Until he slams a palm against the wall. I flinch, only because it startled me, but I can see in his wounded expression that he believes he scared me. As if I could ever be afraid of him.
“No, okay? No I didn’t sleep with her. There, you happy now?”
“Well, you’re obviously not. If you were going to be so upset about it, why didn’t you just go ahead and do her?”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says, raising his voice a few decibels shy of shouting. “Which is it? You want me to have screwed her or not?”
I’m all wound up, like the toys from my childhood. The ones with the knobs you turn and turn, winding so tight the spinny thing breaks and falls off. I’m confused and hurt and angry and turned the hell on in a way I can’t even process. The combination is more than I can handle rationally. I take a page from his broody book and let my palm smack the wall behind me. It stings so I clench it shut. The pain distracts me and I blurt out the truth.
“No, I don’t want you to have screwed her. I don’t want you to screw anyone!”
His reaction is wide-eyed shock and disbelief. “Anyone? Christ, you want me to be celibate? Do you hate me or something?”
Licking my lips, I take several deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. It almost works. “I want you,” I begin slowly before taking another deep breath. “To not engage in foreplay in front of my face.”
He opens his mouth to respond—most likely to deny that he did that tonight—but I place my trembling fingers against his lips, firmly breaking our ten-year unspoken no-touching rule. I’d like to take a moment to enjoy the soft, full, sensuously masculine mouth of his, but there isn’t time. I need to focus all cylinders of my brain on what I’m trying to say.
“I told you how I feel, what I want. And I get it. You don’t feel the same way. Or you won’t act on your feelings. But that doesn’t mean I can switch mine right off for your convenience. And it doesn’t mean that I’m not jealous, not hurt, and that I don’t hate, hate, being in the presence of any woman who is going to have you in a way that I never will.”
I’m breathing hard, tasting his anxiety and frustration in the air between us. Removing my fingers from his mouth and placing them on mine, I watch him go to war with himself.
His neck loosens, allowing his head to fall forward. Remaining completely still while he inhales the length of my neck, I swallow hard.
“Tell me I’ll never have you that way. Tell me to move on and let this go,” I whisper, needing to hear him say it and terrified that he actually will in equal measure.
“You’re my best friend. Growing up, you were my safe place,” he tells me on a ragged breath that seems to pull the life completely out of both of us. “I don’t want to ruin you, Bluebird.”
Before I can assure him that he won’t ruin me, Gavin does the absolute last thing I expect him to.
In my mind’s eye, I watch him grab me, kiss me, and we spend the entire night making love. But in the real world, where I unfortunately live, where parents die, and dreams don’t usually come true, Gavin Garrison bites out his favorite curse, turns away from our intimate confrontation, and walks out on me.
Chapter 6
Austin MusicFest—Day 1
“ONE, TWO, ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!” GAVIN BEATS OUT THE count with his drumsticks and it feels like he’s playing the drums on my temples.
After he left last night¸ I lay awake and tried to come up with some excuse for why I’d behaved the way I had. The memory of the humiliatingly honest truths I’d told made me want to turn back time, slap the me from yesterday, and shove a gag in her overactive mouth.
Could I tell him I’d felt sick and taken unnecessary cold medicine in order to avoid getting ill and screwing up MusicFest? Or maybe I could say that I had food poisoning and wasn’t myself. Except he knew I hadn’t really ever eaten.
My intro comes and I play my few lines in “Whiskey Redemption,” a slow ballad Dallas wrote about a man who loses everything to a drinking problem. I usually love this song, love the harmony that Dallas and I play, but today it’s grating on my sleep-deprived nerves.
Gavin Garrison riled me up and left me hanging and it’s only now that I’m realizing how incited my pissed-off side is by him igniting a flame he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stick around long enough to extinguish.
We finish up and play a few classic hits and then some up-tempo stuff. By the end of the set, the anger is ebbing and flowing, effectively draining me.
That’s the funny thing about music. Part of the magic, I guess. Sometimes it replenishes me, like I’m feeding off its energy and it fills me. And other times, it pulls at my pain, weaves its way through the strands of my soul and wrecks it.
Between the man in “Whiskey Redemption” ending up homeless and dying alone, and Gavin refusing to so much as look at me, my emotional climate is dangerously unstable and the music is taking more from me than I have to give right now. Dallas is pleased, though, and says if we can just do that well tonight, he’ll be a happy camper.
God. Tonight. The first night of Austin MusicFest.
I can’t even stomach the thought of the redhead flinging herself all over Gavin. Or trying to play and listen for my intro cues while watching her executing her attack.
“Let’s grab some food at Mae’s and relax a little before sound check,” Dallas suggests, giving me a nervous side-eye. His false assumpt
ion that I’m on my period, albeit one I led him to, keeps him from asking if I’m okay. But I see the worry even before he reaches out to put an arm around me. “Dix, you all right? Need a nap before the show?”
I nod. I’m too distracted by Gavin’s steady avoidance to bother making up another excuse. “Yeah. Y’all go ahead and get some food or whatever. I’m going to head back to the hotel and rest for a bit.”
Gavin just packs up his kit, keeping his head down and continuing his strategic efforts to ignore me.
Coward.
It is what it is, I guess. I lost the battle with myself and now I have to pay the price. Maybe it’s for the best. If he’s this avoidant because I was honest about what I wanted, I can only imagine how bad it would be if anything had actually happened.
“Seven o’clock sharp, Dixie Leigh. I’m serious. Do not be late. We’ll have thirty minutes to warm up and that’s it,” my brother reminds me in his I-mean-business voice.
“Got it, sir. I’ll report for duty at nineteen hundred hours, sir.” I mock salute and turn to leave.
“I’m serious, Dixie,” he hollers as I make my hasty retreat.
“I’ll set an alarm on my phone,” I promise him.
“Set two.”
I shake my head as I make my way back to the hotel. It’s only a few blocks from the warehouse we rehearse in but my feet are dragging. By the time I get back to my room, I’m beyond ready to crash out face-first on the bed—questionable body fluids on the comforter and all. But because I can’t sleep with the possibility of disappointing Dallas prying my mind awake, I do as he requested and set two alarms on my phone. Both of them only five minutes apart so I’ll actually get up when they go off.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t think of Gavin as I drift into unconsciousness. I’ve lost him, pushed him away with the truth.