“She’s already wearing one,” the redhead says.
“A Boxley Brothers shirt. I have a few from an earlier show. Too small for all this,” I say, motioning at myself, hoping for a laugh. But nothing.
Ellie’s friend opens her mouth to say something.
"You can have one for your friend, too," I interject, nodding toward the restless one.
“Brooke,” the girl says with a hint of irritation. “My name’s Brooke.”
Ellie turns to her. “Five minutes, okay? I’ll meet you at the car?”
Brooke rolls her eyes with a groan but doesn't protest. She squeezes past me and ascends the cement path toward the exit.
With a reluctant smile, Ellie leads me out of our row and into the drift of the crowd. "Sorry about her. She’s a little overprotective."
I consider telling her I’m just happy to spend these last five minutes with her. How I want to soak in every last ounce of her while I still can. But as if she can read my thoughts, Ellie turns back to me and furrows her brow. “How’d you know about the bird thing? That’s one of my favorite songs.”
“The cage? I noticed it last year in Raleigh.” I push my dark hair off my forehead. “So I did some research.”
She grins something devious. “Oh, yeah? And what’d you find with said research, Bill Nye?”
Ouch. Without even meaning to, her dig completely crushes my ego. But she’s right. I do sound like a nerd. Scrubbing a hand over my jaw, I stop to let a woman who's been riding my ass like a donkey pass me. "It's a sad story. You sure you want to hear it?"
Her eyes dart over to me in a momentary disbelief. “Hi, my name is Ellie, not Kelly,” she says, the last part yet another adorable dig at me under her breath. “And in case you haven’t noticed, I live and breathe the Boxley Brothers. So, yes. Of course I want the story. And I am no stranger to sadness, so don’t leave anything out.”
Her precise response seems expertly-timed, and that velvet voice of hers. God. With just a touch of Southern vocal fry, and over my dead body am I never seeing her again. Females around here don't hold the same kind of fight in them that Ellie has. And damn if she's not making me want her for it.
Shoulder to shoulder, we continue to walk. The lights from the venue start to peel away from us as I launch into the tale. "Cole, the lead singer. His wife died in a car accident just before they hit their big break at some music festival in Charlotte." I look for some sign of emotion or trepidation in her face over the start of the story. But finding none, I continue. "As expected, Cole took it hard. I mean, this guy fell into drinking and drugs. It was so bad they almost didn't play the festival. But how Cole explains it is that the morning of, a yellow canary sat on his windowsill and pecked at the glass until he dragged himself out of bed. He was so hungover. Still pretty messed up from the night before, so he was pissed at the whole situation, right?"
Rapt with attention, Ellie nods.
"Well, when he went to scare it away, the bird just sat there staring at him. Kept pecking at the window. But the kicker is that when Cole finally stopped trying to run it off, the little thing started to sing," I say, hardly believing the story myself. "His wife's name was Birdie. So he took that as a sign to perform the festival. The Boxley Brothers were signed the following week. "Songbird" was written for Birdie. They normally close the show with it."
As we pass by the ticket stand out into the dark of the meadow, I catch Ellie wiping something from her face. When she looks up at me, she raises her eyebrows. "Wow. That's really poignant," she says, swiping at her cheek again. “Thank you for telling me.”
I shove my hands deep into my pockets and grin at her soft side. I'm a little embarrassed myself. I had a feeling she'd get more meaning out of the story like I did. With a shrug, I kick at the grass as we head toward the far side of the field, weaving in and out of idling cars as the mass of crowd disperses behind us. "I thought it was interesting. Cole told the story in an interview I saw online. He tells it way better than I do. You should look it up when you get home."
“I will,” she says, her voice lilting toward sweetness. “Is that the same bird that was at his window?”
“Same bird. Sings with him at every show. I almost didn’t believe it at first, but I read up on canaries. Did you know they can live upwards of ten years?”
“Read up on them?” She laughs and eyes me. “You mean, you researched them.”
Chapter Four
Ellie
A rumbling crack of thunder touches down somewhere on the other side of the trees lining the meadow which causes me to shriek.
In a split-reaction, Mason reaches over and puts his arm around my shoulder in something of a protective gesture. "You okay?"
Having completely lost my shit internally, I nod and take a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of my heart. "It's gonna storm."
"Nah," Mason says, his voice sounding drawn out and lazed. He rubs the back of his neck. "Probably just from the heat."
By the time we reach a compact, charcoal Sedan by the edge of the meadow, I regain my breath. Most of the cars have cleared out now, and the nearest light is a moth-swarmed lamppost thirty yards from us. After I awkwardly slide out of Mason's arm, he pops the trunk and rummages around for a second, grabbing two navy blue T-shirts. A shiver runs down my spine as I squint and study the fabric, an attempt to make out what's on the shirts.
“Here, you want my glasses?” Mason asks, removing his frames with a smirk only to immediately put them back on.
I try to suppress my laugh at his nerdy sense of humor. I don't want him to think I'm soft for him. Even though, already, I can tell I probably am.
"This was one of their original designs." He holds the shirt up again, his biceps now peeking out from his T-shirt. Studying the shirt once more, I notice the large, faded gold print that says BOXLEY across the chest.
"How have I never seen this before?" I ask, a little pissed and not actually wanting him to answer. I know everything about the Boxley Brothers, yet not once had I laid eyes on this design. I'm not sure whether it's the beer coursing through me, the dark seclusion of the field, or the fact that he seems to know more about my favorite band than I ever have, but something deep inside me shifts and catches fire. I want more of a connection with this nerdy, adorable asshole. The thought alone makes my cheeks burn.
No longer feeling the chill of this May night, I shrug my military jacket off and toss it on his car. When I catch sight of him looking up and down my form, I can't help but wish he was seeing more of me. Sure, I'm not on the line for a relationship or a boyfriend. But a little kissing session with a nerd I'll never see again? Maybe this is what I need tonight. Maybe I want him to see every last inch of me tonight in the darkness of this meadow, no strings attached.
Another clap of thunder booms closer, but I catch my surprise. And on an energetic whim, I reach down and grab the hem of my tank top and pull it over my head. With my shirt off and Mason's eyes boring into me, I drop the tank on the ground.
"Whoa," Mason whispers. His eyes widen, and through the grin I flash him, he never once looks away.
The breeze of the night feels forgiving against my back, and I grow giddy at how harsh his impenetrable eyes rake over me. I can tell he's drinking in the curve of my bare skin. Smirking, I stand there in my bra as I unfold the new shirt and slip it on over my head. Immediately, it falls past my thighs, and I cock my head to the side with a laugh. "I don't think it's my size," I say, stepping toward him, drawing his expression into one of wonder. Only a few inches separate us now, and I think he wants me. But in the dark of the night, I can't be entirely sure.
Mason clears his throat. “It’s fine.”
I scoff at him. "Just fine?"
He laughs nervously and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "That came out wrong. What I meant to say is it may not fit you right, but," he exhales deep. "It looks great on you."
The heat of his words brushes my cheek and fans the flame that's burning
within me. I don't know if it's him or the atmosphere. Maybe both. But I can't deny that I want this man. In fact, I want him so bad that in the back of my mind, I hear Brooke telling me to go for it. Also in the back of my mind, like a vinyl record skipping, is that damn one-liner that's too good for the inside a fortune cookie.
Be the storm, Ellie.
Reaching out, I splay my fingers across his chest and feel the muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He's startled but doesn't stop me, so I close the space between us. A car passes us in the field blowing us a gentle breeze, and under the lift of my lashes, I draw him in. "I want you to kiss me," I whisper, staring at the curvature of his lips. There's something about the shape of them that makes me need to taste him.
"Oh yeah?" he asks, gently placing the back of his hand on my cheek. "Maybe you ought to let me then." Before I can respond, he ducks down and leans into me, his warm breath pouring over my lips.
Driven by the desire that threads through my entire body, I push myself up onto tiptoes and crash into him. He tastes of alcohol and cinnamon, and the harder I kiss him, the more intoxicated I feel. My head swims, dizzying me with lust as I grasp at either side of his neck to steady myself.
Wrapping his arms around my waist, he tugs me toward him, closing the space between us. Breathing in, the dark, lingering scent of him douses me in his stable, silent presence. The way he moves his lips against mine makes me feel like I'm drowning in him— a beautiful, trailing descent. Air is a long-forgotten necessity as I grow desperate for more and push my tongue past his lips. This draws a low, guttural groan from the depths of his chest. The sound drives me wild, and I want him to make this sound for me over and over again. For the rest of my life.
Drawing my clasped hands down the stubbled lines of his jaw, I flinch as he pulls me in tighter, crushing me mad against his body and pushing me backward, one slow step at a time. In a moment of surprise, my back bumps into the car and my breath hitches against his lips. But I don't want him to stop.
Another crack of thunder bellows closer now, causing me to hold onto Mason tighter. And as another vehicle drifts by us in the grass, it blows its horn with a cheer. The loudness of it scares the shit out of me, so I pull back, thinking that it might be Brooke.
Mason lets out a stifled moan in the mess of my now-tangled hair and rests his forehead against mine, his breath heavy with fervor. "You don't understand," he says, placing a kiss on my forehead. "I've been wanting to do that all night."
I can't help but grin at him, my lips feeling warm and buzzy. "Well, you're in luck," I say, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. I smell different traces of his cologne that cling to him now. Dark sandalwood— a scent I'd be happy living in forever.
"Is that so?" he says, his eyes burning into mine.
I smirk at him with a small nod. "Ill-fitting T-shirts are kind of my thing."
This must set him off because he kisses me again, harder this time. Wrapping his arms around me, he slowly lifts me up onto the trunk of his car, raising me up to his height. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. His hands move up to my collarbone before sliding down to my hips. He caresses my bare thighs, his fingertips lingering at the hemline of my cutoff jean shorts, and it's not until I sigh a hum of pleasure into our kiss that I feel his entire body press against me.
Grabbing his arms, I pull them from behind me. For a wavering moment, our kiss falters somewhere in his worry, and I can tell by the tensing of his muscles that he feels like he's done something wrong.
"No," I breathe against him, my words grazing his lips. "I want you." Latching onto his hands, I settle my grasp around his heated fingers in a loose hold.
I don't know this man. I barely know what he looks like outside of a buzzed state of mind, but in this moment, I know I want more from him than just a kiss. Not caring if he can sense my desperation, I scoop our hands beneath the hem of my oversized T-shirt. I place his palms flat against the curve of my waist and set him on an upward course. Burying my fingers in his thick mane, I push our potent kiss beyond normal limits by nipping at his lips. As I feel his hands drifting upward, I smile against him causing him to groan again.
His fingertips reach my bra, and with a darting sweep of my tongue I egg him on until I
feel him dip his hands under the fabric that separates us. Part of me wants him to rip my bra off of me. But when he presses his thumbs firm against my nipples, I feel the length of him grow against my thigh causing me to moan something of pure pleasure into his mouth. With a chuckle, his lips drift down my jawline and neck, pressing kisses into my tender skin as I feel my core growing warmer by the second. Suddenly, a nearby car blares its alarm jolting me back to reality.
"Shit," I say, pulling back in shock. My breath is heavy with desire, and then it hits me. I'm in the middle of a meadow, this venue parking lot. Making out with a nerdy stranger, even if he is a hot one. A stranger, nonetheless. What am I doing? The last thing I need is to get tangled up in anything else this summer.
With a solid clearing of my throat, I gain his attention As I bite my lip, he slowly retracts himself from me and steps back. Studying my face, he seems to sense the change in my demeanor.
In a perfect world, I'd probably tell Brooke to leave me, that I'd go home with Mason for the night, even if he does live in Raleigh. But then I think about how fresh my pain still is. The fact that a one-night stand is the last thing I need in my life right now. It's not rocket science for me to realize that I'm using Mason to rid my mind of John and the way he treated me, and not only tonight at the show. I'm talking about the shitty way he treated me throughout the entire relationship.
A darkening guilt sets in and forms a lump in my throat. The last thing I want to do is give Mason the wrong idea. He seems innocent enough not to know any better. Nice enough to deserve more from a random girl he connected with at a concert. And yes, he's hot. Undeniably hot now that I've felt him against me. But that's all it is. I mean, it's hard not to fall in like with a person when he feels the same emotional pull of your favorite music, right?
Tugging the oversized t-shirt back down around me, I slide off the trunk of Mason's car and pick my jacket and tank top up off the grass. "I have to go. Thanks for the T-shirt," I say, shooting him a tragically annoyed sort of grin.
"Wait, Ellie," he says, his eyes huge like those of a lost puppy.
As if on cue, fat raindrops start plummeting from the sky, hitting the earth in a sudden, lulling rhythm. The smell of fresh dirt rises, but I can't stay. My heart feels a little too heavy over this loss tonight. And the fact that I'm about to leave this guy who is so apparently interested in me burns more than it should. Because what I'm giving up isn't just a guy. I'm walking away from a soul-permeating connection.
"You were right," he says, his voice carrying over the downpour. He points skyward. "About the storm."
"I usually am," I say, nodding at him with that same forlorn smile on my lips.
The irony is not lost on me that he's just reminded me of my supposed new way of living. To be the storm or not to be the storm. Unbeknownst to him, that had become the question of my life tonight. Because if you're not the storm, then you're being stormed on. And—
Eleanor Marie Stone. Be the storm.
Running a careless hand through my now-tangled and damp hair, I turn from him and take off across the field. Cutting ties. Bowing out of this connection as gracefully as I can. I feel bad, but I can't let myself be stormed on again. Not by him. Not by anyone.
“Can I at least get your number?” Mason shouts at my back.
Through the downpour, I turn back to him one last time. In the thick of the rain, I shake my head, hold my arms out, and aim my face to the weeping sky like Cole had during his last song. "Maybe at the next show," I say, knowing good and well I'll never see this man again. Clutching my jacket to my chest, I take off running for the other side of the meadow humming "Songbird" all the way back to Brooke's car.
; Chapter Five
Ellie
The Dream Bean Coffee Shop on Howe Street in downtown Southport is not the smallest building in the city, but it's pretty close. With a harsh hangover and a splitting headache, I stand behind the counter, my small frame barely able to fit between the espresso machine and the cash register. Hank, the middle-aged owner of the place, folds the ladder I just climbed to rewrite the specialty drinks and daily roasts on the giant chalkboard hanging on the wall behind the counter. The morning shift is always busy, but today has been especially chaotic with my mind still wildly reeling from the events of last night— running into John and his new girlfriend and sharing those moments with Mason.
Mason. My heart jolts at even the thought of his name.
When I woke up this morning, my first thought was if that hadn’t all been a figment of my drunken imagination. That adorable, sly nerd with the chocolate-colored eyes. The guy I somehow ended up connecting with over the Boxley Brothers.
No. I didn’t just connect with him. I made out with him. We very clearly made it to second base in the outskirts of that meadow last night. All of that bathed in the high of hearing my favorite band. Learning the backstory to "Songbird." God, it was a good night. But even as I think about it now, the madness of it translates into incorrect drink orders and a batch of burned blueberry scones.
“You’ll be okay on your own?” Hank asks. He puts away the latest delivery of coffee filters and hangs his apron up beside the back door. I can tell he’s lingering, nervous to leave me alone with the morning rush.
"Yeah, no worries. I've got it under control," I say, hoping to ease his mind. But inside, I'm panicking. Crowds keep flowing in, and my phone feels like it's in a constant state of vibration in my back pocket. I pull it out between customers to find a curious unknown number flashing across the screen. It's a Wilmington area code, and though I shouldn't, I'm hoping like hell it's Mason.
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