Adrianna lifted her hand up in the exact same way Zion had earlier. He took her fingers in his hand and lifted them to his lips for a benediction, but his eyes were absorbing every detail of her hair, and I knew he was trying to figure out how he could re-create that. I’d tell him later it was probably a wig. He couldn’t make his real hair do what her fake hair could do. But right then, it was all possibilities. Right then, he was working out how many times he’d have to bleach it to go from midnight black to virgin white, and his eyes were saucers.
Adrianna cooed, “Aren’t you adorable?”
I answered Micah’s question for him. “Zion lives in Williamsburg. You dropped me off at our apartment last night.”
“Right.” He tsked. “But I only saw the sidewalk. You left in a bit of a hurry.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I wasn’t feeling well.”
Micah sat down and indicated a chair to his right. I moved around Adrianna and sat beside him, on the end. That left Zion alone with Adrianna. From the looks of things, I didn’t think he’d mind. I couldn’t tell if it was the celebrity or her mesmerizing beauty, but Zion was a goner. I hoped I wasn’t gawking at Micah so openly. I was thankful for Zion’s complete loss of composure since it took the focus off my own.
“Zion from Williamsburg.” Micah said that as though he were considering the title of a novel. “Nope. I can’t work with that at all. Surely he’s not from Williamsburg. Nobody’s from Williamsburg.”
“No. He’s from down South. Like me.” I’d already Googled the basic facts about Micah and knew his family lived somewhere in New Jersey, but for the sake of conversation, I asked, “And where are you from?”
He scrunched up his nose. “Sometimes I wish I could say I’d been born and raised in West Philadelphia.”
“Huh?”
“Like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air?”
I stared at him blank. No clue.
He frowned at my silence. “It’s a TV show.”
“Oh, right. I didn’t watch that.”
His eyes opened wide. “How old are you?”
I snorted at the impertinence of the question. “I’m scandalized.”
The dimple in his cheek made an appearance when he laughed. “I mean, you must be a lot younger than me if you don’t remember The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.”
I sat up to my full height as if that would make me look older. “I’m the same age as you.”
“Thirty-two?”
“I turned thirty-three in May.”
“Hmm.” He scratched his chin. “You’re older than me.”
“Only by a couple of months. You’ll be thirty-three in a few weeks.” My face flushed with the realization I’d basically admitted to stalking his online bio.
“You’ve done your homework.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “So how’d you miss out on a classic nineties sitcom?”
A memory stirred. I used to sneak out to my neighbor Kelsey Bennet’s house to gorge on ice cream and forbidden TV, before my diagnosis. “I do kind of remember that show, but I wasn’t allowed to watch sitcoms. Brain rotting.”
“What a sad childhood. We’ll have to make up for it sometime. You should come over, and we’ll marathon all the junk sitcoms and eat all the junk food.”
I appraised him to figure out if he was being serious. It would be embarrassing to say yes if he was only fooling. “Sounds fun.”
He clasped his hands in supplication, like he was praying. “Think about it. Crappy food and television. You totally want in, right?”
“Yeah?” I fiddled nervously with my camera lens.
“If it would entice you more, you could do a whole photo spread of me eating pizza and watching sitcoms in my boxers at home.”
And there it was. I cringed at how easily I’d let him convince me he was hitting on me. I’m not sure why he wanted to float pictures of himself being a regular guy. Maybe he’d talked to Hervé and found out what I’d said about that. But I drew the line at shooting pictures of guys in their underwear anyway.
I settled in my chair, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel the gravitational pull of the hot celestial being to my left. He leaned over and started to say something else, but a movement caught my attention. Two women had taken seats behind us, and one of them tapped Micah’s shoulder before they fell back, heads together, giggling. When Micah looked at them, they burst into full hysteria.
The one with short-cropped gray hair said, “I’m sorry. My girlfriend thought that was you.” She was still recovering. “She wanted me to ask you for an autograph.”
Micah had already turned around with a hand outstretched. “Hi. What are your names?”
“I’m Martha,” said the gray-haired woman. She had incredible skin. It made me wonder if she was prematurely gray or if she had great genes. I had no idea how old she was. “And this is my friend Lynn.” Lynn had long brown hair, tied back at either side of her face. They both wore loose yoga wraps over tighter T-shirts and jeans. Lynn had accessorized with dangly earrings.
“Do you have something for me to sign?” Micah waited, and both women knocked each other as though he were on display at a museum and couldn’t see them.
Martha looked at Lynn. “Do we have something he can sign?” Her face contorted like she was stifling another onslaught of hilarity. “Here. Can you sign my arm?” She held out a ballpoint pen.
Micah took it with a dubious scowl. “I can, but you have to promise you won’t go and get a tattoo of it or something. Just take a picture. Trust me.”
That sent Martha into a convulsive fit, and she held her stomach. She obviously couldn’t believe she’d been so bold tonight. Her friend held her arm out and shoved up the sleeve. Lynn was the brains of the operation apparently.
Micah wrote, “What a crazy night that was. Micah Sinclair.” Or I assumed it said Micah Sinclair. Only the M and the S were legible.
Lynn showed it to Martha, and Martha shoved her sleeve up, too. “Me, too?”
“Sure.” He wrote, “We’ll always have TriBeCa,” and the same scrawl of a signature. Anyone could have scribbled that on their arms.
Lynn fished out her phone. “We have to get a picture with you. Our friends are never going to believe us.” She handed the phone to me. “Do you mind?”
Suddenly a part of this situation, I took the camera and leaned back so I could get all three of them in. Martha and Lynn held their arms up so the signatures were visible. I said, “One, two, three.” The camera clicked, and the two ladies flopped into their seats, content. The invisible boundary went back up.
Micah faced forward again. His face registered no difference in attitude, but I felt his shoulders sag and the energy seep from him.
“That seems exhausting,” I whispered.
“Better than flipping burgers.”
“Good point. How’d you end up a musician anyway?”
“When I was in high school, I started a band with some of my friends and let my sister sing with us sometimes.” He cut his eyes at me. “I never told her our audience doubled if we announced that she’d be singing. I didn’t do great in high school, but I worked summer jobs and saved up money so I could move to Brooklyn and join up with some guys who were looking for a front man. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“What else do you do? I mean when you’re not onstage, at a party, or supporting your sister?”
His eyes narrowed briefly. Did he think I was trying to get him to talk about all those women he dated in his spare time? Would it be horrible of me if I was? But he relaxed back into that cocky half grin. “Music takes up about eighty percent of my life. I’m either touring or rehearsing or writing or going to see other musicians. I spend the rest of my time blowing off steam—or sleeping.”
“How do you blow off steam?” I was incorrigible. But I wasn’t asking as a journalist. I really wanted to know.
A wry little devilish light gleamed in his eye, and I knew I’d pushed too hard. “Treks through the Amazon mostly. You know,
saving the rain forest.”
I pushed his shoulder, but he didn’t budge. His shoulder muscle was hard as a rock. “Tease.”
He pretended to be pushed over, a second later. “Yeah? Then why was I the one left standing on the sidewalk last night?”
Before I could formulate words again, the sound quality of the air changed noticeably. People stopped milling around their chairs and all settled in. If there’d been a cue, I’d missed it, but moments later, the lights dimmed. Eden had advised me that there’d be an opening act that I could use to set levels on and get in some test shots. She also told me to get up and move around, but all the chairs were full, and people were leaning against the walls on either side. I’d be in someone’s way anywhere I went. But I was being paid to be in someone’s way.
Tobin, the guy we’d met up front earlier, hopped up on stage to a smattering of applause and a couple of catcalls. He pulled the mic up and scanned the audience. “So good to see so many familiar faces out here tonight.”
More applause.
“The fact that you were all so willing to give up five times the normal ticket price for this event just goes to show how much you all take advantage of me.”
The audience laughed.
“Starting tomorrow, the cover charge will be adjusted accordingly.” Tobin smiled. “Seriously, though, I’m appreciative that all of you were willing to come out tonight. The proceeds will go to a great cause:”
Tobin paused for a minute, and the smile faded from his face. He cleared his throat. “Some of you here remember my mom, Elena.” His hand rubbed across his cheek, almost of its own accord, brushing off a tear maybe. “Mom fought a long hard battle. She was my fiercest supporter. She stood for things and made a difference despite her own frailty. She had so much strength, but—” He took a deep breath and heaved it out as though he couldn’t contain it.
Someone in the audience hollered. “We love you, Tobin!” And others applauded and shouted encouragements.
Tobin raised his hand to indicate a banner hanging behind him for an organization that specialized in muscular dystrophy research. “Together we’ll find a cure.” His voice was pitched and the tears fell unchecked. “Let’s give a huge round of applause to Eden Sinclair and Kelli Hind for volunteering their own time for this special evening.”
The applause from the crowd was powerful and clearly in support of Tobin more than in support of the fund-raiser. I got the feeling these people would’ve come there if he’d asked them to support clown school. Even though I didn’t know Tobin, his speech affected me. My heart constricted at his loss. I fought the urge to go back to the door and pay my way in. But I didn’t have a hundred bucks on me. Or in my bank account.
When Micah leaned over and asked if I’d ever seen Kelli Hind, I shook my head, afraid to speak for the lump in my throat.
At last Kelli took the stage, gave her own short speech, and started to play. I lifted my camera and shot off a picture. Hearing the shutter open and close, I cringed. I glanced at Micah, but he continued to nod his head to the music. I hoped that I was just being hypersensitive to the noise and shot another. Then I checked the pics and readjusted for lighting. After I was confident I had the right settings, I relaxed and enjoyed the music. It wasn’t the style I usually listened to, but the woman sang and played well. It beat leaning against a wall out on the street hoping for a celeb to wander by. Or flipping burgers.
I turned my head slightly so I could take in Micah without him noticing. He was completely rapt by the singer. Even his fingers tapped along. His blond hair shook lightly in time with the beat. He was so pretty I couldn’t even stand it. The cord running down the side of his neck tightened and relaxed along with subtle changes in his mouth. He moved his lips slightly like he wanted to sing along. Like he was singing along to himself.
My skin sparked with the awareness that he sat half a foot from me. I didn’t know if I’d ever be that close, that comfortable, that familiar with him again. I wanted to bump him, pull his hair, pinch his arm. Anything to be able to put a hand on him.
Like a wish come true, he brought his arm around the back of my chair and leaned over without turning his eyes away from the stage. “What do you think?”
I didn’t know how he managed to make me hear him without disrupting anyone else around us. I couldn’t trust myself to speak at such a perfect volume, so I made a show of twisting toward him, as if I hadn’t been staring at him, and whispered close to his ear, “She’s good.” I wanted to push my shoulders against his forearm, but I also hoped he’d forget to move away from me. If Andy knew I was sitting this close to Micah and hadn’t asked him a single investigative question, he’d crucify me. But what Andy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Micah said, “Yeah. Wait till you see Eden.”
But right then, I only wanted to see him. And I wondered how I was going to do the one thing I’d been asked to come here to do while Micah Sinclair had his arm across my shoulders in a dark club. I sat back a little farther, experimentally, and his fingers grasped my arm, tightening with a little squeeze.
Kelli sang about the shadow of a feeling, and I wondered if she’d written that song about me.
Chapter 9
After six songs, Kelli thanked the audience and exited the stage. The lights came up slightly, and people stood, stretched, headed to bathrooms or the bar. Micah turned in his chair, his arm pulling a hair’sbreadth away from my back. “I used to play this club a lot. Did Eden explain the best places to shoot from in here?”
And just like that, we switched to publicity-hound Micah. I straightened up. “No. Tell me.”
“Start here. Eden doesn’t move around so much that you’ll miss some exciting stage dive.”
“Okay.”
“After you have what you need, then you should go to the bar.” He twisted his shoulders around and pointed. “There. See those tables? They’re on a riser. You can get some great shots from that angle.”
“Got it.”
“Then over there.” He pointed to the other side of the stage. “There’s a set of steps leading to the stage. Go stand over there. You can even get up on the stage some as long as you don’t draw too much attention. You should try to get there before her last song.”
“Why? What’s the last song?”
“Just trust me.”
“Sure.” I was a professional. I could take direction. “Where’s the fourth place?”
He turned again toward a location he’d already pointed out. “There.”
“Again?”
“No, not there.” He touched my temple and pushed my head ever so slightly so I was looking directly back—at the door to the club.
“Outside?”
“Yeah. When you’re done here. Meet me outside.”
I looked up into the Caribbean of Micah’s blue eyes. “Meet you outside,” I repeated it like it might mean something different to him than to everyone else.
The charming half smile called his dimple out to play. “Yeah. You should come hang out after the show. Unless it’s too late for you.”
“Oh.” I was at an actual loss for words. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The night before flashed in my memory. He’d implied that his kiss hadn’t been a spontaneous decision, and I wondered if his plans might lead us back there. My eyes fell on his lips, curling wickedly, and I thought, yes, he might also wish we’d finished what we’d started. Before my near loss of consciousness.
Whether or not it would be wise to toy with Micah, I found him impossible to resist, and I didn’t break eye contact with him until the lights dimmed, and the show went on.
I’d come prepared tonight so I wouldn’t be caught with low blood sugar again. I reached down into my pocketbook and rummaged around to find a plastic bag holding a handful of cut carrots. I slipped one out and crunched into it, wincing at the explosion of sound in my own head.
Micah glanced over. “You might want to save the rabbit food till later, Bugs.”
&
nbsp; I didn’t know why I’d packed nothing but nuts and carrots and things that go crunch in the night. I put the bag away. I’d be okay for a little while, and it was time to get to work.
Eden stepped up on the stage to a burst of applause. She took some time getting the mic situated and dragged a stool forward to lean against. Watching her, I was struck again by how different she looked from her brother. Micah was tall and fair but not pale, whereas Eden was small and nearly alabaster. And while Micah had obviously taken care to style his blond hair, Eden’s wavy black hair had been pinned in a barrette as an apparent afterthought.
They both seemed to have paid almost no attention to clothes, opting for comfort over style. Eden had on a pair of faded blue jeans, worn-out leather ankle boots, and a T-shirt advertising a band that had broken up last year. I wondered if she remembered I’d be shooting pictures. I hoped she’d pay me either way.
Finally, she leaned into the mic. “Hey, everyone. Thanks for coming out in support of this great cause. I hope none of you were hoping to see Adam tonight ’cause he’s halfway to Tokyo. We’re going to have a good time without him.”
I didn’t even realize Adam Copeland singing in a small club like that would have been an option. Part of me was devastated to lose out on an opportunity to get some close shots of him there in the club, performing. But the ethical side of me was relieved not to have to wrestle with that dilemma. I wasn’t there to take tabloid photographs for my own profit. I was being paid a set wage to take professional shots to give to Eden. I didn’t think she could sue me for turning them in to Andy or selling them to an agency, but she’d probably murder me. And I’d never work for her again. Because I’d be dead.
While she began to strum, I trained my lens on her and took several close-ups, several full frame shots and then tried to get her in the context of the stage. I was too close for this, so I got up and moved to the area Micah had indicated. Sure enough, it was a perfect location for taking pictures. And as Micah had promised, Eden didn’t vary her performance so much that I needed to take many. Instead, I sat and listened to her perform, quickly forgetting I was there for a job as I drifted into the music. She had a lot more talent than the girl who’d played before. More talent than I’d realized. Maybe I’d pick up her CD after all.
A Crazy Kind of Love Page 8