When the 23-minute track was over, tears dripped off Rion’s chin. They wrote a sloppy signature on the dorm-provided, cheap-as-shit laminate desk.
“Get your shit together, Rion Burke. Nobody else is going to do it for you now.” Her fingers shook as she converted the file to a playable format, stuck the flash drive in her laptop, and clicked “save.”
Then, after the computer had finished grumbling at the transfer but before she could change her mind, she yanked it out, stuffed it in her pocket, shoved her feet into shoes, and shouldered her way out her door.
By now, Amy had already left to do something with Little Red, and Arielle’s freakishly tall and gorgeous girlfriend was chilling on the couch with her calves resting on Arielle’s thighs while Ari squeezed her knee.
When she saw Rion, Arielle got that damn shit-eating grin back again. “Did you do it, like, just now? I wasn’t sure because it took so long. But you look determined.”
Rion shot her a glare. “Shut up.” Then, to the girl, “Sorry, uh…”
“Lauren.” At least she wasn’t grinning, but her dark eyes, sparkling with mischief, were almost as annoying.
“Sorry, Lauren. Arielle’s been on my case about this and I’m about to get her off.”
Arielle snorted. “Nice word choice there, Cranky.”
Rion grabbed her coat from the peg beside the door. Jesus, Amy had thought of everything. It was like her teeny boondocks town infused the water with a homemaker gene. Whatever. Today, Rion was grateful for a coat in easy reach, because if she didn’t get out of here with this goddamn flash drive containing all her feelings soon, she might never do it.
“I’ll be back. I need to pick up my paycheck.”
“Okay. Take your tiiiiime!” Arielle sang as Rion listened to the door thwack shut.
The second week of November at Indiana Northern meant some serious weather. Not snow—worse. It was a frigid wind that bit through almost any coat, and laughed in the face of anyone who hadn’t thought to wear a scarf, hat, and gloves. Rion clenched her jaw tight and put her head down, feeling the top layer of her hair practically mess itself up. It was a good thing the color at least looked good. She’d managed to bleach again and get an even purer blond out of it. Where most girls would get pissed off at the stubborn dark roots, which seemed to grow out in a few days no matter what Rion did, she remembered how Crash had admired her hair, and smiled.
Yeah, so apparently in addition to being smoking hot, incredibly considerate, clean as a whistle, a great kisser, and the most polite guy she’d ever met, he also transformed her into an eighth grade girl. Goddamn sexy bastard.
She couldn’t even completely calm her smile as she pushed into the Studio. Olivia stood in the back, having a quiet conversation with Stephanie, who looked upset about something. The place was dead, except for one girl getting her nose pierced, which Jack was taking care of while hitting on said girl. Rion rolled her eyes at how obvious he was, running his hand down her back and helping her lie down. Next time she’d have to tell him to wait until after the stud was actually in a girl’s nose before telling her how hot she looked.
She tilted her head up at Olivia. “Be right back down,” she called. It was the day that Studio employees could pick up their checks, and Rion had a whole $172 after taxes coming to her. It was better than nothing.
But if she didn’t keep her feet moving toward Crash, she’d never make it. At this point, she couldn’t figure out what would make her into a bigger emotional pussy—chickening out of doing this, or going through with it in the first place. Because, seriously, who gave a fucking music mix to someone they’d hassled to hell and back and still wasn’t even their boyfriend?
Either a bitch or a pussy. The only thing worse than being one would be both.
So Rion pushed through the door that led to the tiny “lobby” of the building, and, stair by stair, up to Crash’s. Five stairs up, she realized she hadn’t been breathing, and forced a deep breath into her lungs. Goddammit, there was Crash’s scent—some combination of his aftershave and laundry detergent, and maybe some man-lotion. Comforting and sexy at the same time. So many things at once, just like he was, and a little confusing, which she wished he was. Then she’d be able to deal with him better.
She stared at the door, heavy metal with pings in it, covered in dulling and slightly chipped red paint. There wasn’t even a number—there was only one apartment here. Rion glanced under the door—just like a stupid scared girl stalking her crush. She took a deep breath in, blew it out, yanked the drive from her back pocket, and flicked it under the door. No note. If he was watching for some communication from her, some sign that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her, he’d at least guess it was from her. If he’d been listening to her about her passion for music, he would know it was from her. And then she could trust him.
An immense stress lifted from her shoulders as she backed up, slowly. She’d put herself out there—or, into Crash’s life—and now it was his turn to respond.
But then, the unmistakable sound of a shower turning off floated out into the hall. Wet footsteps splashed and slipped a little on a hard floor. A light directly on the other side of the door switched on.
Rion said a silent prayer that the stairwell was carpeted, because otherwise the noise as she scrambled down the stairs would have been louder than a herd of elephants.
There was no way she could look him in the eye now. Not until he listened. Not until she knew.
She growled. If all the Society was going to do for her was convince her to do stupid things without thinking them through, maybe she needed to rethink her reliance on the Society. Now Crash was going to think she was a total psychopath, and never talk to her again. She definitely deserved it, since only girls with a unique combination of batshit crazy and utterly stupid made mix tapes, put them on flash drives, and slid them under the door of an apartment they’d never been to before.
Yeah. It was time to abort this mission and go back to blowing Crash off even though that was the exact opposite of what she really wanted to do.
The door to Crash’s apartment was opening. She stood paralyzed in the stairwell as she listened, trance-like, to the sound of the door swinging on its hinges, Crash’s steps on the carpet, coming toward her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t not move. God-fucking-dammit, he was here. And he smelled delicious.
“Rion! Hey! Is this—did you bring this by?”
Godfuckingdammit, that scent of slightly damp skin and boy-smelling freshly shampooed hair was killing her, in that she was going to combust from the heat running through her. She turned her eyes to Crash and pressed her lips together.
Move, you stupid bitch.
“Yeah, actually, it was…a mistake. Sorry.” She held her hand out, giving him the chance to get rid of the flash drive, trying to focus on anything but his ice blue eyes that killed her every fucking time she looked at them. Crash narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t think so. Seriously, Rion. What is this?”
Rion turned her eyes down, examining the carpet. Office grade, dots of blue and burgundy woven in through a boring medium tan. And, dear God, Crash in only jeans and bare feet. Had Rion even realized how sexy a tattooed guy in bare feet was? Or was it just Crash?
“I…it’s stupid,” she said, thrusting her hand out further, wiggling her fingers. “I made it and I thought for a sec I wanted you to listen to it. But I’m good, you don’t have to.”
“Oh. It’s music. Your music,” Crash said, a smile tugging at his lips.
Rion had never thought those words could sound so sexy, but she couldn’t imagine anything being more of a turn-on after Crash said them in that low, slow voice.
His fingers curled around the drive and he pulled it close to him. “Yep. This is definitely the most important thing in the universe right now. Come on.” He held his other hand out to Rion, and she took it without even thinking. When his fingers weaved with hers, she snapped out of it.
“Wait, what? Wh
y? No no. I’m just fine right here, thanks.” He still didn’t drop her hand, just looked at her with a smug look like he knew what was going through her head better than she did. “Or, you know, I could just leave. In fact, call me when you’re done. If you want to. I mean, if you like it. I mean, you could just tell me when you see me at the Studio. Actually, don’t worry about it. You don’t even have to—”
And then, he was tugging her toward him so fast her bangs blew off her forehead, pulling her tight to him, bending his head to hers. His lips grazed her ear, the same way they had done the first time they’d been alone together in that that damn alley, and whispered, “Shut up.” They stood there like that, pressed together, Rion’s back against the wall, for a few heartbeats. She listened to his breathing, patient and waiting, for her. So slowly, she turned her head to his, so their breaths mingled together, and then his lips were on hers, moving so tenderly that she wanted to cry.
He pulled away, keeping his forehead against hers. “I want to,” he whispered, low and gravelly, and Rion got the distinct impression that he was talking about something more than listening to her mixes.
“If you’re sure,” she said. She wasn’t talking about music either, not with the feeling of his thigh pressing against hers, the twitch of his forearm as he adjusted his fingers. The unexpectedly sexy sight of his bare feet under jeans.
He moved away from her and she felt the absence of him like a shock, cold on her face. Her body wanted to be against his again, screamed it at her as he led her back to his apartment. His apartment. Inside, was a couch, a small cart with a TV in the corner, and a small kitchen with two burners built into the countertop. An unopened bill on the floor sat near his shoes, which Rion imagined him kicking off at the end of a long shift at the studio. How did such a normal guy, one who stepped out of his shoes and made an indent with his butt in what looked to be a secondhand couch, who cooked for himself and slept in a normal bed with normal sheets, get under her skin so badly?
“Sorry it’s a mess,” he mumbled, giving her a lopsided smile as his eyes flicked up and down her body. “That’s a good look for you,” he said. “Sweats. You look comfortable.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ on a cracker,” Rion said, forcing even more irritation at herself into the background of her mind. “I look like a slob,” she grumbled, tugging at her loose heather gray sweatpants, her off-the-shoulder black long-sleeved shirt with a thick-strapped mustard yellow tank underneath. She looked like shit in yellow, but her motivation to do her laundry had been shockingly low since she got to college. She completed the outfit with the jean jacket she wore practically every day.
“You look like you.”
Rion raised an eyebrow.
“Which is amazing.” His grin was lopsided, and his head cocked to the side like a damn puppy dog.
She couldn’t suppress a smile now. She turned her eyes to the carpet again. “So, are you going to listen?”
“Definitely. Computer’s in the bedroom. Uh…the corner.” After checking to make sure she was following him, Crash walked over to the bed, plopped down, and pulled an ancient looking laptop onto his lap, flipped open the lid, and tapped at the trackpad as it clicked and roared to life.
“Mine sounds like that,” Rion said, nodding at the ancient beast of a machine. “Well, maybe a little worse.”
“I just put it in, right?” Crash’s eyes flashed to hers, and a heat shot through her. She nodded at him and pressed her back against the wall right next to the bed, trying to steady herself. Everything about this guy made her feel so awkward, so off-guard and pliable. She hadn’t trusted anyone in a very long time. But she trusted him.
It took Crash a few more clicks to get the music started. When the first chords came through the speakers, as sharp and clear as they could be for a laptop, she let her eyes drift closed. She’d gotten better at mixing, that much she knew. Each class helped her tweak some small part of her mixing, helped her learn about the nuances of the music in a new way, so that weaving the songs together had begun to feel more like working out and less like breathing. Harder, but in a good way, full of concentration, focus, and purpose.
When you felt the music like Rion did, being able to work hard and get a specific result felt more like an endless possibility than a struggle.
Crash had been the only thing on her mind the whole time she’d worked on the music, slowing one song down and speeding another up, starting with a slow, minor key. It sounded dark to her, suspicious, and for the first time it occurred to her that music could be colors and moods and art in a million different ways than she’d imagined.
The music started to pick up, a little brighter in tone, and the singer’s voice weaved through the chords, skipping once, then repeating over and over, digging deep into the notes, sometimes harmonizing, sometimes matching them. Her voice dipped and skated along the words, light but with a depth that meant there was a possibility of something more. Another song began to dip in, this one sung by a gravely baritone. Rion, eyes still closed, felt a smile drift onto her face. This singing voice was Crash, taking over the song, filling in the gaps of the girl’s voice, coaxing out her best notes as they harmonized, twisting long after hers through the quickening beat, then fading away. Now the notes were electronic and intense, pulling each other along like they all dangled and danced chaotically from a wire line, clashing and teasing, drawing out the clearest parts of each other.
Rion’s heart jumped as she realized just how closely her mix followed her memory of every single interaction with Crash since the moment she’d met him. Every single emotion, tug on a heartstring, rush of attraction, urge to tear his clothes off, was somewhere in this song. And then, poking through the jumpy, tinny tones of the electronic beats came a languid strum of a guitar, along with subdued but driven vocals. The voice in the song could have been male or female, or both harmonizing together. It could have been going anywhere, could have ramped up or faded away, and each would make equal sense. She felt the song coming to an end, remembered the feeling of wanting to find a stopping point still deep in her bones.
If anyone had asked her this morning, she would have said Crash was an annoyance, someone she wished would leave her alone so she wasn’t in danger of attaching to anyone or anything. Maybe someone she wanted to fuck, and then never see again. Obviously, this creation of hers was a better indication of her emotions than any of her actual conscious thoughts.
A storm of tension brewed inside her, making her feel hot and anxious, but absolutely stuck to the wall. Her eyes would open, watching how he would react to this barest of offerings of her emotions since she had lost her shit at Dad’s funeral. That had terrified everyone, including her. Her own tears and wailing and rushing to the bathroom to yak up whatever stupid funeral finger food had been sitting around the house had made everyone around her, and most of all herself, so disgusted and uncomfortable that she vowed to never ever let that happen again.
That was when her music had started to get really good.
Crash’s eyes connected with hers, just as open, but not hopeful. Not pleased. Just slightly surprised, and most of all, sad. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know…I mean, I get what you’re saying, but I didn’t know I’d done that to you. I’m sorry.” He dropped his head. “I’ll let you go now. I’ll help you get home,” he corrected himself, sliding his laptop from his legs to the bed.
It took a moment to register. “What? What do you mean? I…no. I don’t know what you heard but that’s not what I was trying…I mean, I wasn’t trying to do anything, but I don’t feel that way.”
“Don’t feel what way?”
“Like…I want to go home? Like I want to get away from you?”
“Oh,” Crash said, crinkling his eyebrows down, swallowing hard. “Then why…I mean, it was pretty clear.”
“What was clear? That mix…that was everything I’ve been feeling, you know, for you. It wasn’t good?”
“It sounded great, until they started singing.”
“The lyrics?”
“What lyrics?”
“Lyrics are the words to the songs. Artists typically use words to add meaning to a song.”
“I know what lyrics are, I just…didn’t listen to them I guess.” Rion’s hand flew to her cheek. “What did they say?”
“You can’t touch me—could never get the heart of me—we’re different breeds, spinning on the same ball of dirt. This is the last time you’ll see my face.”
“I…um…what?”
“That last song. The Blinking Innocents.”
“That’s what they were singing? I could have sworn…Jesus fuck, I…can I just see your computer?” Whatever emotional maelstrom had been grabbing Rion thirty seconds ago increased tenfold, and desperation commanded her body. She knelt next to Crash and reached over him, grabbing for the computer, fingers itching to click back and listen for herself.
“I mean, it’s fine. I get it. I can take a hint,” he said, closing the laptop and grabbing her hands. Looking in her eyes. She knew this was going to be what Crash took with him. This was her chance to make a decision.
“Shut up, Crash. Shut. Up. There was no hint. I mean, there was, but you had to listen to everything. Didn’t you hear it? I wanted you to hear…how the songs all worked together. How they complemented each other. This is what I do.” She took a deep breath. “This is my alleyway painting, okay?”
He still looked confused as hell, and Rion’s heart sank. This was the test, and he had failed. Or maybe she had failed, and the test was shit. Her shoulders slumped, and her eyes with them, looking at their joined hands. Something about the way he touched her—it was never forceful, never hard. He didn’t squeeze or force or push. Still, she never felt that she could pull away.
“Okay…and it’s just some songs? No message?”
The Broken Hearts' Society of Suite 17C Page 26