Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

Home > Other > Seven Minutes 'til Midnight > Page 16
Seven Minutes 'til Midnight Page 16

by Sunniva Dee


  “Of course I do.”

  “We digressed, and I didn’t tell you everything. But I think I have to be candid with you. I’ve made so many mistakes over the last year and a half, a lot of them stemming from not being up front with people. So, take this for what it is: just information. It’s not meant for any of us to do anything about.”

  He just looks at me.

  “Do you understand? Are you okay with this?” I ask.

  “With what, to not do anything about whatever it is you’re about to tell me?” he asks, hiking himself up on an elbow.

  “Yeah.” I chew on my lip, really needing him to agree to this.

  “I’ll try.”

  I give him a half-playful stare-down.

  “Tell me. I’ll be nice,” he murmurs, as if that’s the issue.

  “I sort of said it already,” I backtrack.

  “Aishe?” The back of his hand accidentally brushes over my nipple on its way up to my face, and it contracts. Troy caresses my cheek before letting go again. “Just tell me already. No more prefacing.”

  “Okay. It’s just that I… That I had a break from believing in the love fire, and now I’m full circle back again, because one of the first signs of it is this.” I wave over my body.

  “It’s getting a sexy-as-hell body?” he jokes. “You’ve had that as long as I’ve known you.”

  “Silly. No, it’s feeling overheated the whole time, like I can’t get enough, and all I want is you. That’s why I was afraid when I came in here. That’s why I couldn’t go through with it.”

  He seems unsurprised by my confession. Still, he twists his mouth to the side in thought. “I want you day in and day out. For me, it’s been like this for a long time. I don’t fault you for not letting me make love to you. The entire time, I expected my moment of Heaven to be over, but I thought, ‘Fuck it,’ knowing I wanted as much or as little of you as you could give me.

  “I guess I don’t understand what you mean, Aishe. Not your favorite, I know, when people want to understand, but”—he flips open a hand—“if you want me like I want you, what held you back? Did… Did it take you back to The Hotel Room?”

  His touch returns to my stomach, palm stroking over my middle, and I rest my hand on top of his.

  “No, it didn’t enter my mind once tonight,” I whisper. “I was letting the Drago Fuoc rule me again, and I was about to let it take over completely. Then, you just became too much. So perfect and delicious, and I just really, really wanted you.” My breath stutters like it wants me to cry again.

  Those light, gentle eyes. The way he lifts them to my face without judgment, asking, “That’s good, right?”

  “But then I heard you, see? And everything became jarringly real. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t put out my fire for one beautiful moment only to make it worse tomorrow.”

  I blow out air like I’ve been sprinting. “Troy, you called me moixcha.”

  “I remember,” he murmurs, and his voice is warm amber. “There’s nothing I’d like more than for you to be my moixcha.”

  I fall asleep on his chest. The sheets are on the floor with our clothes when I wake up, the cool breeze at my back, spreading goosebumps up the nape of my neck. But my stomach is warm. My heart is warm.

  The heat of him beneath me is made of Artemisia and tarragon and aroused man. This peace of watching dark lashes flutter in dream. He’s not conscious to me anyway, so I can do this, kiss the corner of his lip with the weightlessness of a feather.

  What if I’m careful? Maybe it won’t set my fire on full blaze, turn me into a self-serving bitch who hauls this amazing person into herself.

  He thinks he wants me now, but he doesn’t deserve to be devoured. I’m a tornado of stardust, and he’s a man with the world at his feet. He shouldn’t spend his time on devils.

  I’m so cautious, but his lashes rise slowly at my peck. There are smiles in his eyes even if his mouth isn’t fully awake.

  “Good morning, you,” he rasps, voice as husky and beautiful as him. I blink away my Gypsy thoughts and smile down at him.

  “Good morning yourself.”

  A little more awake, he folds his hands beneath his neck and focuses his stare on me. His irises gleam against his skin. Never have eyes been brighter. “Do you want to shower with me?”

  I arch a brow, going for playful accusation, and it’s stunning the way his smile widens. Suddenly, he looks like a mischievous teenager. “I promise not to seduce you in there. I’ll just rub you nice and clean in all the right spots.” He bites his lip.

  “Depends on what you mean by ‘all the right spots,’” I say. “I’ve got very dirty hands. They were all over you last night. Also, the soles of my feet, because barefoot from my room to yours, and such.”

  He lets out a lazy gasp. “Whoa, my first picks exactly! We must be brain-mates.”

  There’s a giggle in my chest. It bubbles out, and Troy’s freshly awake eyes narrow into slits of amusement.

  “Does this mean you don’t trust me to do a good enough job in my own shower?”

  He wags a hand sideways in a fifty-fifty motion. “It’s a long flight. Can’t take any chances, now, can we, with stinky feet and—hmm—love-infested hands?”

  “What about these,” I murmur, lifting one of his hands, spreading it open so I can grip around a long finger and slide a slow caress up until I taper off at his nail. It’s exquisitely pink with a clean, ivory crescent moon at the tip. He’s a miracle, every inch of him, and I need to— need to stop this.

  Still, I can’t help myself. I bring his hand to my face and watch as his eyes darken when I inhale the lingering scent of honey.

  “Fuck. You’re intoxicating, Aishe.”

  My amusement isn’t as clean as his was when I say, “Because I’m poison.”

  TROY

  The flight to Japan is ridiculous. We hadn’t originally gone for business class, but with the media frenzy surrounding the video, China Eastern upgraded the band and wives with a quick call to management.

  It takes the tourist lounge sixty-two minutes for the word to get out about Waris and Aishe being amongst them. Ten minutes after that, two frazzled flight attendants haul their bags up front and install them in seats a few rows ahead of Elias and me.

  Aishe’s turmoil hovers around her like mist. She doesn’t acknowledge Elias and me as she passes us. Waris gives her man a slow wink.

  “Welcome to the digs, babe,” Elias says on a chuckle. Waris only waves over her shoulder. All runway-model elegance, she follows the curvy, fiery female who became my obsession what feels like ages ago.

  I exchange a glance with Elias. Dude’s simply entertained. Then again, why wouldn’t he be? Waris is used to this sort of fame. She chose sex as a profession. My girl—my future moixcha—did not.

  More than once, I’ve wondered how Aishe could breach her routine months after she left Clown Irruption, to return and literally jump my bones on camera.

  Five minutes in, Elias can’t take it anymore. He’s been shuffling in his seat, having a hard time getting comfy. He gets up, politely asks me to “get my stinkers,” aka my feet, out of the way so he can “get the fuck out and get some air,” aka check if Waris is okay.

  Me, I’ve got an old Queen concert on my screen, but my thoughts are with Aishe. When a silky, red lock slides out between the seats up front, Freddie Mercury can’t keep my attention any longer.

  I focus on Roger Taylor’s hi-hat work and the way it strengthens his backbeats. As always, he opens the cymbals in time with the snare, causing the sound to fucking blackmail your soul, but it doesn’t have its customary effect on me. Not when Aishe turns her head toward Elias, and the length of her hair dances down the faux leather of the backrest. In one wild, insane second, my chest is jealous of the person sitting behind her.

  I lean into the aisle for a better lo
ok, and Nadia meets my gaze from across. With a small smile, she pulls it back, veiling her thoughts.

  Elias is on his haunches, talking with Waris, a hand on her armrest. His gaze flicks past her to Aishe too, listening. He shakes his head, and momentarily, his entertainment fades into seriousness.

  Yeah, fuck it.

  I get up. Do my excuse-mes to people whose limbs I accidentally brush on my way past. Five rows up, and I’m at Elias’ side.

  “Aishe, whaddaya say we let the lovers sit together?” I ask, keeping my heart-thunder under control. “I’d be happy to have you next to me instead of this stinker.”

  She hesitates a second too long, and Waris jumps in. “Oh that’s so sweet of you, Troy, but no worries. I see our buddy, here, a lot already, so no sweat. We’re totally sick of each other.”

  I nod on instinct, but I can’t rip my stare away from Aishe’s face, the delicate slope of her cheekbone into soft flesh, the mysterious dip of the corner of her mouth that promises but doesn’t give me a smile.

  She withdrew her gaze from me too, but that she’s giving me back now. Holding you in my arms all night was like nothing I’ve ever had.

  She gets up with me. Moves with me. I have her stuff in my hands, a familiar feeling because maybe it’s in our future. I don’t reach behind me for her like I want to, but once on our walk back to my seat, she tugs on my shirt when she stumbles. God.

  “Get your dirty hands off my crap,” Elias play-barks as I start heaping his belongings into what’s about to become Aishe’s seat.

  “Suit yourself, man,” I say, smirking now that she’s here and ready to sit with me. Ten hours, just Aishe and I. This trip doesn’t sound so ridiculous anymore. I scan the two-seater pod we’re in, halfway encapsulated against the window. It looks like a small paradise fit for a priestess and her worshipper.

  My fingers tap out the rhythm of “The Mask” while I wait for Elias’ slow-ass cleanout. With tongue clicks, I fill in the hi-hats, and with the clack of my teeth, I’ve got the bass drum down.

  In my head, Emil sings about Aishe and the mask she works so hard to keep in place. Bo didn’t think of her writing the song, but it’s her. By the time Elias waves goodbye, I’m at the drum solo.

  “I’ve meant to ask you,” Aishe murmurs as she gets comfortable in Elias’ old seat. “What does your dentist think about that nervous tic of yours?” She points at my mouth.

  I do a drumroll with teeth and tongue only, using the acoustics of my nose and mouth for additional effect. Her eyes still hold turmoil, but when I widen mine with fake intensity, a smile curls off her lips anyway.

  “He wants me to do ‘Bleed’ by Meshuggah in its entirety,” I lie, and that makes her laugh. “Free crowns for the rest of my life if I put it up on YouTube for him.”

  Her laughter tapers off.

  “So much on YouTube these days, huh?” I say.

  “Fuck those people,” she replies, jerking her head toward the back of the plane.

  “Marriage offers?”

  She snorts. “You could say that. One involved handcuffs instead of rings.”

  “He chatted up the wrong merch girl, then,” I joke, alluding to Hailey’s bangles. “And bed poles?”

  “Definitely bed poles. By his description, he had it all figured out.” Her eyes go liquid. “You know what the tough part was?”

  “Tell me what the tough part was, baby.” I need to feel her under my fingers, soothe that shame if I can. She doesn’t pull away from the armrest when I cover her hand with mine.

  “It’s not always like this. But he’d watched the video so many times that he could describe the size of my”—she does a weak shift over her boobs— “and the color of my skin. My nipples. He knew what they looked like and wanted me to know what he’d do to them. So many freaking words!”

  “I’m so sorry, Aishe. I’d turn that asshole into Ragu for you,” I say under my breath. I earn a quivering smile with that.

  “You’d be the one handcuffed then, and not to a bed.”

  “Either way, it’d be a terrible look for me,” I say. “Also, pulp is a better word. Ragu sort of indicates food.”

  Her laughter comes out in a surprised squeak. God, it’s nice when Aishe laughs. “But there must be hungry dogs out there.”

  “Hmm. Now we’re talking. I see it now. ‘Troy’s Dog Ragu. Limited Edition. All the vitamins. No MSG.’”

  Now, she’s laughing in earnest. “‘Primary ingredient: pig. Warning: might contain bone fragments.’”

  I pull her hand between mine, wedging it in my lap. Hers is a little cold—it often is—and I think that she might not know how much she needs me.

  “Exactly. I’m a strong believer in detailed ingredient labels. It’s of utter importance,” I say.

  “As am I!” She meets my stare for the first time since we left my hotel room. Her eyeliner is drying in a small tear below her left eye, so I let go to wipe it off. A jolt of tenderness for this woman sets off in my chest when she lifts her face toward me and shuts her eyes in trust.

  AISHE

  I’m jostled awake by a sudden air pocket. Snug under a blanket he must have spread over me, my hand is back in Troy’s. Beside me, he’s already awake, head swung toward a commotion in the aisle.

  “Ma’am, we need you to sit down and put on your seatbelt again. Ma’am!”

  “Oh but you don’t understand. I need to speak with Troy Armstrong, from the band, okay? I’m traveling with him, and he won’t be happy with the way I’m treated in the back, there.”

  Troy sends me an incredulous side-glance. “What’s Hailey up to?”

  “Ma’am, you can talk with your friend once we enter a calmer area, but for now, I will have to ask you to respect the policies of China Eastern. Please return to your seat.”

  “My friend? Oh if that’s the problem, I’m more than a friend to Troy Armstrong—from the band—and now I’m having to pay for it. I’m, like, a victim because of it, and I need to see him!”

  “Does she know we can hear her?” Troy mutters out of the side of his mouth.

  “Good thing you’re more than a friend to her,” I chuckle. “You’ll deff need to help her now.”

  “I’m not,” he says very quickly. I narrow my eyes at him, and he rolls his.

  “Troy!” Hailey’s high-pitched yelp comes from a foot away, startling me upright. The cabin shakes through another air pocket. She holds on for dear life, eyes wide with maiden-in-distress fear. “Oh God, they’re crazy in the back—they almost followed me in here, thinking I’m Aishe.” As she says it, she realizes that I’m sitting next to Troy.

  She pulls in a quick breath before she purses her mouth shut. Idly, I notice that her makeup has just been applied: cherry lipstick, rouge, much too much powder, which still hasn’t melted into the skin at her hairline. Good thing they gave her a minute to freshen up between making her life unbearable back there.

  Sliding her gaze back to Troy, she changes the thin line of her mouth into a pleading pucker. “Please, Troy, you have to help me. I can’t take it any longer.”

  Oh my God, she’s hilarious; we both watch as she drama-queen-presses the back of her hand toward her forehead.

  “Ma’am. You do need to return to your seat.” The flight attendant puts a hand on her shoulder.

  “Let me go!”

  “Give us a minute,” Troy says, buzzing his chair up into a sitting position. “What’s up, Hailey.”

  She sinks down so she’s eye level with him, grabbing onto his armrest as she leans forward. Her perfume is too heavy for this turbulence and as recently applied as her makeup. I swallow a bout of queasiness.

  Hailey starts to whisper. Troy’s a guy, so of course he buys into her hoax and bends until her mouth is level with his ear. Me, I sit up taller and make a show of cocking my head toward them in blatant eavesdropp
ing.

  Her hands go to his arms, his golden arms that I suddenly realize I want no one else to touch. They can bulge with energy and emotion, over a drum set or over me on a mattress, but they shouldn’t be touched by her. Geez, he needs to notice what she’s doing and pull away.

  “Two of them called me a whore for having slept with you,” she whispers, horrified. “And I had to sign autographs.”

  “What?” I blurt out. There’s no way my face hides my disbelief.

  “Yeah, you can ask— Well, Rob and Zap weren’t there. They were at the restroom, I guess, or something, but totally. It was so gross.”

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Troy murmurs in his warm amber voice, and I have to suppress a gasp. How does he believe this? “How many autographs did you have to sign?”

  “A dozen, at least— I lost count! They were so mean.”

  “Woah, that’s no way to treat a woman,” he says. “While calling you names?”

  Oh. Okay. I bite my lip against my smirk. Guess I underestimated him.

  “Yes!” Her eyes flicker, rethinking her strategy. “Well, maybe not that many, but a lot since Aishe and I are lookalikes, and such.”

  “You mean that, right?” Troy lifts a finger, lazily indicating her newly dyed hair with extensions, feathers, and even a bodice. I should lend her a skirt, and she’d be me the way any Halloween partier can turn into Lady Gaga. Jesus Christ.

  “I’m so scared,” she whispers, meant for Troy’s ears only by the way she leans into him again. “Please, please, help me. I don’t know what to do!” For good measure, the bitch actually shivers.

  The fasten-seat-belt signs fade off, and I groan inwardly. Behind Hailey, the flight attendant returns to her duties, leaving Hailey in the hands of our knight in shining armor, goddammit.

  I don’t know if I should laugh or cry when the knight puts a reassuring hand on her arm and says, “You’ll be okay. Just don’t fake any more autographs. Why don’t you go get some sleep now?”

  “But that’s the thing, right? How can I sleep when I know people are watching me, waiting to assault me just for looking like someone else? It’s not fair!”

 

‹ Prev