“So what made you come on tour? You don’t seem like the jealous-girlfriend type, tagging along to babysit.” He’s smiling at me, like always. Amused seems to be his perpetual state of mind, and I wonder if he just loves his job that much.
“Oh, I’m definitely not.” I love how honest I’m finally able to be. “I’m here for moral support, mostly.” I strum a few more notes, plucking the strings idly. “These guys are like my family.”
His head is cocked to one side like he’s examining me. “You write, too?” He crosses his arms and the brightly colored fish wrapping around his forearm seems to move with the flex of his muscles. “I’ve caught you singing a few times. And you’re always jotting things down in that notebook of yours.” One of his long fingers taps against the colorful little journal lying on the table in front of me. “The song you just sang was incredible. It’s one of yours?”
“Yes. But—”
Cam’s voice comes out of the hallway like a ghost. “Her songs are some of our best.” I roll my eyes at his attempt at flattery. How long had he been lurking there, just out of sight?
“Really?” Tad seems interested, adjusting his camera slightly on the counter as Cam takes the seat next to me. I hadn’t realized he was still recording everything.
But of course he is, that’s his job.
Tad looks at me again. “I didn’t know you wrote some of the band’s songs.” He makes it sound like we’ve been sitting around swapping stories and painting each other’s nails.
Cam looks at me and then Tad—and the camera. “‘Push’ … ‘Tangerine Love’ … all the fan favorites are Vee’s.” Cam is smiling at me like I’m absolute perfection, and for a moment I forget all about the pain and the hate and the anger. I smile back. And for one moment, I truly feel happy, ignited by the way he’s looking at me, like I’ve cured cancer or written the Great American Novel, not scribbled a couple of stupid songs. I’m seventeen again, sitting at the beach after sunset, playing a concert for two.
Cam’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Let’s do it, Vee.”
Tad has the camera propped in front of his face again. It’s aimed at Cam, who has slid to the end of the bench across from me, his guitar propped on his knee. He starts strumming a steady rhythm. After the opening chords, I can feel my chest tightening. I know the words that will come out of his mouth, and I wish I didn’t.
“There’s this girl, yeah this girl, who makes the world seem brighter than it’s ever been. There’s her smile and her eyes, and I just wanna make her mine. I hear her laugh and I smile, ’cause I know she’s laughin’ at me—” He’s looking at me the entire time he sings, and it takes me back. To the two of us in his apartment after school, singing and playing. The two of us lying on the beach and talking long after the sun had gone down. “There’s this girl, yeah this girl—” All of the feelings surging through me are new, but old, and it feels good to remember them again. And fucking painful to know that the last time I felt like this was so long ago. “This girl. This girl…” Cam’s repeating the end of his chorus over and over, and I know it’s my turn to join in, but I don’t. I can’t go back to that place and let myself feel what I’m feeling; remember the things that I’ve been able to forget for so long. Every note of this song feels like it’s slicing into me, opening old wounds, taking me back to a different version of me.
I set my guitar on the table, turning to look at Cam, so I’m not staring directly into the camera that’s pointed at me. “I’m actually not feeling all that great. Headache.” I put two fingers to my temple. I expect Tad to try talking me into continuing, but he doesn’t say a word. I give him a smile, thankful this was easier than I thought it would be.
I’m two steps from the curtain—two steps from escaping—when Cam’s body steps into my path. I pause, thinking he’s going to go around me, but he’s still and his eyes are locked on mine. We’re inches apart, and then we’re touching, as his hands come up to gently cup my cheeks. Move, Virginia. Long, warm fingers drift back and gently cup my head. His thumbs begin moving in slow circles at my temples, his fingers laced in my hair now. Someone has hit my pause button—I’m motionless. Move, Virginia. My eyelids, heavy with emotion and numbed by the shock of his touch, flutter shut.
Cam’s voice is soft and cautious. “Better?”
I nod, I think. Cam lets one hand drift down to the side of my neck, his fingers curling softly around it while his other continues its lazy temple circles. All that registers is Cam’s smell. His soap and his minty shampoo fill my nose, and I might as well be seventeen. His hand falls away and is replaced by his warm skin—rough like sandpaper against my check, his breath warm in my ear. “I missed you.” The words drift past my ear, so soft they’re more like a sigh. The old feelings—the bright hot burning that’s bubbling up in my stomach and spreading through my limbs—is overtaking me, and I want to lean forward. I want to bridge this tiny gap between us, fill that space with our lips.
Then a door slams, and his fingers are lead weights on my skin.
As my eyes snap open I pull myself out of the grip of Cam’s hands. One is still resting on my temple while the other rests on my collarbone, his thumb grazing back and forth there. I twist my shoulders and let them both fall away. I look behind me, where Tad’s camera is still rolling, the red light blinking ominously. What had that looked like? I know what it had felt like, and now it’s been permanently copied somewhere other than in my mind.
I take a step around Cam. “I’m going to go lie down.” I’m trying to keep my tone as casual as possible, like we’re just two friends. But really, I’m not sure that we were ever friends.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THEN
VIRGINIA
Step One: Say Goodbye to Virginia Miller
A few text messages last night. That’s all it took for this guy—practically a stranger—to lure me into his car. At least I’m not in the trunk. We’re sitting in his car, on the way to the nearest mall, which is a thirty-five-minute drive.
“Tell me about her,” Cam says.
Tell you about my imaginary persona? My alter ego. God, this is weird.
“Start with something easy. What’s her name?” When I don’t say anything, he looks over at me with a smile. “Mine’s going to be Parker Sunset.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “Does Parker Sunset also work the pole?”
“Only because these band gigs don’t pay the bills yet.” He gives me a playful smile. “You just combine your first pet and the street you grew up on. Boom.”
“I really don’t want my alter ego to be Fish Dunewood.”
“You had a fish named Fish? How meta.”
“It was a cat named Fish, and I was seven. I thought it was funny. And I’ve already decided I’m going to be Dakota Gray. I get to keep a state name, and Gray sounds … edgy.” I fidget with the dashboard touchscreen, trying to turn on the satellite radio, while Cam asks me questions about Dakota.
It’s actually fun, once I let myself play along. I tell Cam all about her: how she loves racy clothes and her hair is black and straight—the opposite of mine. She’s wild and a little reckless; okay with losing control. She doesn’t panic and jump to conclusions, and she doesn’t have it all figured out. Dakota doesn’t care what people think—about her clothes or her voice or anything. She loves to dance. Dakota’s a seriously kick-ass guitar player and her voice is mesmerizing. And she knows it. She knows it, and she rocks it. Because Dakota Gray is fearless and badass, bold and unapologetic. Dakota Gray is everything Virginia Miller is not.
Step Two: Become Dakota Gray
Easier said than done. I’m standing outside Carnivale with my arms wrapped around my waist, like I can somehow squeeze myself out of this situation.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Maybe I can force myself to implode. Even after hours of talking about her, I obviously haven’t mastered this whole “become Dakota Gray” thing, because I’m still feeling very much like Vee Miller, Queen of Pani
c.
This will be the unfortunate moment I get kidnapped. They’ll shove me in the trunk of some nondescript, black four-door sedan. I won’t even be able to kick out a tail light because of these ridiculous heels. And after they drive me three states away, and dump me in a ditch somewhere, no one will even know it’s me. They probably won’t even try to identify me, because I’ll look like a runaway hooker or something. Oh, God. I’m at the climactic midpoint of one of those dramatized late-night news specials, “Virginia Miller: An Honor Student Fallen from Grace.”
Dammit, Nonni. This is all her fault.
Somewhere between cursing my angel of a grandmother, and walking a continuous loop between Logan’s car and the door, I break into a sweat. I’m having a panic attack. The skin across my chest is burning hot and prickled with sweat, while my cold hands shake at my sides. I have no idea what a panic attack actually feels like, but I want to die, and I think I’ve earned the right to overreact a little.
I can’t go in there. I look ridiculous.
The other day, when Cam had talked me into letting him pick out an outfit for me—for Dakota—I knew I couldn’t say no. I literally couldn’t say no, without lying to my eighty-year-old grandmother. And I really wanted to say no. I wanted to say hell, no. Instead, I picked out clothes for Cam and he picked out an outfit for me. Well, for Dakota Gray. That was our deal. It was simple enough, fun even. Each of us shopped separately, ringing up our purchases and handing them over, still in their bags. We swore not to look at them until this evening. It had seemed like an okay idea, back when I thought Cam was a nice guy. The kind of guy who lets you drive his super-nice car, even though he barely knows you, and everyone has warned him you’ll mangle it. A guy who has late-night conversations in the dark, letting you ramble on about your childish fears. But nice guys aren’t dead set on making you look ridiculous. Cam isn’t a nice guy.
Deep breath, Virginia.
Someone honks and I jump as I stand pressed up against the door, my hand wrapped around the cold metal handle. I rest my forehead against the rough wood. Son of a bitch. I take one last breath and slowly open the door, squinting as I step out of the early evening sunlight and into the dark bar.
I can do this. No, you can’t. But maybe Dakota Gray can.
Everyone is staring, and it isn’t just in my head. I know now that I’ve never actually been stared at before. Because I can actually feel it, the presence of their eyes on me. The white-haired old guy sitting at the long wooden bar. Anders, who looks like his eyebrows are about to declare war on his hairline. And Cam, whose eyes haven’t left me for a split second, since I stepped inside. The path that Cam’s eyes are traveling feels physical. From my purple velvet peep toes, up to the slick black leather leggings that look like each of my legs has been dipped in black ink, to the sequined top that hangs off one shoulder, draping delicately across my chest and down my sides. I feel his eyes burn my skin as they survey every ridiculous inch of me.
I can’t even bring myself to look at Logan, who said two words after I got into his car. He practically sprinted to get inside when we arrived. It’s always been ritual for Logan to pick me up for gigs—since we only get a few parking passes—but if I had known I’d be getting in his car looking like this? No way.
While Logan avoids eye contact, Anders is gawking at me like the perverted old men who hang out at the beach, checking out girls half their age. “Wow, Vee, that’s some—”
I hold my hand up. “Not one word. I swear on your drum set I will smother you in your sleep.”
“Will you wear that?” He’s biting his lip, and trying not to smile. “That’s how I’d like to die.” One more word and I’m texting Cort to come kick his ass. It was so much easier to keep him in line when she was down the street, and not in another state. The two of them have been on-again off-again since freshman year, and I swear dating her has completely warped him. He’s always been just a little more into her than she was him, and sometimes I think his crazy ego is the only thing that keeps him from being crushed by her. She’s created a monster.
As Anders continues to unabashedly stare—grinning like a fool—the light show taking place in front of me catches my attention. Every bit of light in the dark room dances off of me, tiny specks reflecting onto the floor, flickering around my feet as I walk through the room. I twist to the right and left, twirling once as the shiny facets of my shirt pattern the floor like the night sky.
I had admired this outfit in the store window. It was the sort of thing I could see myself wearing, if I had the perfect body and the attitude to match. Out on the brightly lit street I had felt like a clown; like someone dressed in a costume, playing a part I didn’t know the lines for. But in the hazy, dim light of Carnivale, I feel ethereal and otherworldly, like the heroine of a comic book. I should have a coiled whip or something. When I finally tear my eyes from the light show I’m creating, Cam is just a few feet in front of me, shopping bag in hand, laughing softly.
“Oh, you think I’m funny?” I snatch the bag out of his hands and shove it into his chest. “Because Dakota Gray isn’t afraid to make a scene. She’ll kick your ass,” I say with a smile. “Just wait until you see what you’re wearing, Mr. Polo Shirt.” I’m giving him my most devious smirk, hoping that it holds a sort of ominous warning. Even though the clothes I chose for him are far from controversial. “Then we’ll see who’s funny.”
His hands clutch at the bag, grabbing one of mine in the process. “I don’t think you’re funny.” His voice is almost a whisper, raspy and deeper than usual. My breath catches in my throat at the feeling of his warm skin against me, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, face just inches from mine.
“I think you look perfect … Dakota.” He winks.
Anders clears his throat, shaking me out of the moment.
* * *
When I lock myself in the bathroom, just before the show starts, I don’t expect to see myself in the mirror. I’m not sure what I expect. I guess to look like a little girl who tried to put on her mom’s wedding dress; completely out of place. But I still fit into the picture I see reflected back at me. It’s just a new version of me. I don’t look like I’m playing dress-up at all. You look perfect. The words are caught in my head, like the hook of a song.
The bathroom is dimly lit, with just one buzzing bulb overhead that’s covered in a thin film of gray smoke. It makes everything look soft around the edges, like smudged charcoal. Standing in front of the mirror, my shoulders arched back, stomach sucked in, I examine myself from every possible angle. My small chest, my round butt and hips, my long, muscular legs; it all seems to fall into place, seems to work together. You look perfect.
Nonni was right. This ridiculously amazing outfit—this night—it’s not a worst-case scenario. It’s like one of those thrill rides where the bottom falls out underneath you. Once the panic wears off—once you survive—you feel unstoppable. And if I steer clear of the creepier guys, this night probably won’t even land me on a MISSING poster, or dead in someone’s trunk. As I leave the tiny room, with the buzz of the lightbulb and Cam’s words in my brain, I feel like I could do anything. The band plays song after song, Dakota spins and jumps on the dance floor, and the entire night, Cam never takes his eyes off of me, as three words loop in my head on repeat: You look perfect.
CAM
As we drive down the dark streets of Riverton, the music of Carnivale is still in my ears. Everything around us seems unbearably loud in its quietness. The click of seat belts, the ding of the blinker, the gentle swish of breath past lips—it all feels like it’s being projected through a megaphone, filling my car with deafening sound.
Pulling into her driveway, I finally break the silence. “I’m sorry. If you really hated the outfit, I mean.” Her seat belt clicks open, scraping the metallic sequins of her top as it wraps around her. I’m trying not to smile, to show even an ounce of remorse, but I’m not sorry at all. “I swear I thought you’d like it.” She sits still, our breat
hing once again the only sound that fills the quiet space. Pulling her lip between her teeth, she swivels toward me, one leg folding under the other until she’s facing me.
“I didn’t hate it.” She starts picking at the sequins of her shirt, pressing each one flat. She rolls her eyes and the tiniest smile plays on her lips. “The outfit’s actually pretty amazing.” She looks down at herself, letting out a rush of air that is somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “I just had to get used to it.” The shy smile spreads across her face and I swear she must be able to hear my heart pounding right now. “Vee felt a little out of place, but Dakota likes it. She really does.”
“Okay then.”
“Okay then.” She’s smiling as she steps out of the car. “Goodnight, Cam.”
“Goodnight, Vee.”
Vee turns to face me in the dark. “You looked perfect too, you know.” I look down at my new jeans and simple black T-shirt as she shuts the door and walks away.
A block from Vee’s house, I stop at the gas station to fill my tank. Swiping my card, a glint of silver catches my eye. Out on the sidewalk, like a disco ball rolling under the street lamps, is Vee. She’s striding down the pavement, a little black sweater draped over her shoulders, her heels swapped for a pair of purple shoes. And I know exactly where she’s headed so late.
* * *
I drop my body down onto the ground next to her and her shoulders flinch for just a second. Leaning back on my hands in the cool sand, I’m glad it’s only me surprising her. “Starting a new beachwear trend?” I can’t help but grin, seeing the sand sticking to her leather leggings. “I like what you’ve done with the outfit. I think it’s even better than before.” I bump my foot against her shoe.
“Stalk much?” Her voice is nothing but sarcasm and tease as her eyes remain fixed on the water in front of us. She’s right, I probably shouldn’t have come. But then I couldn’t get the thought of her alone at the beach out of my head. There’s no staff here at night, but who knows who is here at night. I sat in the parking lot for fifteen minutes but I just couldn’t fight the pull.
Love Songs & Other Lies Page 8