by Amber Lin
*
Krist adjusted the camera so he’d be fully in the frame and patted the itchy skin on his neck, careful not to scratch the healing design. It was a masterpiece of light and shadow with the galaxy captured in moth wings, a delicate skull on its back. Fierce and beautiful. He’d earned every inch of it.
He’d always chronicled the milestones of his life with music and ink. Maddy had marked him deep. It only made sense that he’d add her to his skin. A tribute to how he’d changed, what she meant to him. And it would look badass in the video.
He didn’t have a recording studio in his apartment, but he didn’t need one for what he was trying to do. Make music on his terms. Make something right.
His phone blipped and he reached to silence it.
Fuck, that’s good. I knew that song was good. We should’ve recorded it like that in the first place.
Lock.
Krist was ready. The song was ready. He knew that even without hearing from Lock about the rough cut he’d sent him, but the feedback didn’t hurt. Before they’d been anything, they’d been brothers in music.
Lock had always liked the song. He’d fought to include it on the album, pushed them to perform it even when it didn’t take off on the charts. But it was never right. Now Krist knew why. He tapped out a response.
It wasn’t meant for us, that’s why it didn’t work.
It was always your song.
It’s Maddy’s now.
He picked up the acoustic guitar he’d been practicing on for days. It felt foreign in his hands—the strings too thin, the neck too wide—but the song didn’t work as a bass solo. Hiring set players or bringing in Colt wasn’t right for this project. He couldn’t ask them to sit on his couch and play while he filmed them with a webcam. Alone was better anyway, and he’d played guitar long before he’d ever coveted a slick, vintage bass.
He pressed RECORD and took a breath, a sharp inhale the mic was sure to pick up. Anyone who knew him would hear it for what it was, a nod to Buckley. Then he bent his head to play.
He stripped his song down to the bones and played it like a prayer, like a plea. The way it was always meant to be played. He played it like Maddy was right there in the living room with him and it was still her birthday.
Looking up into the camera, thinking of the feel of her under his hands, the taste of her on his tongue, he played it for her.
By the third verse, his eyes stung with tears. Frustration, relief, sorrow. All of it tumbled together with the simple chords and the stark words he’d penned years ago without finesse or self-consciousness.
“I’m not hiding this infinity.”
He changed the lyric because he wasn’t hiding anymore. Not from her. Not from the press. Not from himself.
“I am wearing all my marks.”
No change required there. His marks weren’t scars or wounds; they were the story of his life played out over his skin. Badges of honor. Tributes.
“Yours to take.”
Take me or leave me, this is all that you get.
“Yours to break.”
He was Maddy’s to break. She had broken him, could break him again and again. At least he had this song that she’d loved.
He understood why she loved it now. She’d peeked behind the smoke machines and pyrotechnics, had listened underneath the showy riffs and the drums. She’d ignored the props and heard the heart of the song. The aching ballad.
“We are endless. We are. We are. We are.”
She’d seen him.
“I’ll be doing a solo show at Club Six next Friday night. You should call them for tickets.” Club Six wasn’t the Trib, but it was a start. An intimate venue where it would just be about the music.
He didn’t bother to edit the video, just posted it to YouTube in all its raw and self-indulgent glory. He’d let it speak for itself, and the press could make of it whatever they wanted. He was done answering questions. This was his manifesto, his mission statement. And his solo show would be his independence day.
She might never see it, but she had seen him. For now, that had to be enough.
Chapter Eighteen
Onstage, his whole body felt on fire with excitement. The rush of performing alone, just him and an acoustic guitar—even for a small crowd—lit him up from the inside out. If someone had asked him a few weeks ago if he’d ever go solo, he’d have said no. He’d have said fuck no.
But one kiss had changed him. He wasn’t Romeo or the big bad wolf. He was Sleeping fucking Beauty, and Maddy had woken him up. Not gently, though. Not with a sigh. He’d woken up kicking and growling with sleep in his eyes. But she kept waking him up, each kiss breaking more of the curse. And when he was finally awake, she slipped from his grasp like a dream.
He leaned into the microphone. “You guys mind if I play something I’m still working on? It’s a little rough and personal.”
Approval rippled through the crowd, hoots and whistles in the darkness. Shouts of support.
“Fuck yeah.”
“We love you.”
“I wanna have your babies.”
That last one made him laugh. “That’s real sweet, but we just met. I don’t think I’m ready for babies.”
Bantering like this reminded him of Maddy. Everything did. He’d never be whole again without her, but he couldn’t blame her for running away from him. He was a mess. So he did the only thing he could do. He poured that into the song, twisted their story into two and half minutes of angel’s lips and sorrow’s kiss.
For a second, he thought he caught a glimpse of her near the front of the club. He dropped a note and recovered, thankful the crowd was sympathetic. Thankful he’d told them the song was rough. Then the light shifted and he convinced himself it was only wishful thinking. If he didn’t, the hope would choke him.
He ended the song to wild applause, warm and appreciative and hungry for more. “Thank you. ‘Kiss’ is a work in progress, like me.”
It was a really good set. A mix of some Half-Life tracks he’d cowritten and some cover songs. A few new pieces. Honest and edgy.
“Play ‘Broken.’” He’d heard that request several times already tonight, thanks to the viral video, but none of them had made him break out in goose bumps. None of them sounded like her. He stood, knocking over his stool at the center of the stage, and strode toward the voice. Hope tightened around his neck like a noose.
The crowd hushed as someone pushed to the front. He cupped a hand over his eyes, trying to block out the spotlighting and see into the darkness.
A hand reached up to him, and the last of his doubt vanished. The hope melted into something sweeter. He’d wished, and here she was. Close enough that he could see her perfect pink manicure. And her face, no less perfect for the mascara smudged beneath her eyes. “Play me ‘Broken.’”
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the stage, and someone in the crowd lifted her up to him. They sat there together just staring for two long beats, until the club manager’s voice crackled over the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen, Madeline Fox is in the house.”
The roar was deafening.
He stood and helped her up. He didn’t want to let go of her, afraid she’d disappear again, afraid he’d wake up. “You came.”
“Your engraved invitation went viral.”
His cheeks heated. He’d wanted her to see it, but suddenly he felt very exposed. “Were you out there from the start? Did you hear ‘Kiss’?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m up here.”
Someone had scurried onto the stage to right his stool and place another beside it. “Will you join me?”
She nodded, and he led her to the extra stool.
He sat on his stool and adjusted the microphone so he could turn to see Maddy while he addressed the crowd. “The first time I serenaded Madeline Fox, it was her birthday and I did a piss-poor job of it. I didn’t ask her what song she wanted to hear, and I was a miserable bastard about the whole thing. I continued to be a bastard o
ut of fear and hurt.” He ignored the handful of boos from the crowd and focused on Maddy. She hid her face behind her hands. He wanted to reach over and pull them away, to catch the tears running down her cheeks with his hands and his lips, but he didn’t dare stop talking.
“Over and over you showed me what an amazing woman you are. Fierce, talented, dedicated, caring. I can only hope to one day be half the performer you are. So I’m going to do this right tonight. Maddy, more than anything in this world, I would like to sing you a song. Any song. All the songs. For always. I will be sorry for my whole fucking life, and I’d like to make it up to you one song at a time. Starting now.”
*
Maddy stood under the warm lights, speechless for maybe the first time on a stage. She had sung and danced and grown up onstage. But his words had done something to her, made this new again, and she could not have spoken a word.
Luckily he had plenty for both of them. Sweet words. Sexy words.
He sang for her. Serenaded her. And it was all she could do not to fall on her knees.
This was the Krist she’d fallen for through a TV set as a twelve-year-old girl. The rebel and the poet. The rocker. Somehow that had gotten all mixed up in the media, in his sexuality, in his band, but tonight wasn’t about any of those things.
“Maddy?”
He was wearing an expectant expression, and she realized he was waiting for her reaction. And she still couldn’t have spoken for the world, so she did what she wanted even more, what had started their whirlwind fake relationship—she kissed him.
She launched herself at him, and he caught her. Her lips found his, speaking things she could not say. He grasped her hips, and then she had her legs wrapped around him, fused to him, never letting go.
The crowd roared, their noise almost tactile, a rumbling embrace that swept over her skin, making the moment more intimate instead of less. “God, Krist. Is this how you woo a girl?”
He pressed his face into her hair, murmuring against her ear. “I’ve never tried before. Is it working?”
Well, she felt pretty much like the woman in the front row. She wanted to have his babies. But, later. “A little too well,” she whispered.
He pulled back. His dark eyes met hers. “I’m still the demon, you know. You cast me right in that music video.”
Her smile felt fierce. “I’m no angel.”
“No, you’re better. You’re real.”
She glanced at the crowd, who didn’t seem to mind their PDA. “I think you have a show to play.”
“Sing with me?”
Oh yeah. That’s what she was at heart—a singer. A performer. And so was he.
She slid until her feet hit the floor, relishing his groan. His eyes promised retribution, the kind that could take all night. But first they had a different kind of duet to play. She whispered her song request to him, and a slow smile spread over his face before he went to set it up.
The crowd buzzed with the kind of energy that came from a great show, the kind that could only be organic. The kind that reflected back to the stage, filling her with euphoria and lust and an endless hope for what could come. In those moments it didn’t matter that she had to catch a flight at five a.m. tomorrow morning. This was why she stepped onto the stage every night.
Krist handed her a mic on his return, just as the first strands of “Something to Talk About” filtered through the amps.
And the crowd erupted.
They hadn’t rehearsed this song for endless hours. This wasn’t done in a recording and then edited and perfected. They hadn’t even discussed which parts each of them would sing, but it flowed anyway. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t supposed to be. It was raw and rough. It was real, how they’d come together in real life, all pride and desire, all vulnerability and hope. Theirs was a soul-deep harmony, and the crowd drank it down and clamored for more.
When the song was over, she took a step back. This was his show.
He pushed the mic away and leaned close. “Stay.”
“Of course. I’m here for the show. Krist Mellas is playing.”
His lips quirked. “Any good?”
“He’ll do,” she said, but she couldn’t stop smiling. The crowd was vibrating with sound, with foot stomps, as she stepped backward until she reached the stairs. A woman stopped her on the way down the stairs—the woman who’d wanted to have his babies.
“How does he kiss?” she shouted over the noise.
Maddy had to get close so she could be heard. “Like we’re in a back alley and it’s my birthday. Every single time.”
The woman’s eyes were wide with appreciation. “Get it, girl.”
Oh yeah, she would.
She stayed in the crowd for the rest of the set, swaying with the people around her, caught up in the web of energy and enthusiasm. It was a different perspective for her, made more beautiful by who they were watching, the man onstage spinning stories with his songs, turning feelings into words and then back again.
On the last note, when the crowd went wild, she caught the eye of one of the Club Six stagehands. “I need to go backstage,” she yelled.
He didn’t even question it, but showed her through a side door that would lead to the greenroom. She wanted to be waiting for him. She’d use every second to thank him, to please him. To use him in all the ways he liked best. In fact…
Once inside the private dressing room, she stepped out of her panties and tossed them aside. Efficiency was important. Because in a few short hours she would be flying halfway around the world. She would travel from city to city, far away.
She sat on the black leather sofa and crossed her legs, perfectly poised to greet him.
The door opened, and he burst inside, skin damp with sweat, eyes wild and searching. He found her. He slammed the door shut, locked it, and stalked into the room. “You left.”
Her eyebrow rose. “To come here?”
“No, you left your hotel suite. You left the country. I know I fucked up, I know I didn’t deserve you, but before I could fix a damned thing, you just left.”
It had been mostly self-preservation and a little bit of running scared. The important thing was… “I came back.”
*
If performing solo exhilarated him, having Maddy onstage, warm and willing in his arms—singing with him, forgiving him—was fucking transcendent. He floated out with the stars and planets and swirling galaxies, like the one trapped in the wings of the moth tattoo on his neck.
She came back, and it had been everything he hadn’t dared hope for. More.
He stood frozen in the middle of the room. He wanted to do so many different things at once…hold her, fuck her, kiss her, love her… He couldn’t move. “How long are you here?”
“I’ve got a flight to Japan at five a.m.”
Fuck. The literal other side of the world. Maybe there was somewhere farther away, but he couldn’t think of it now. It didn’t matter. She came back.
“Then we’ve got tonight.”
“Good answer.” Slowly, she uncrossed her legs and tugged at the hem of her skirt. A flash of thigh and his pulse sped up. A flash of bare pussy and his cock ached. He closed the distance between them in two steps and dropped to his knees between hers. “We’re gonna need more time.”
“Better answer.” She leaned forward and cupped his jaw. Her touch skated featherlight against his cheek as she studied his face and neck, her gaze lingering on his latest ink. “That’s new.”
“I wanted something fierce and beautiful.” Like you. He didn’t say it, but she had to know. He pushed into her hand, exposing more of his neck to her. The skin still felt tight, but it was healed. “You can touch it.”
She traced the wings, and he mimicked her delicate touch on the inside of her thigh. Every dip and swirl. He trailed his fingers higher, teasing at the lips of her pussy, letting his broad fingers just barely drift over the tender flesh. She sighed, and her head fell back. “What song did you use for inspiration?”
“Damn, princess. Yours. I used your song.”
“Best answer.” Her sultry voice scraped over him, and he lost himself in her velvet tone. She curled her hand around the nape of his neck and tugged his head down.
His lips curled into a smile. His eager, greedy girl. She’d come back.
He cleared his throat, looking into her big brown eyes. He could fall into them. Hell, he already had. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry for being an asshole to you at the beginning.”
“It’s okay.” Her smile was small but genuine, and that almost made it worse. “I understand, remember? The media circus, the public debate on your sexuality—”
“It wasn’t that.” He shook his head. “Wasn’t only that. The truth is even before the tape came out I was fucked up over what had happened, with Hailey. With Lock.”
Her expression became guarded. Guarded against him? It was ludicrous to believe that he could have any power over this woman, in bed or out. But he had to admit to himself now that he did. That he always had.
“I was so caught up in my feelings for Lock that I almost missed what was right in front of me.”
Something flickered in her eyes, something fearful, and he wanted to kick his own ass all over again for ever making her doubt herself. “And what do you see in front of you?”
“I see a beautiful woman who’s so fucking talented the world doesn’t even know what to do with her. They try to put a cage around you. They try to contain you because they don’t understand. They’re afraid. Like I was.”
A glossy sheen of tears coated her eyes. Her voice was thick. “And now?”
“I’m not afraid of you, Maddy. And I’d never try to contain you. I just want to stand next to you.” His words broke, and there was only way he could continue. Only one way he could show her what she meant to him. “And under you.”