The Forbidden Muse (Inferno Falls #2)

by Aubrey Parker

  I can’t fight what I felt tonight. At least not forever.

  I have to face it.

  I have to confront Gavin, as I’d meant to from the beginning. I need to look into his eyes and see the cruel arrogance that allows him to sleep with women and then discard them. I need to search for the source of his music and find the nothingness that must be there. I’ve heard chatter that his set never changes, and I’d already determined that it was nothing more than recycled songs from his old band. Can he really be that creative? He’s probably washed up.

  I shouldn’t avoid him. Avoiding Gavin will only build his mystique in my mind. The more I don’t know, the more my mind will long to discover. The more I hide, the more my body will want him to find me.

  I need to face him. If I get to know him, I’ll see him for who he is. There’s even an expression: “Familiarity breeds contempt.” And if the other old maxim is true, if it’s absence that makes the heart grow fonder, it makes sense that I need to grant my heart the opposite.

  I need to sit with Gavin. I need to have drinks with him. I need to ask him about his brainless, repetitive set. I need to grill him about his philandering ways. I need to find out what I can about his true past because there’s no way it’s as exotic and sexy as the fake backstory my dumb brain keeps imagining.

  And hey, if worse comes to worst, maybe I do need to sleep with him. He’s into single-serving girls? Fine. I can be one if I need to. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Because once he’s done his whole thing, ravishing me and leaving me spent and satisfied, all the mystery about that will be gone, too. I can stop wondering what his bare chest looks like because I’ll know. I can stop wondering what the contours of his naked back feel like, because the mystery will be gone. If I go in knowing what I’m doing — intending to get mine instead of merely allowing Gavin to get his from me — then it’ll relieve the pressure. And after all this time without a man in my life, don’t I deserve a bit of pressure release?

  I stand from the bar. I see Gavin sitting with a man and an attractive young woman. The music is over, and the house lights are up. It won’t be long before Danny starts asking everyone to clear out.

  I steel myself. I undo my ponytail and run my hands through my hair (too red, too flat and boring) in the back bar mirror, then pull it back again. When I’m sure no one is looking, I put on a bit of lipstick and push my girls up from below, making them settle most satisfactorily inside my bra.

  Then I walk around the bar, out onto the floor.

  I’m just going to talk to him.

  Once I know him better — as long as I’m careful to keep my defenses up and not let him charm me without permission — I’m sure I’ll like him less. And once I see Gavin for who he truly is, I can return to fearlessly working beside him, because I’ll know what he isn’t versus what everyone assumes he is.

  As Gavin sees me crossing the floor, he says something to the people around him. They glance at me, smile at Gavin, and stand. As if they understand what he would want from any approaching woman, and are clearing a path for seduction.

  But I can handle Gavin Adams.

  I’m sure of it.

  CHAPTER 16

  Abigail

  My conviction doesn’t last long. One moment, I’m determined to master Gavin’s games — and, if necessary, eat him alive. But then he looks over at me with those soft blue eyes under his serious, dark brow, and it’s like I’m falling forward into a pit. Like I’m being drawn. My sense of wanting changes. It’s the same feeling I get when I know I shouldn’t eat one of the big blueberry muffins but do it anyway because the pleasure of indulging is so much heavier in the moment than the self-satisfaction of resistance.

  I feel like I might fall over. I almost feel tipsy. All of my blushing, as Gavin sits in his chair like a lord and watches my approach, has returned. Again, I’m struck by the sense of being naked, and of him seeing everything. I felt it through most of his set and am feeling it now. But this time, I can’t just get back to work. I started this march toward him. I won’t simply turn and let him win.

  “Hi, Abigail.” He finally stands then pulls out a seat for me. I take the back of the chair and pull it an inch more toward me before sitting, thus claiming it as my own. He didn’t pull it out for me, now. I pulled it out for myself.

  I’m not sure where to start. There’s a split second of panic. I didn’t plan this part, and the oversight, now that I’m across from him at this table, seems gaping. In my mind, this was all about equalizing pressure — getting our second real encounter over with so we could both move on. I wasn’t sure where it would begin or end, but in my mind its middle always meant facing off.

  But that’s all in my head, isn’t it?

  To Gavin, I’m a waitress in the club. A waitress who served him at the Nosh Pit. A waitress — if I embarrassed myself as much yesterday as I think I did — who’s clearly airheaded and giggly, smitten with the handsome young musician who can get any girl he wants. In his mind, we have nothing to work out. I’ve built this series of defenses to rebut his strategic advances on my person, but as far as he’s concerned, we don’t have a history beyond a single flirty encounter … and, last night, wherein I was kind of an unreasonable bitch.

  I’ve come prepared for a negotiation. But to Gavin, this must look like an idle chat.

  Hell, it might even look like I’ve come over here because I’m into him. Because I want to be his girl for the night.

  Can I accept that this man is a user, and that he might think I’m his next eager victim?

  I hate to admit it, but the sensations I’m feeling under my skirt say I can.

  I decide to make small talk in the spirit of closing up shop for the night. Just two workers, taking a load off and comparing notes. Keeping it casual.

  “Nice set tonight.”

  He gives me this little smile. As if he’s perfectly innocent and not looking to score.

  “Thanks. It felt good.”

  “I noticed it was the same as last night’s.”

  He shrugs.

  “Do you always pretty much play the same set?” It comes out sounding a bit accusatory or judgmental, so I uncross my arms and lean forward to pick at something on the table. I smile a little myself. I’m casual. None of this is a big deal at all.

  “I change it up sometimes.”

  “I noticed they’re all acoustic versions of your band’s songs. Firecracker Confession.”

  An unreadable expression crosses his face. “Yeah.” He looks around at the empty tables. “Did the customers treat you well tonight?”

  “Good crowd here,” I say. “Seems like nice people.”

  “Different from the Nosh Pit?”

  “Are you saying there aren’t nice people at the Pit?”

  Gavin’s smile widens. I recognize the expression from yesterday, from the first time we met, back when I thought he was just a charming man who intrigued me.

  “Maybe just different,” he says.

  I shrug.

  “Freddy tells me you’ve been working here for a while, just not on weekends.”

  “Freddy?”

  “Really short brown hair. He was wearing a hoodie. Went on right before me?”

  “Oh,” I say. “Right. He’s the one you were yelling at before.”

  Gavin blinks. “You saw that?”

  “I heard it.”

  “Where were you? I didn’t … ”

  I let it go. He knows I know. I just need him to understand I’m not a doe with stars in my eyes. I’ve got a brain in my head, and if I go into this, I’ll go willingly.

  “I was in back. Didn’t hear much other than the high points.”

  Gavin looks uncomfortable. Then, with the air of grasping for any new topic, he says, “How long have you known Danny?”

  “Just as long as I’ve worked here.”

  “Which is how long?”

  “A couple months.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t see you. I come sometimes
before opening to practice using the hall’s sound system.”

  “Maybe I’m not that noticeable.” Something in Gavin’s eyes — whatever it was that grew so uncomfortable when I mentioned his shouted chat with Freddy — softens the edges on my words. This man is a player, but right now, he looks almost lost. Almost worth pitying. I don’t want to keep poking at him, throwing these passive-aggressive little barbs.

  Maybe we can just talk. He’s living his own life, after all. It’s none of my business whom he decides to take home or how he chooses to act. It doesn’t make him a bad person. I wonder why I’ve been taking it all so personally. What am I, his mother?

  “I usually come in after we’re open. Last night was the first time I ever came in for prep.” I smile to soften things further. “It’s nice in here when it’s quiet. Like being backstage at a concert, before the fans arrive.”

  Gavin brightens as I give him an opening. I must have looked either artificially vampy or adversarial because in the snap of a second as I release my tension, I sense him slotting back into the Gavin I met at the Pit. The last night vanishishes. It’s he and I again, and I already feel us easing into our banter.

  “Is Richard here on weekdays?” Gavin asks.

  “The doorman?”

  “He’s so not the doorman.”

  I was speaking sarcastically, but I don’t bother to point it out. Gavin goes on.

  “Nobody knows where he’s from. He just kind of showed up one day.”

  “Seems secretive,” I say.

  Gavin nods. “Yes. So secretive you’re not supposed to notice and ask about how secretive he is. It’s this whole bubble of being mysterious but without the subtlety. Did you ask him any personal questions?”

  “Last night, I think I asked him where Danny was.”

  “That’s not personal.”

  “No, but it was definitely handled clandestinely. He pointed and whispered.”

  “As if spies might be listening,” Gavin agrees, nodding.

  “I hadn’t met Chloe.”

  “Chloe just does weekends, like me. Nobody knows where she’s from, either. Or her last name.”

  “Is she in with Richard?”

  Gavin nods again. “Yes. I suspect they’re an item. They look like a good couple.”

  I laugh. Richard is small, wiry, and has thinning hair, glasses from twenty years ago, and a porn mustache. Chloe is about the same size, but she’s different in every other way. She’s elegant, pretty, and has the voice of an angel, whereas Richard’s speaking voice manages to grate and annoy me.

  I watch Gavin play along and realize I should go. This has already fallen apart — and by fallen apart, I mean it’s going entirely too well. I’d imagined a cat-and-mouse encounter, wherein he’d be trying to lay the moves on me and I’d be dodging his smooth advances like bullets. I would not, of course, have sex with him — but if I did, it’d be angry sex in which I’d hold the upper hand, and maybe a leash to keep him in line.

  But this — the way things turned out — is sweet. Whereas I’d been stirred up and turned on earlier, I’m closer to smitten now. I feel light and happy. It can’t continue because this is the false face behind the user Gavin actually is. But I don’t want to end it. Not yet. I’ll be safe as long as I remember the truth, and don’t start to believe he’s the teddy bear I already find myself, again, believing he might be.

  “So are you going to keep working at the Nosh Pit?” A smile holds tight to his lips.

  “Why would I quit?”

  “You work here now.”

  “I can work two places.”

  “Oh. Of course.” It’s like he wonders if he’s bothered me, so he breaks before going on. “Have you always worked two jobs?”

  “Since I left home.”

  “When was that?”

  I find us skating into uneasy territory. I don’t want to talk about my past. I know it’s odd to be as ashamed of coming from privilege as some people are of coming from crime and drugs, but it still feels like a part of me I severed then left safely behind.

  “A few years ago.” Then, quickly: “What about you? What’s your story?” As I say the words, I find myself recalling something Lisa said about Gavin and his “story.” But there’s no context there, so I let it pass and wait.

  “My story?”

  “I don’t know. How did you get into music?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure. I just like it.”

  It’s a non-answer. Evasive. One more thing for my dossier, to keep a bead on the real Gavin.

  “You don’t sing your songs’ lyrics. Why not?” A sly smile. “Are you a terrible singer?”

  He shrugs, again not answering. “What about you? I was talking to Danny about you and — ”

  “You were talking to Danny about me?”

  A curious look crosses his handsome features. “You came up, I mean. He said you seem into music.”

  “Hmm. ‘Into music.’ Aren’t I the enigma?” And I giggle.

  I catch myself. Am I flirting? Shit, yes, I am. I can hear it in my voice. I can feel it in the subconscious downward tip of my head to peer up at him. I just touched my hair. I’m demurring, opposite what I’m supposed to be doing. And if I hadn’t caught myself just now, I might have brushed his hand, sitting atop the table, with my fingers.

  God help me, I really want to keep talking. I really want more of this. I know he has another side, and I know that other side is no good. I know he seems to go through girls like Kleenex. But as long as I keep all of that in mind, I can talk to this other, sweeter side because I’m no longer sure this side is an act. He might be divided, but this feels genuine enough that I doubt he’s honestly, deliberately two-faced.

  This Gavin wouldn’t be mean. This Gavin might not even be capable of being mean.

  My mother’s pop psychology streams through my mind like a flood. I’m already typing him inside my head, figuring out his dominant and latent driving attributes. I don’t remember the entire matrix, but I can already figure a few of Mom’s types he might be. I have a secret weapon, because Mom beat us over the head with this personality profile stuff while she developed it, and then in the years after she’d perfected and published it. I can see right through Gavin, and that makes him feel safe … or safe enough. I can tell what pulls his strings, or at least what types of strings they might be. I know his triggers.

  I can be safe around Gavin. I know him even if he doesn’t know himself.

  But what’s more likely — and an alarming presence inside me is rather insistent that this is the case — is that I’m rationalizing.

  As women probably always rationalize around Gavin Adams, giving themselves reason to be his latest conquest.

  “Quite the enigma,” he says, smiling.

  Maybe he’ll ask me out. The club is closing, so maybe we can get coffee. Earlier, I was sure I’d give him the finger if he even tried speaking to me, but now I feel different. Now if he asks, I’ll go. I’m drawn to him. I want to know him. I want to experience him. I see those hands on the table and want them to hold me. I watch his lips as he smiles, as I’m his temporary world, and I want those lips to kiss me.

  I recross my legs. Opening my body to him. Finally, I let my fingers brush his. I giggle more as he smiles, hating myself at the same time I’m urging myself to go further.

  I’m interested, I’m saying to him. If you ask, I will follow. If you want me, I will be yours.

  It’s a bad idea. A terrible idea. But right now, I suspect I might not care until morning.

  “I heard you playing a song earlier. When I was out here cleaning up, before … ” I say the next part carefully, sidestepping the idea of the argument, leaving only the time index. “Before Frederick came over.”

  “Freddy,” Gavin corrects.

  “What song was that? I didn’t hear you play it during your set? Does it have words?”

  “Nobody calls him Frederick. Just his mother.” He smiles at me, but now it seems a little sour.
<
br />   I ignore his non-sequitur the same as he ignored mine and say, “It’s been stuck in my head all night. Does it have a name, even?”

  “No,” he says, as if it pains him to say it.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  Gavin’s smile suddenly falters. It’s as if something’s just occurred to him. His eyes flick to the wall clock then to a woman passing beneath it. The woman is a hanger-on from earlier — one of the skinny college girls like the one he left with last night.

  I push the thought from my mind, but his face is still uneasy.

  “I should go.”

  I blink. “Oh. Okay. Are you … ?” But I can’t ask him out. I can’t ask Gavin to go for coffee. The best I can do is to stand as he stands, thinking I might tag along despite my better judgment. Sooner or later, he’ll see what’s happening. He’s going, and so am I. We’ll leave together. He can let the obvious chemistry here drop like a hot potato, but why would he?

  Although, suddenly, I’m sure that I’ve done something wrong, and that he will.

  Gavin takes two steps in the wrong direction. Not toward the door, but toward the clock. Toward the girl, who raises her hand in an obnoxious, flirty little wave. I follow for one of those steps, and then it all comes crashing in and I feel like the world’s biggest asshole. The dumbest girl alive.

  Gavin half turns. He eyes the door, opposite where he’s going. Then he says to me, “I’ll see you next weekend.”

  I’m more embarrassed than jilted. He’s clearly blowing me off — and worse, he’s blowing me off for another disposable bimbo. I don’t know what just happened. We were solid, then we broke. Was it something I did? I feel like I’m spinning, drowning without knowing where the surface might be.