Ummmm . . .
“Did you just say you’re writing a new album while you’re out on the road?”
“Yeah. I mean, we’re on fire, right? Overnight success, or so they say. They have no idea how long we’ve been at this, but none of that matters. One great album demands another, and within quick succession. If we wait too long, we’re irrelevant, just like that. We signed up for this. There’s no turning back.”
This is absurd. I cannot imagine writing while out on the road. I tried eking out a few paragraphs of Book Two while on the plane to Philly and I couldn’t put two cohesive sentences together. How and why is he expecting to write an album while touring? How can his mind even go where it needs to when he’s on a bus or in a hotel room or on stage in front of thousands of people? Talk about an unreasonable expectation.
“Wow. I’m sorry you’re going through this, Niles. I had no idea.” What comes out of my mouth next kills me, but it seems like the right thing to do and say. “Maybe it’s best if I stay away. You have a job to do and I don’t want to be a distraction.”
“Fuck that. You just told me you wouldn’t give up on me!”
“I’m not giving up. I just don’t want to mess up your . . . whatever.”
“Exactly. I don’t even know what it is you’re messing up. So, let’s pretend this conversation never happened and just get your adorable little ass here on Wednesday and we’ll go from there. Yes?”
There it is again. Adorable. Sweet. Cute. That’s why he hasn’t jumped me. My gears turn. I hatch a plan. I can all but bet that after Wednesday night, Niles’s confusion will disappear and we will be napping partners no longer.
Nope, we’ll be so much more.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Night Skies and Fireworks
What the heck is this place? I’m standing in some hallway that is backstage, but not. It’s like some underground alley and it’s dark, and quite frankly, I’m a little freaked out. But Zeke the bouncer—whom I now consider a friend—insists that this is where Niles requested I wait for him. So I wait. And wait.
I hear all the usual commotion and relax a little because I must not be too far from the action. After a bit, Zeke shows up with a six-pack of chocolate-coffee craft beer and a bottle opener and tells me to crack one open while I wait.
“Thanks, I need this. Any idea how much longer?”
“Not long. Niles is whipping through the hellos. He seems pretty anxious to see you.” He looks me up and down. “And I can see why. You look extra hot tonight. But don’t tell Niles I said that.” He winks.
I’m thankful for that shot of confidence because I feel a little weird. I’ve always worn short shorts and shoulder-bearing/girls-enhancing shirts to each concert, but this time, I upped the ante a little. I have on a super short, tight gray skirt and a citrine-colored tank top that hugs the ladies oh so well. My hair is a little more rock star than I usually wear it and I have more makeup on than normal. I needed a punch of boldness today, so I figured dressing the part was in order. We’ll see if it helps.
As Zeke walks away, I drain my beer and think about how awesome it was to see Niles doing his thing tonight. It’s hard to imagine he’s going through any stress at all. When he’s up on stage, he is one thousand percent there. He owns it. There is not one glimmer of self-doubt, self-depreciation, or self-loathing (I still can’t believe he called himself a piece of shit. What was that about?). He works that stage and he works the crowd, bantering back and forth as though he’s having one giant conversation with ten thousand people at a time.
I’d run out of fingers if I tried to count how many times we made eye contact during the show tonight. We held hands for a few seconds when he reached straight for me, and his grasp was gentle at first, with a tight squeeze at the end. The girl next to me playfully nudged my shoulder with hers and mouthed, “Lucky!” before pouting and turning her attention back to the stage. Tonight, I was the only person in the crowd that he touched—the only one. That girl is right. I am lucky.
Just as I pop open another beer, which is heavy but super delicious and will probably have me drunk after just one more, I hear my favorite voice in the world.
“Have one to spare?”
It’s as if it were the first time I’d seen him all over again. My heart jumps to my throat, while my stomach plummets to the ground. I can’t take my eyes off that face, that smile, that slender body swimming in a vintage Van Halen concert T-shirt with a button-up haphazardly layered over top. I feel like I’m in one of those hokey commercials where the couple runs through a field of wildflowers and slams into each other in a dramatic hug, just as the music crescendos.
If I’m being honest, I’m saying that I had no idea how this would go. Ever since our little unexpected convo on Monday, I’ve been a bit, shall we say, on edge. On one hand, I’m kind of pissed over his outburst. How dare he accuse me of caring for him only because he’s a rock star? But on the other hand, I feel sorry for him, since he probably has people (girls) doing that to him all the time.
Still, I feel like our relationship (can I call it that?) is different. I’m never, ever fake around him. Sometimes reserved, sure, but never fake. And if he’s fake around me, he’s putting up a good front, because I can tell instantly when he’s switched from Normal Niles into Rock Star Niles. Maybe he has another layer under there I don’t know about, or maybe he’s a complete poseur, but I just don’t think so, and I’m generally a pretty good judge of character.
I’ve spent the last two days thinking this through, and even though he ended our conversation Monday with a request to pretend it never happened, something like that is a little hard to ignore. So, I wonder if he’s done that? Or is it still on his mind as much as it is mine? As he walks toward me, I try to read him . . . and all I see is a genuine smile and sparkly eyes that betray anything other than legit happiness.
In an instant, his body is pressing into mine and his arms are squeezing me tight. My face gets buried in his shirt and his familiar scent makes me completely weak. For a moment, I wonder how he does laundry on the road and how he gets everything to always smell the same. But when he whispers in my ear, any thoughts about anything at all completely disappear.
“You do not even know how happy I am to see you,” he says. “I’m so sorry I was such a prick. You didn’t deserve that.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I thought we were going to forget it even happened.”
“I couldn’t.” Hearing him say this makes me happy. Not that I’m interested in hashing everything out right here, right now, but I’m relieved to know he hasn’t just pushed it out of his head.
He pulls back from me a bit, keeping his hands on my bare shoulders. “I freaking hate that I hurt you. I said I didn’t ever want to hurt you, but then that’s exactly what I did. And I’ll probably say it again, then I’ll probably do it again. It’s not on purpose. I have good intentions. Usually. It’s just that I really, truly am a piece of shit.”
“You are not a piece of shit,” I say, looking up at him.
“You have no idea.”
He hangs his head for a moment, and in move so bold I totally shock myself, I tilt his chin up so he’s looking at me and I say, “Well, it just so happens I love shit.” I raise my lips toward his and finally—finally!—they connect and neither of us pulls away.
I feel our electricity in every single cell of my body. My vision is nothing but white light and gold fireworks. My torso is tight and prickling with energy. Out of respect for Niles’s germophobe ways, I’m careful not to use my tongue. But even without it, our kiss is the stuff dreams are made of. His hand plunges into my hair and my arms wrap tighter around his waist. This feels better than I could have ever imagined, and if it’s even possible, I press myself even closer to him.
After ages of being absolutely outside of my own body, he pulls away. “So, uh, that happened.” He shakes his head and a huge smile takes over his face.
“Yeah. It did.” My brain cells ar
e like a heap of mashed potatoes right now, each one of them good for nothing. If someone asked me my name, I don’t think I’d even get it right. As cliché as it sounds, I’m completely weak. I lean into him for support.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says, taking my hand. “I have a driver ready for us.”
Whoa, we’re leaving? Holy crap, is this it?
“No after-party?”
Gah! If this is it, I’m ready. I am so ready. But still.
“Not tonight. Just us.” He looks at me with big eyes. “Trust me.”
I nod my head and follow as he pulls me along by the hand. At this point, I’d follow him anywhere. If he wants to lead me into some catacombs of death, hey, I’ll go. Lead me to an airplane where we’ll parachute into the darkness? Sure, why not? I’d even get behind the wheel and drive down a damn highway right now, as long as I’m with him.
When we get to the car—a black Escalade—he nods to the driver and pulls me into the seat next to him. He holds my hand with one of his and runs the fingers of his other hand up and down my arm. My tummy butterflies rage so hard I can hardly breathe, but I feel relaxed at the same time. This is blissful.
“I love Boston,” he says. “You ever been here?”
“Nope.” I don’t want to move an inch because I don’t want to disrupt our comfy little people-heap, but I also want to turn around to look at him. If I do, I’ll be tempted to kiss him again, though. Is that bad? I’d feel kind of weird smooching in front of a stranger. Or would I? I try to turn just a bit, but decide I’m much more comfy as is, so I stay put.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Never better.”
He squeezes my hand and settles his head against mine.
I don’t dare ask where we’re going, because if it’s to a hotel, there will be no dancing around what’s coming next. I hear him breathing next to me and can’t help but think about how that breath just carried him through almost two hours of singing his brains out, running up and down the stage, jumping, bouncing, and belting out every perfect syllable. It’s staggering to me that the person who just entertained thousands of people is now sitting so close I can hear his breath. Talk about bizarre.
We pull into a drive that seems to lead toward a park. Though it’s beautiful, it’s not quite what I expected. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed. Maybe a little of both.
“C’mon.” He pulls me across the seat and out the door. “Over here. I hope you like it.”
He brings my hand to his lips for a quick kiss, then guides me over to a blanket spread out on the bank, strewn with rose petals and lined with tea light candles. Holy swoon.
“Are you serious right now?” I breathe. On the corner of the blanket, I see a wine bucket with a bottle already chilled and opened. There are two glasses nearby, and a small cooler filled with beer. I look at him with tears in my eyes. “This seems a little familiar.”
“I one-upped Nash, though.” He nods toward the cooler. “Nash forgot the beer.” He winks, then pulls me into him. “You like?”
“I don’t like. I love.” I don’t mean for it to, but a tear slips out. Niles wipes it away, then kisses the spot he just wiped.
“That’s not a sad tear, right?”
“No way.”
“Good.” He smiles at me, then looks up at the sky. “Do you ever look at the stars and think of someone you dig?”
Like probably every other lovesick teen, of course I’ve done this before, but not in years and years. I shake my head. “No, I guess I don’t.”
“You don’t?” His voice is incredulous. “I figured that’s totally something you would do.”
“Do you do it?”
“I did. Robbyn and I used to do it all the time. Mostly during our last tour. She didn’t travel with us as much then because she had so much other stuff going on.” He looks out over the water. “I don’t do it anymore.”
He shrugs and I wonder why on God’s green earth he chose this moment to bring up Robbyn. Seems like a bit of a buzzkill, no? I also wonder why I haven’t seen her at any of the shows I’ve been at. It’s my understanding she goes everywhere with them. She’s like their traveling personal assistant or something. (Yippee.)
“Where’s Robbyn been?” I ask. “I haven’t seen her.”
“I don’t think you’d know her if you saw her. Any pics you’ve seen of her are probably old. She looks completely different. She’s gained some weight, dyed her hair, wears tons and tons of makeup. Not the same girl, for sure.”
“You do that to her?” I’m joking, of course, but the way he reacts makes me realize I hit the nail on the head.
“Told you I was a piece of shit.”
Do I really want to go there? I’m not sure if I do. Here, just inches in front of us, is the Charles River. Just inches behind us is a blanket strewn with rose petals. Talking to Niles about his ex-girlfriend does not seem to fit this scene. I’d much rather be canoodling. Yet, it’s starting to seem like he brought this up for a reason. Maybe there’s something he wants to get off his chest.
“So . . . where has she been?” I guess if this question is answered sufficiently—as in, she and I can’t stand to be within twenty miles of each other anymore, so she’s moved to Timbuktu—I’ll let it all go. The ball is in his court.
“She’s around. She was there tonight. And the last time you were there, in Philly.”
“She was?!” This is monumental to me. Tonight, he snuck me away, but in Philly, he was like a tumor on me the entire time. Did she see us? I think back and try to remember a cute girl that maybe was a little chubby and wore lots of makeup. No one in particular stands out. There was a girl that was with Jase a lot, but I swore she had light brown hair. Was that her?
“So, she’s . . . seen us together?” My breath catches as this question comes out. I don’t know why I feel so weird about this. If they’re broken up and we’re—I don’t even know what we are—what’s the big deal? There shouldn’t be one. But yet I feel so dirty.
“She has, yes. I thought you should know that. That’s kind of why I brought this up. I wanted to get it out of the way so we could, you know, move on.”
Well, this isn’t the most opportune time to bring it up, but okay. I guess I should be happy he’s willing to share this with me. Maybe this somehow validates our “togetherness?” Maybe?
“Is she taking it okay?”
“Most definitely not. Again, that’s why I brought it up. She’s not, how do I say this nicely, particularly stable right now.” He pauses and chews his lip for a moment. “She came up behind me when I was texting you the other day, Kallie. I didn’t know she was there . . . until I heard the camera on her phone. I think she snapped a pic of my screen when I had your number up.” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m super sorry, but if you get any nasty texts, consider this your fair warning. Just ignore her. Okay?” He looks at me hopefully.
I’m really not sure what to say. I obviously don’t know their situation nor do I fully understand the reason behind their breakup (a couple blogs reported they split amicably because they simply “no longer fit”). I really don’t love the idea of being a thirty-something woman caught in a high school jealousy-type situation, but I also would beat down any girl who stood in my way of being with Niles. And if Robbyn even tries to do that, how am I supposed to ignore her?
“Kallie? I know what you’re thinking. I can tell by the look on your face.” I squint my eyes. “She’s harmless. And we’re through. I swear.”
I honestly feel like I’ve been transported back to the ninth grade. I’ve never even been face-to-face with the girl, but the thought of her history with Niles drives me mad. “It’s fine,” I lie. “I won’t let her get to me.”
Unless she tries to get to you.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Let’s Get It On
“Water: love it or scared of it?” Niles sets down his beer, takes my hand, and walks me toward the edge of the bank. I guess he’s hoping I love it.
Which, thankfully, I do, or this would get really awkward, really fast.
“Love it, for sure. I’m a Cancer, born under a water sign. You’re a Pisces, so you’re a water, too.”
“I am?” Niles looks at me, fascinated. I never know if my obsession with astrology will freak people out or intrigue them. It’s usually a mixture of both.
“Yep. Which is not terribly surprising, since many creatives are waters.” Niles’s eyes narrow and he shoots me a look that says, Go on.
“It’s said that writers, actors, musicians . . . people like us . . . we help make sense of the human experience via our art.” Niles blinks a big blink, then moves so he’s standing behind me. He brings his arms around front and pulls me in tight. I flash back to the first night we met, when he did this very same thing. I decide this is one of my favorite ways to be around him. I feel so close.
“It makes sense, right?” I continue. “You tell stories through lyrics. I tell stories through, well, stories. It’s really us trying to capture what most of mankind is feeling, but we get the added bonus of putting our own personal stamps on those stories—telling them through our viewpoint or our warped way of thinking, or whatever.”
Niles shifts. “That’s exactly what it is. So few people understand that.” His voice turns to a whisper, his lips right outside my ear. “But you do. You understand.” His right hand moves my hair, while his left arm pulls me even tighter against him. His breath is on my neck, then his lips land on my shoulder, soft and warm. He works his way up my neck, kissing me softly, his hand moving up and down my arm.
Just when I think my legs will give out and I’ll plummet straight into the water, Niles pulls me onto the blanket and positions himself over me, half leaning on the blanket, half atop me. He smooths the hair away from my face and looks into my eyes.
“You are so beautiful,” he says. “Not just your face and your body, but your soul, too.” He leans in and kisses me lightly on the mouth. “Out of all the people I’ve met in this crazy life of mine, I dare say you know me best. Already.” He leans in again and this time his lips are much stronger. Our mouths move in sync and any sweet, gentle kisses are left behind in favor of powerful, passionate ones. Before long, I feel his tongue on mine and my head and heart nearly explode. We kiss for what seems like forever, and by the time we’re finally through, Niles is completely on top of me, the weight of his hips pressing against mine.
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