by Molly Joseph
“Can I go in now?” he asked through his teeth.
“Have fun,” said the main kid, who was damn lucky to still have his goatee.
Ransom shook off his anger and wove through the clusters of ravers dancing at the edge of the main festival field. Apparently they thought he was dressed in a suit to announce himself as a dealer, since several kids asked him, “What have you got?”
“Love,” he snapped back each time.
They nodded or flashed peace signs at that answer. These kids understood love, or at least thought they did. All of this was love and life and beats, and neon and glitter, and drugs they’d regret taking when they were older.
But his love was deeper, tempered by age and experience, and the knowledge that he’d let go of a soul mate, however different Lola might be. He looked up at the stage, at her tiny silhouette, her arms waving, her light hair bobbing to the music as she leaned over the sound console. He remembered another time, just a few months ago, when he’d followed Greg’s bald head through a similar crowd. He hadn’t had ear plugs then either.
That evening, he’d looked up at Lola and thought she was just a crazy, dumb kid.
Now, he understood her emotional complexity. He understood how her worst choices mostly came from anxiety and fear. He understood how many feelings she stuffed down in order to keep up her Lady Paradise persona. He understood she could be violent as a tornado or playful as a puppy, usually within the same half hour.
He understood that he needed to be with her—if she could forgive him for taking so long to figure that out.
He made his way toward the front, sliding into spaces and muscling through when he needed to use more force. He didn’t take much notice of the spirit hoods or glittering bindis now. He didn’t mind the reek of patchouli and sweat. He just needed to get through this crowd so he could meet her backstage the way she’d asked. Yes, please, I want to try again, and not fuck up this time.
If he didn’t show up, she might make one of her snap decisions and cut him out of her life for good. She had security around her that could keep him out as handily as it allowed him in. One word from her, and he’d be a persona non grata, with no access.
No access but standing out here among thousands of other people, bathed in her light.
He moved faster, moved closer, pushing past kids who were too high to care. He could tell she was nearing the end of her set. The lights flashed faster, the beats boomed deeper, and she danced harder, waving her microphone. Then everything went silent, and he and one hundred thousand other spectators froze and looked up at her figure atop the console.
“I want to play something for you,” she said. “Can I play something for you?”
The crowd came to life again with shouts of agreement. A slow beat thumped every few seconds, as if left behind from the previous wall of sonic noise.
“You can’t dance to it,” she teased. “So maybe you’ll hate it.”
Fervent shrieks of denial greeted this warning. A group of girls to his left screamed, “We love you, Lady Paradise.”
Her head turned in their direction. He was close enough now to see her eyes, her blonde hair, her beautiful features…and the delicate silver bracelet on her wrist.
He could have yelled that he loved her too. Maybe then she would have turned to him, but she was back in motion, taking her guitar from behind the console. As soon as she sat and began to tune it, a hum spread through the crowd. When a techie carried over a mic stand, the hum rose to a roar.
“Yeah, kids.” She adjusted the mic and did a quick check, check. “I’m going to sing you a song. Like around a campfire, but more sparkly.”
She worked crowds so well. Her audience had gone quiet, but it was a pleased, expectant quiet. All he could see were smiles. Her smiles, their smiles, even the guy who’d brought the mic stand was standing to the side with a smile.
“I’m gonna tell you the truth.” She crossed her bare legs and cradled the guitar in her lap. “I played this for my record company and they thought it sucked. But I love it, and I love you.” Screams of adulation interrupted her speech. She yelled over the noise to finish her thought. “And I hope you love this, because I wrote it for someone I love. Make some noise if you believe in love.”
The screams and shouts of a hundred thousand love-mad ravers assailed his eardrums. Ransom covered his ears against the din, then lowered his hands. He didn’t want to miss one note of this. Her silver bracelet caught the light as she began to play.
*
Lola felt caught between excitement at the audience’s reaction, and devastation. She threw a glance at the stairs again, but Ransom wasn’t there. He’d written that he was coming, but he hadn’t come. Maybe he couldn’t come?
Maybe he’d decided not to come.
Either way, she’d made a promise to herself that she’d play this song in Sacramento. She’d promised she’d put it out there to be judged by the greater world, and had even cleared it with festival management so they’d help her set up the microphone and stand. Now she only had to sing it.
The audience got quiet as she strummed the first chords in time with the slow beat she’d programmed ahead of time. Just put a beat under it.
I know, Ransom. I know.
She’d decided to sing “Worth the World” because out of all her songs, it showed her heart the most. If Ransom had come, he could have heard the words she was too afraid to say to his face. Maybe he’d still hear them, if the song ever got any legs. She’d uploaded it to all the indie sales platforms a couple days ago, under the name Lola Mae Reynolds.
Doing that had been easy. Anonymous and quick, the push of an upload button. This was way harder, this massive audience and her simple, wistful melody having to stand on its own. She looked out at the sea of faces, curious and mostly accepting of this slow-beat interlude.
Help me, pop. Help me play like you. Help me feel it.
She closed her eyes and sang the first verse along with the sultry, sexy bass accompaniment. Here, now, in front of all these people, the words felt painfully personal, but the one person she wanted to hear them wasn’t here. “You forced me to go/where I didn’t think I could survive,” she sang, thinking of their early days. “And once I was there/I started remembering I was alive. I didn’t notice the cold/or the stares of the passersby/ just tossed my hair from my eyes/to take in the big sky.”
The big sky and the big picture. He’d helped her see the bigger picture of her life, and no matter what happened, she’d never forget. That was the next verse, all about changing and needing, and never forgetting. She chanced a look out at the audience. Some of them danced slowly, waving their arms along with the back beat, while others only stood and watched. A few lighters flickered in the air.
It was enough to sustain her to the final chorus. She strummed louder and gave the audience all her frustration and grief. “You say I’m worth the world, love/but what does that mean?/You’re worth way more than the world to me.” She took a breath and closed her eyes. “You say I’m worth the world, love/but when are you gonna see?/You’re worth way more than the world to me.”
She drew out the last trill of notes, bringing the song to a close, then reached behind her to kill the electronic beat. By the time she turned back, people were applauding. No, shouting. Screaming. Her heart bloomed like a flower. She felt proud, sad, avenged, stripped naked, and held up by all these friends who meant the best for her.
Then she saw someone in the front row who wasn’t clapping or screaming, just staring back at her. Dark suit, red tie. Wise, beautiful eyes.
Ransom. He’d made it after all.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God, oh my God. Ransom.”
For a minute she didn’t know what to do, then she smiled and did the only thing she could do. She pretended she was going to dive into the audience, into his arms. She had him for a moment—he shook his head sharply—but then he wagged a finger at her and smiled.
She gestured for him to com
e onstage and join her, and somehow he did. The security guys helped him clamber up over the barriers and jump onto the platform, and then she was in his arms. He took her guitar and held it out of the way, and hugged her close, pressing his forehead to hers.
“Lola Mae. Beautiful girl.” His fingers spread on her back, warm and firm. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I sang you a song.”
“I know. I heard it.” His eyes shone from the lights. “It was so good.” His fingers twisted in her hair, tugging with a sudden intensity. “I loved your song. I love you. God, I love you so much.”
“I love you too. I’ve missed you.” The crowd had gone quiet. She didn’t want them to listen to this private moment, but she couldn’t seem to let Ransom go. “I’ve missed you so much.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Please don’t leave me again.”
“I’m not leaving you again, I promise. I’ve come back, because I never should have left in the first place. I love you, even if I shouldn’t. That’s just the way it is.”
She tilted her face up and he kissed her in front of everyone. I’ve come back. I love you, even if I shouldn’t. Lola happened to believe there weren’t any shoulds or shouldn’ts when it came to love, but maybe that was because she was a dumb kid. She melted against his front, grasping his lapels to pull him closer as his mouth moved over hers. His kiss was an apology, a pure, passionate confession, and Lola forgave him for hurting her, because they were both wiser now. All the tension and emptiness of the past few weeks ebbed away as they reconnected.
But a hundred thousand pairs of eyes still watched them. She became aware of pockets of voices in the audience. “Gilberto,” they cried. “It’s Gilberto, her bodyguard.”
She pushed away from Ransom to look over his shoulder at the spectators.
“Is your set over?” he asked. “Maybe you should send them all home.”
“Yeah, I should tell them good night.” She looked back at him. “But you ought to say hello first.”
She turned him around and wrapped an arm around his waist, and held the mic with the other hand. “This is Ransom, everyone. Not Gilberto. But you were right, I love him. I’m so in love with this man.”
There were whoops and fist pumps as the crowd bobbed and weaved as far as the eye could see. It wasn’t an angry, primal weaving, like in Barcelona, but happy weaving, a dance without music, a dance that came from the heart. Festival fields and beats would always be her life, and these ravers would always be her people, but she could have other things too, like sweet, wistful songs and older, responsible boyfriends.
“Thanks for listening to my heart tonight,” she said to their uplifted faces. “I love you. Thanks for giving me a chance.”
The mass of people roared their support as she looked over at Ransom. He’d come back. He was staying. She leaned close and spoke in his ear so he could hear her over the crowd, and repeated what she’d just told the audience. “I love you. Thanks for giving me a chance.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Deal
Ransom guided her backstage, his eyes scanning the crew and bystanders out of habit. He wasn’t her bodyguard anymore, but he still wanted to protect her. Her official bodyguard, Caleb, flanked her other side as they made their way to the hired car. Once they found it, Caleb walked around to the far side to give them a moment of privacy.
Ransom gazed down at Lola. Was she returning to L.A. tonight? Was she exhausted? Was she available?
What now?
“I’m staying at a hotel downtown,” she said. “Do you… Would you… Do you have to head back to your soul singer?”
“No.” His gaze strayed down to her lips. “Someone else is watching my soul singer.”
“Well…” She looked deliciously anxious. “Will you… Can you…”
“Yes. I’m coming to your hotel. I’m staying all night. Actually, I’m staying for as long as you’ll have me, but we can talk about that later. Right now, I have to find my rental car. I parked…” He gave a rueful laugh. “I parked a long way from here.”
“We’ll have the driver take you to your rental, then we can drive your rental to the hotel. Is that okay?” She turned to Caleb. “Can we do that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
She turned back to Ransom and grasped his hands, twining her fingers with his. He was aware of Caleb watching, of people gawking at them from beyond the metal barriers that surrounded the backstage area. He helped her into the car, then climbed in beside her while Caleb settled into the front passenger seat. Ransom felt sympathy for him. How many times had he been an unwilling witness to a client’s private, emotional craziness?
They could wait until they were alone to hash through everything, all the concessions and adjustments and avowals they’d doubtless make in order to be with one another. For now, he only held Lola’s hand, rubbing her fingers between his. They talked about safe, easy things like his flight from Vegas, and the rental car mess. She gasped when he told her he’d quit his job.
“I would have been fired anyway.” He nodded toward Caleb, but hell, thousands of people had seen their onstage kiss tonight. Plenty of cameras had recorded it for posterity; it was probably already posted online. “I don’t know if it was any more honorable to quit first.”
“There’s nothing dishonorable about what happened between us,” she insisted in her diva voice. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not sure my boss would agree with you.”
“I’ll talk to him then. I’ll explain.”
He shook his head. “You don’t have to. He’s not my boss anymore. And it’s all right, baby. I had to quit to have more time with you. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
She studied him, her pretty blue eyes clouded with gravity. “Yes, but that wasn’t what you wanted.”
“I guess you could say my priorities have changed.”
She buried her head against his shoulder. “I hoped that song would convince you.”
“I was convinced before the song.” He cupped her face and stroked a finger across her cheek. “But the song was beautiful. They’ll play it at our wedding, yeah? If you don’t figure out in time that I’m too old for you.”
“You’re not too old.” She pulled his face down and pressed her nose to his. “I’m twenty-one now, so we’re only sixteen years apart.”
“Sixteen and a half,” he said as she licked his chin. His cock throbbed, hardening to stone. “But who’s counting?”
She found his length in the dark, furtively stroking him. He had to stop her, or he’d lose control of himself and really give Caleb something to be embarrassed about. He’d been in that situation too many times also, watching clients go at each other as if he were only a statue, or a painting on the wall. “Wait,” he chided in a whisper. “Wait until we’re alone.”
“But I want you,” she whispered back.
Oh, God. It seemed to take forever to find the rental car. Caleb offered to drive, but Ransom drove instead, so he wouldn’t be tempted to assault Lola in the back. Lola sat very still in the passenger seat as he navigated Sacramento’s streets, but he was constantly aware of her presence. Her closeness.
He felt like he could breathe again.
All the travel hassle had been worth it, quitting his job, disrupting his life, everything. Now that she sat beside him, he understood how empty his life had been since he left her. He’d been missing a whole part of himself, the part Lola nudged to life with her vibrant energy and emotional depth. He didn’t understand why the universe had chosen to pair them as soul mates, he just knew it had happened.
When they got to the hotel, Caleb helped carry Ransom’s luggage as the three of them headed upstairs. The young bodyguard said goodnight to Lola with grave professionalism, then shot Ransom a fleeting smile before he disappeared into the adjoining room. Good kid. Not sleeping with her.
“Caleb’s closer to your age,” he said as they went into her room. He threw his wardrobe bag over a chair
. “Better looking too. Why not him?”
She pushed him back against the door as it closed behind them. “Because he’s not you,” she said. “And I want you.”
“You want me, huh?” He kissed her long and hard, burying his fingers in her hair. Blonde, not pink. God, she tasted like sugar. “I’ve missed you so much, baby. I’ve been waiting all this time to hold you and make you mine.” He pulled her right against him, against the pulsing, agonizing solidity of his shaft. “How do you want it? Soft and sweet?”
“No, nothing soft. Nothing sweet. I want it hardcore.”
She pushed off his jacket and yanked at his tie. He took over undressing himself lest she choke him to death in her impatience. He’d teach her the art of restraint someday, the art of delay and seduction and longing.
That day was not today.
When he was naked, she moved her palms across his chest, his pecs, his shoulder, his abs, then down to his granite-hard cock. He grasped her hands and told her to wait.
“I want you now,” she whined.
“Be good.”
He tugged off her tiny shorts, her miniscule crop top and bra, then grasped her ass and lifted her in his arms. As he carried her toward the bed, he noted the location of windows, closets, doors. Bodyguard stuff, but then his mind was back on her, or more specifically, what he might do to her. They had weeks now, months, years. There was so much to do to her.
He dumped her on the bed and went to his luggage for a condom. After considering a moment, he grabbed a handful, along with a vial of lubricant he deposited on the table beside the bed.
“You brought lube?” she asked.
“Of course. I know you, Lola.”
He crawled onto the bed and forced her legs back, and leaned down to trail his tongue up the center of her pussy. She whined and clutched at his shoulders, arching for more. As soon as he tongued her clit, she went wild and flailed beneath him. Jesus, he’d missed this. He grasped her legs tighter and told her to be still.