In more ways than one.
“Pretty alternative tastes in there. What’s your favorite Fallen Angels song?”
“Obsession, from their newer album.” The last two weeks of my life have been filled with an obsession of my own—getting my hands on everything the Fallen Angels have ever released. Maybe it’s sick, but I identify with the song.
Paul nods. “Awesome song. I’m assuming you noticed the Orff undertones in that one?”
I sit up, feeling more animated than I have in days. “Carmina Burana. They probably didn’t notice it when they wrote it, but it was—”
“—haunting,” Paul finishes my sentence with the exact word I was going to say. “I really like that one, but my favorite is Hollow. It’s got a richness.”
“Phrygian’s always been my favorite mode with the Spanish flavor of it, but the way they layered the chorus.” I shake my head. “It really took it to the next level.”
“Are you a fan of their lyrics as well? ‘Lay me down below the wise, where you aren’t, I see your eyes.’”
“‘A fall much deeper than your lies, Where sound’s the glory, I will rise.’”
“‘Rising higher to take the fall.’” He taps the toe of his shoe on the music stand in front of him. “I can’t tell if it’s about God or an ex-girlfriend.”
“They seem to leave them ambiguous on purpose. I guess it makes the songs more relatable for a broader audience. The goal of commercial music.”
“Do you like the lyrics or the music more?”
I pause to consider. When I think of them I think of Dylan, but when I’m remembering their songs, it’s not the words I miss at all. “I hadn’t thought of that. The lyrics fit and are good, but—”
“It’s the music that you love,” he finishes with a nod.
Paul’s got the vocabulary to discuss music like Dylan and I did, but it’s missing that chemistry. The only time sparks fly inside me when talking to Paul, is because of the thrill of finally talking about Dylan with someone, even in a roundabout way. “The thing about their songs that sticks with me isn’t the words, it’s the music. I hadn’t thought about it, but it really is.”
“Same here. I’m so surprised you like this kind of music. They’re definitely firmly in the rock genre, despite their generic breakout success on mainstream television. Reality television no less—worst blight on our cultural landscape. Now they’re huge. I wasn’t expecting to find a fan in here.” He flicks the edge of the ticket I’m still clutching.
I hand his ticket back, feeling the loss of the tiny connection to Dylan as I do so, and tuck my sheet music into my bag. Dylan knew I was more than a conservative classical musician. “Why? Cuz I don’t look the part?” When he doesn’t answer, I look up.
Paul’s gaze travels from my practical flat-heeled knee-high boots, up my tasteful knee-length skirt, up to my pearly-grey cotton blouse. “Not to sound judgmental, but yes.”
“You’re a boring, conservative cello player too, right?” I grin. If Paul, if everyone only knew the things I’ve done. With a stranger. In public. But that was a one-off and I drag my focus back to now. “Music brings people together. You never know what’s playing inside someone, completely at odds with their appearance. Everyone’s got influences, right?”
“That’s very true.”
I wish I’d been able to talk to Dylan like this instead of blowing off rock music when I met him. Now that I’ve listened to some more of it—especially his—I see the complexity of the style. The power and beauty in it. He’s created some truly amazing pieces, stunning musically, that I’d love to listen to with him and ask what he was thinking when he wrote them. Now I’d know which classical pieces to play him to show him the similarities between us. If I could see his face when he heard that haunting chorus...
Then again, if I’d been another fan, he probably wouldn’t have come back after that first night. Was that part of the attraction for him? The anonymity because of my ignorance? Wanting to lose himself and pretend to be someone else the way I was trying to? Using me the gentle way I was using him? An unsettled feeling squirms through my stomach at the thought of his attraction having more to do with my ignorance than our chemistry.
I swallow my unease and smile at Paul. “Besides, you can’t deny the sophistication of the Fallen Angels’ music compared to a lot of newer bands. If most classical snobs gave rock like theirs a chance, there’d be more fans—and justifiably so. It’s much more complex than they’re given credit for.”
“Exactly! I mean, musical tastes are subjective, but knee-jerk snobbery like that annoys me.” I flinch at Paul’s words—only a couple weeks ago I was exactly that kind of musical snob—but he keeps enthusing, oblivious. “Dismissing them out of hand. That Dylan whatever his last name is a musical genius. You'd think he'd be the lyricist since he's the lead singer but he's really the source of the sound. I think one of the other members writes most of the lyrics.”
“I hadn’t known that.” How fitting that it’s the music itself I’m so drawn to. I can even imagine beautiful cello countermelodies to his sweeping musical lines, especially the earlier songs. The newer ones are good too, but there’s something about the first album. “I only discovered them recently, if I’m being honest. I was a major music snob before discovering them.”
Paul spreads his hands. “Better late than never to get over a crappy attitude. Hey, I have two tickets and no date to this concert tonight. Do you want to go with me?”
A dirty thrill zings through my body. Of course I want to go! But I have to be responsible, and seeing Dylan will only make me want to touch him. Seeing him will only make me want more, and that will only lead to my own heartache. “I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m barely a step ahead of this fixation as it is. The amazing time Dylan and I spent together is supposed to fade away into the background. Going to watch him live in concert is definitely not making an effort to move on. I bite my lip, grasping for an excuse. “I can’t really afford to.”
“My treat. Come on, I already have the ticket. My buddy bailed last minute, and no one else I know likes this band. If you don’t come, the ticket’s going to go to waste.”
If I went, I’d get to see Dylan again. For real. Not on a tiny screen where he’s singing to other women or in pictures online. My nipples tighten. I need to see him again. Oh, God, I shouldn’t. I’m already basically cyberstalking him. Would seeing him live make it better or worse? My teeth sink into my lip.
Paul holds the ticket a little higher. “You’d be doing me a favor, really.”
Temptation flutters around me like a thousand butterflies.
That man had a way of getting me to do things that defy reason. He had the power to unhinge the reinforced walls of who I am, and yank my inner bad girl out to play. What would it be like, watching him sing the songs I’ve glutted on since finding out his identity, seeing him on the stage while he’s blinded by the spotlight? A tiny, voyeuristic part of me trills her joy. I could go, watch him without him knowing, and then move on. Really move on this time.
Paul laughs. “I think you’re overthinking this invitation. Do you want to come? Yes or no?” He fans the ticket in the air in a small arc.
I can’t. “I—” My hand shoots out and I snatch it out of his hand before I can stop myself. Oh, fuck it, there was no way I’d turn this ticket down. I smile. “I’m in.”
CHAPTER NINE
My hands shake so badly when applying my makeup I almost stab myself in the eye with the mascara wand when slicking on a second coat.
This is so ridiculous. I jam it back in the tube and throw it to the counter. After I scrub at the smudge under my left eye, I spritz some shine spray into my hair, arranged in big, careless curls that took an hour to create. I don’t know why I’m even wound up. It’s not like I’m actually going to talk to Dylan. It’s nothing more than a concert. I’m going to watch him, soak in the sight of my new favorite singer, and come h
ome.
And then wear out my vibrator imagining it’s him.
And then move on.
I head upstairs, caressing the graceful ark of the dark wood bannister on the way to my bedroom. My new place is an old house that’s been renovated and fitted with modern touches—granite countertops, raindrop shower, hardwood floors, and stainless steel appliances—but because it’s an older house seems cozier than my apartment in Chicago, especially since it’s tucked into the suburbs. I’ve never had a house to myself before, but somehow my things have filled it and it doesn’t feel like I’m drowning in lonely space.
And yet, I’ve pictured Dylan ranging around, casually touching my belongings, leaning against the doorjambs so many times it’s ridiculous.
Even though he won’t see me, I dress in my most provocative outfit. Dark skinny jeans with an elastic blend that makes the fabric so thin and pliable they coat me like they’re painted on. I squint critically at the top—a black corset-style tank top trimmed with black satin ribbons, it shows a bit more cleavage than I’m used to. Alex would scream with glee if she saw me right now, and I know I look good, but I feel naked.
I sit on the foot of the bed and stare at my phone on my dresser. I long to call Alex and ask her advice, but I can’t decide if I want her to egg me on or talk me out of this.
It’s only a concert.
But that’s not what you want it to be.
Dylan is never going to be more to me than what he was.
So why do you care?
My gaze is nearly feverishly bright in the dresser mirror as an idea occurs to me.
The Scarf. The one Dylan used to tie my hands and...
He unhooked my bound hands from behind his neck and held me tight, pressing me against the window, burying himself deep as he came.
I could feel his cock twitch inside me.
Our breath fogged the window in fast bursts, tiny patches of condensation that disappeared as quickly as they were made.
I never wanted to forget that feeling.
While keeping me in his arms, Dylan’s fingers made quick work of the knot in the scarf, and I was freed.
But I didn’t want to be.
Pressing it to my face, I breathe it in, but it smells only of my perfume, all traces of Dylan’s scent obliterated. I never wanted to forget the feeling in that moment, but it has faded, if I’m honest. Our lives have a way of keeping us in boxes unless we fight against the walls closing in on us. I haven’t fought since the wild time with him. Then again, I got what I wanted, so there’s been no need to fight. My future’s more set in stone than it ever has been.
This scarf is a little rebellion, a nod to that night. It lays softly against my collarbones, making me feel less exposed but sexier all at once, remembering the things that this scarf has seen.
The cab comes before I have time to second—and third—guess my outfit. Paul and I agreed to meet at our seats instead of out front of the venue, since finding each other would have been a logistical nightmare.
The cab ride’s too short. I barely have time to calm my breathing, choking on too many emotions now that I know I’ll be seeing Dylan in less than half an hour. Since the universe knows I need more time, it doesn’t give me any. We hit every green light and the cabbie doesn’t even try to run me up—the fare’s lower than I’d estimated. The heels of my boots tremble against the ground as I step from the cab, but steady now that I’m moving forward inside the building. Toward Dylan.
All these people are here to see him. To hear his band. How would that feel? I’ll be playing my ass off a few times a week making music, but I’m not a rock star. I’m not even a songwriter; I don’t have unwritten songs living inside me begging to be released. I’m content playing other people’s pieces, sharing in their creations.
What would it be like to be the focus of all this adoration? He’s so loved. They don’t even know him. Most will never meet him and they adore him. Wow.
“...fuck him so hard.”
A potent mixture of possessiveness, smugness, and disgust mingle in my body when I hear more than a few women in line talking about how much they love the band, especially Dylan, and the things they’d do to him if they had him alone for even a few minutes. They would throw themselves at his feet for him to use and discard, caring more about how hot he is than about how brilliant of a musician he is.
He’s both, but it’s strange to hear him being objectified. I want to tell them that he’s deeper than they think, that he cares about the world. He wanted to do something that makes a difference and instead of listening to his message, they’re too blinded by his appearance.
I mean, okay, I was too, but he’s so much more than that.
If he’d been nothing but a pretty face, he’d have been easier to let go of.
Maybe.
What made him choose me when he could have gone home with anyone else?
Section B row four. My heart pounds when I’m ushered closer and closer to the stage, the silver scaffolds bowing in graceful arches toward the center of the stage, joined at the top into a sort of halo shape. Fitting for the band’s name. I hadn’t realized Paul’s seats were this close to the stage. Will Dylan see me? Will he be able to read my eyes like a book, see all the things I’ve done while thinking of him? My fingernails dig into my palms. Will he remember me, or was I just another diversion in a long line of women on the road?
Oh, God, I should have taken his number and called him, then I’d know how he felt, what he thought.
If he’d picked up. Maybe he only asked for my contact information to be polite, make me feel like I wasn’t a fuck-and-chuck.
I can’t do this.
The tiny surge of indignance at that thought is the real reason I put so much effort into my appearance tonight. Maybe I’m not up to his usual supermodel-standards, but I’m a catch as well.
Paul does a small double take and waves me away when I get close. “I’m sorry, that seat’s reserved for a frumpy cello player.”
I cock my hip. “Who are you calling frumpy?”
“Not you, that’s for damn sure.” He’s releasing me from a friendly hug before I have time to react to the warmth in his voice.
I tear my gaze from the microphones set up on stage—which one is Dylan’s?—and gesture at Paul. “You look remarkably un-frumpy yourself. For a cellist.”
He winks. “Thank you. I’d give a twirl, but it would completely wreck the image I’m going for.” He’s in a tight black t-shirt with a grey filigree cross detail, and dark jeans as well. His arms are nicer than they looked under his sweater at practice, and if he took the ponytail out, he’d look more like the rest of the real rockers in the audience who appreciate Fallen Angels’ music.
The rest of the audience is a mixture of teen girls and women dressed in t-shirts with the band’s name and the members’ faces—the ones who are too busy screaming Dylan name to listen to his message. I care about him more than they do. Does he know that? Did he feel that, even though I had no idea who he really was, he knew I truly liked him for who he was, right?
Paul reaches out and tucks one of my curls behind my ear, looking at my mouth the whole time. My stomach sinks as the realization surfaces. He’s interested in me.
Fuck. I’ve been so focused on the man we came to see, I didn’t think about Paul’s interpretation of the facts. I dressed for Dylan, really for the off chance Dylan sees me, but should have put more thought into the situation. I’m on a date with Paul—although I never meant it to be a real date. Did I ever make it clear to him that I am definitely not looking for a boyfriend? Now Paul must think I put all this effort into our date for him.
I could get into trouble for this. What was I thinking?
This is the last thing I need right now—another man being thrown into the mix. I’m here to see the guy I like and pray he somehow notices me while a guy who likes me is at my side, and ugh, what is Dylan going to think if he sees us together?
God, why did I come? Th
is had Bad News written all over it from the start. Adrenaline hums beneath my skin, threatening to blow me apart. I should explain the situation right now, but queasiness rises and all I can think to do is take my seat to break the contact between us and ask, “Have you been waiting long?” I don’t want to start off the night with an unnecessary ‘we’re only ever going to be friends’ conversation if it’s not needed.
He sits beside me. “I only got here a few minutes before you did. I’ve never heard them live before—can’t remember if I told you that. You excited?”
I nod, another emotion—guilt—adding itself to the cocktail in my belly. I did sort of use Paul for concert tickets knowing nothing would ever come of it, but I’m such an idiot not to have realized. But I had to see Dylan one more time, and really, Paul said the ticket would go to waste if I didn’t come. He knew all along this wasn’t a date. Maybe that’s not the truth, but I’ll cling to that and feel a little better. Paul never asked me on a date, after all. It’s not my fault if he read more in between the lines than I said—in action or in words.
I’m taking a ticket so it doesn’t go to waste.
The lights go down and the crowd’s hum turns to a charged silence as we wait for them to appear and give us their music. Can they feel the hunger waiting for them in the dark as they step onto the stage? The people I play for are nothing like this. Their expectations are high as well, but they’re more contained, aloof, with none of this frenetic energy making the huge venue feel small.
My people hum, buzz, speak in hushed tones.
His scream and whistle and stomp.
The anticipation is the same, I feel it when I perform, but this is a different breed.
Low notes pulse through the darkness as bit by bit, the lights come up, revealing the other members of the band, easing us into the evening, but all I notice is the empty spot where Dylan will be.
I hope. What if he doesn’t show up? Of course he’ll show up to his own fucking concert. I’m being so ridiculous, but I need to see him now! This feels so surreal. I want to whip out my cell and check how long I’ve been sitting here—it feels like hours—but I can’t look away from the stage.
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