by Penny Reid
Gritting my teeth, I glared at my drummer, but said nothing. I’d already given my answer. The pleading eventually morphed into frustration, and then rage. Charlie’s jaw ticked in time with the chant, Redburn, Redburn, Redburn.
“Sometimes, you’re a stingy motherfucker, Abram.” He seethed, stepping back, wiping his upper lip.
Charlie’s hands were shaking, his knuckles white where he held my bass in one hand. He was covered in sweat. So was I. I was hot and sweaty, and wired, full of adrenaline, just like him. And the high, the current and cadence of euphoria still held me in its grip. But I wasn’t insane with it, desperate to prolong it, like he was.
I had something else, the thought of someone else making me crazy.
God, she was so close. So close. I’d gone off script, walking into the audience during Charlie’s drum solo in the middle of our sixth song, unable to wrestle the anticipation into submission. Our security and lighting people scrambled, and I felt like an ass, but I needed to see her up close. I’d walked past the barricade, the guards, down the stairs, to her section, searching for her.
And there she was. Grinning at me. Eyes shining, looking so proud and excited. She also looked goddamn hot, wearing a skintight blue dress that ended mid-thigh, her hair down, red lips. My lungs on fire, it took everything, everything, every ounce of self-control not to grab her and kiss her gorgeous face off.
But we were surrounded by thousands of people, and that pledge I’d made to myself—that all my decisions from now on would be stellar ones, because my decisions impacted her—screamed between my ears. She deserved my circumspection and thoughtfulness, not a big, showy, dramatic, extremely public outing of our relationship. That wouldn’t be romantic. It would be selfish.
So I’d taken a few photos with fans. I’d quickly signed a few shirts. And then I’d climbed back onto the stage and finished the concert, restless, eager for it to end. Yet also wanting to give Mona my best version of our songs.
Now the show was over.
Now it was our time.
So where the hell is Melena?
Movement behind Charlie snagged my attention and I pushed past him, Melena and one of the PAs running toward us, coming from the side hall leading to the dressing rooms and offices.
“Sorry.” Melena stopped directly in front of me, holding a travel mug in one hand and a large water bottle with ice in the other, wearing a massive grin and shouting over the continuing chants.
The PA, however, bumped into me. And then brushed her body against me.
“Sorry, we thought you were going to do another song,” she said, peering up at me, sounding breathless even though she was shouting.
I took a half step back. The PA swayed forward. Frustrated, I gently set her away with the palms of my hands, grinding my teeth.
“I’m glad you decided not to. Here.” Melena pushed the travel mug into my hands, giving the PA an irritated look. Then to me, she said, “Drink this. It has something to numb the throat. You must be hurting.”
Taking the mug, my eyes flickered to the PA who now was staring at me like I was food and she was starving. She licked her lips. Give me a fucking break.
Maybe it made me a dick that I didn’t take the time to learn any of their names. Maybe if just one of them treated me like a person I would have. Regardless, I noticed she was holding one of my T-shirts and I frowned at it, and her, lifting my chin in question.
“Oh!” The PA shook herself, shoving it toward me. “I noticed the sweat, I mean, you’re all sweaty. You look great but your shirt is sticking to your body and you’re, uh, all, uh, wet. So I went to your dressing room and got it for you.”
I scowled, my jaw working. How many times did I have to tell these people? I didn’t want any of them in my dressing room.
She flinched back, presumably at my expression. “I thought—I thought you might—”
“Did you bring me a shirt?” Charlie asked, standing at my shoulder. “Or how about Ruthie? We’re just as sweaty. Stop trying to fuck Abram, okay? Can’t you see it pisses him off? Plus, he’s got a girl already.”
The PA blinked at me, and then at Charlie, her mouth moving without sound as a red blush climbed up her cheeks, visibly mortified.
I didn’t have time for this. Ignoring both Charlie and the offered shirt, I tried to get Melena’s attention. But she seemed to give her eyes a half roll, and shoved the water bottle at Charlie.
“This is for you,” she shouted over the crowd. “It’s my electrolytes mix. Where’s Ruthie? I have one for her too. And if you have a problem with one of the PAs, talk to their boss, Charlie.”
I reached for Melena’s arm before she could dart off in search of our guitarist, released her when I was sure she wouldn’t leave, and held my hand out.
She shook her head, her forehead wrinkling. “What?”
I made the universal symbol for phone with my thumb and pinkie finger since I couldn’t risk shouting.
“Oh! Yes. I have it.” She pulled out my cell from her back pocket. “I had it the whole time, never left my person.”
Mouthing thank you, I snatched it and hurriedly marched past the trio, down the hall toward the dressing rooms, needing to get there before the backstage area flooded with fans and VIP ticket holders.
Stan was there, next to the door, and he turned as I approached. “Mr. Fletcher.”
“Stan,” I said, my voice raspy and tired. “I need a favor, man. I need you to go get someone for me. Her name is—”
“Mona DaVinci.”
I drew back, surprised.
He pointed with this thumb toward the door. “She’s already inside.”
My brain stuttered to a stop, and I looked at the door. “She’s . . .”
“Already inside.”
Inside. The room. And suddenly, this steel door became a magical fucking portal to heaven.
“You going in?” Stan asked.
I nodded. “Yes.” This is it. Fuck, this is it.
Was I ready?
No. I wasn’t. I was still hopped up on adrenaline, the crowd was still chanting, but had switched to my name. If I went in there now, I would probably . . . I will definitely do something selfish.
“I just need a minute.” Pushing my phone into my back pocket, I took a sip of tea, gathering my thoughts.
“Here.” Stan reached in front of me, twisting the doorknob and then taking the mug out of my grip. “Let me get that for you.”
Before I could stop him, he’d pushed it open. And—again—there she was.
She stood in profile, a hand on her hip, looking at something. But when the door opened, she turned, immediately smiling, her eyes huge and happy.
“Abram.” She said my name breathlessly, hesitating a fraction of a second before launching herself forward.
Time skipped. She’d been across the room a minute ago, but now she was in my hands, her body pressed to my body, her mouth on mine, her fingers in my hair, and I was so, so right. I was definitely going to do something selfish.
Kicking the door shut, I turned her, pressed her against it, and feasted on her glorious mouth, demanding her tongue and drinking from her perfect lips. My hands traveled south, wanting the skin of her legs, my fingers curling into the fabric of her dress and lifting it.
She yanked her mouth away with a shocked gasp, her hands immediately gripping mine and trying to hold them still. “Wait, wait. You have to stop.”
My mouth lowered to her neck and I bit it, wanting to consume her, taste every inch of her skin, rocking my hips forward urgently. “I need you.”
“Abram!” she squealed. “We’re not alone!”
We’re not alone?
Breathing hard while my brain worked to make sense of her words, the sound of a throat clearing somewhere behind me had my back stiffening.
Mona ducked her head, whispering hurriedly against my ear, “Your—uh—sister is here with her fiancé. And so are Allyn and my brother.”
Well, fuck.
&n
bsp; Actually, no. Not fuck. No expletive existed that could adequately describe the magnitude of my frustration in that moment. Instinct told me to toss her over my shoulder. Leave. Find a room that didn’t have a fucking housewarming party in it. Pick up right where we left off, with my hands up her skirt.
And when Marie said, “Don’t mind us, we were just talking about the—uh—show. Not this show, the other show,” and everyone laughed, I almost did it.
But we’d be photographed. Fans would have their phones ready and there’d be no escape. Everyone would know. Mona in her tiny blue dress, me looking like—what did Ruthie call it?—a porno pirate, covered in sweat, my shirt sticking to my body, my eyes a little wild. Not an image I imagined Mona wanted out there.
Mona.
My fingers tightened on the fabric of her dress. She was sifting her fingers through my hair, placing little, sweet kisses on my neck, murmuring words meant to calm and coax. “Let’s visit. Just for a minute. Then we have three days, you and me. All the time in the world, right?”
Slowly, reluctantly, I gathered a deep breath and removed my hands from her, bracing them against the door and glaring down at this woman I loved, and wanted, beyond description, beyond the limitations of language.
“Ten minutes,” I said, not sure if it was a threat or a promise. “Five if someone gives me a reason to kick them out.”
Mona rolled her lips between her teeth and nodded, peering up at me, looking pleased and excited and a little dazed. “Ten minutes.”
I wasn’t much of a drinker anymore. But tonight, when offered whiskey by Leo, I downed the two-ounce pour just to take the edge off.
“Slow down,” he said, grinning and taking my glass to pour me another.
Accepting the refill and looking over my shoulder at Mona, I took his words to heart. Slow down. Slow. Down.
Mona sat on the chair facing the sofa, talking animatedly to Marie and Matt. She seemed galvanized, like the show, the energy affected her too. And as I watched her, doing my best to slow down, I savored the sight. Her smile. Her bright eyes. Her laugh. Her voice, here, live, not carried across the planet over a phone.
I’d spent the last six weeks—hell, I’d spent the last two and a half months and the last two and a half years before that—wanting this. Just this. We were together, no secrets or lies between us, the promise of a great future on the horizon, and the reality of a great now.
And yet, amped-up from the concert, I was still shaky and preoccupied by selfishness.
“Great show, by the way. Nine encores.” Leo poured himself a drink.
I nodded distractedly, my eyes still on Mona in her tiny dress. I wanted to take it off.
“Has Broderick been in contact about the next album? I ran into him and Kaitlyn in New York. They said you already have most of it done.”
“Yep.” My eyes followed the line of her toned legs to her feet. She’d taken off her shoes. She was barefoot. Her toes were painted bright blue.
“That’s amazing, man. When did you find the time to write?”
“Here and there.” I shrugged, watching with rapt concentration as Mona tucked one of her legs beneath her, the skirt hiking higher, showing me more thigh. My fingers tightened on the thick crystal tumbler as she leaned forward, her position highlighting the curve of her back and waist. My gaze traveled to the thin straps over her elegant bare shoulders, collarbone, the scooped neckline, the swell of her breasts.
I swallowed.
“Hey.”
Reluctantly, I tore my eyes from Mona, glancing at Leo. He wore a frown, his eyes seemed to be narrowed with concern.
“Are you okay?”
Was I okay?
Was he really that dense? Had he never felt this way about someone before? Completely consumed. Destroyed. Rebuilt. Desperate.
No. I wasn’t okay. But what could I say?
Sorry. I’m distracted by thoughts of fucking your sister, against the door with her tits in my mouth, or bent over the couch, reaching around to stroke her slick, wet pussy while she moans my name. If you weren’t here right now, I’d be eating her out and loving every second of it. Forgive my preoccupation. What were you saying about the album?
“Your voice is almost gone, huh?” He nodded at his own assertion. “No need to talk if you can’t.”
I stared at him, breathing through my nose, working to regain control of anything. This was why I hated the minutes and hours after a show. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t myself. It was a peculiar kind of madness.
Did I want to take Mona against the door or bent over the couch? Absofuckinglutely.
But did I want that—here, in this random room, sticky and sweaty after a concert with thousands of people just feet away, the constant risk of someone coming in, interrupting us—to be our first time together?
No.
But in my current state of mind, I would. I definitely, definitely would.
Gathering a deep breath, I forced myself to relax my hold on the tumbler. “It’s probably best if I don’t speak at all,” I murmured, returning my attention to Mona. But this time, she was also watching me.
She wasn’t smiling. Her gaze was direct, sharp, and—if I wasn’t mistaken—hot. Mona lifted her hand toward me in invitation, mouthing, “Do you want to sit with me?”
I shook my head. The only way for us to sit together in that chair was if she sat on my lap. Bad idea.
Her hand dropped, a slight wrinkle forming between her eyes. She looked anxious.
So I lifted my hand and mouthed, “Five minutes,” making no attempt to disguise my meaning.
Five minutes.
One way or the other—either they left, or we did—we were going to be alone in five minutes.
13
Plasma Physics
*Mona*
I checked my phone for the tenth time in two minutes, licking my lips, my mouth and throat dry.
Abram was looking at me, watching me. I’d felt his eyes on me earlier, but now I felt his eyes, the force of his intentions. I squirmed in my seat, my skin hot; the area between my thighs coiling, twisting, aching; my breasts heavy, sensitive. Unable to follow Allyn’s funny story, or Marie’s clever questions, or Matt’s silly comments, just the act of breathing felt like a miracle.
Two minutes, twenty-two seconds left.
Twenty-one.
Twenty.
Nineteen.
There was a reason we’d snuck backstage before the last encore, and I’d been careful to bring others. The photos in LA of me—that everyone assumed was Lisa—were a sobering reminder that cameras were everywhere.
Hilarious in retrospect, I’d brought two condoms with me, just in case he wanted to do something here while we waited for the crowds to disperse, before we left for the hotel. I’d tucked them in the side of my strapless push-up bra and spent an inordinate amount of time reasoning with myself while getting dressed, trying to convince myself that I wasn’t being presumptuous.
Therefore, in hindsight—now that I was here, and he was here, and I couldn’t think straight, his eyes on me—my concerns about being presumptuous were hysterical.
I knew what he wanted as though he were speaking it aloud, over and over, whispering it in my ear.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck prickled and I rubbed the spot, checking my phone again. Two minutes, thirteen seconds.
I almost cursed. Was time moving backward? When would the five minutes end?! When would these people leave?!
Or, I debated, obviously not at all in my right mind, we could just leave. Now.
A laugh tumbled past my lips at the thought. Thankfully, it was well timed, as Marie had just said something to make everyone else laugh.
Then again, why not?
Why not just go?
Why stay if we didn’t want to stay? Why care whether we were photographed? Why care who knew? Or when? Why not leave? So many questions, and I couldn’t think of a single satisfactory answer other than go.
Go.
My eyes cut to Abram’s. Collided. Crashed. He was still watching me, sipping something the color of brandy or whiskey. But it was how he watched me—like we were already alone—that made up my mind.
No more waiting.
I stood, in some kind of bizarre trance, seeing only Abram, and crossed to him. He watched me come. Someone, my brother, was talking to him. Wordlessly, Abram handed his glass off.
“Let’s go,” I said, taking his hand, holding it in both of mine as I walked backward, pulling him toward the door. He said nothing. Just looked. Just followed.
“Don’t you want your shoes?” Allyn asked.
Abram stepped forward and, in one fluid motion, reached behind me for the door while using his leverage on my hands to twirl me, tucking me close against his side. He was strong and solid, and I loved it. He was also damp, and I loved that too.
“You guys.” I heard Marie call to us. “It’ll be peak crazy out there right now.”
Too late.
He’d opened the door. People screamed his name—excited screams, not the killing kind—from somewhere to our right. The security guard stationed at the door looked to Abram, nodded once, and then turned.
“Follow me,” the man said, walking down the mostly empty hall to our left. “Your car is ready.”
Flashes went off. We passed people in the hall, too stunned to do anything but back up, stop, and gape. Echoes of the frenzied shouts and screams followed us. We encountered a broken bottle of beer and Abram scooped me into his arms without saying a word, his boots crunching over the glass, not breaking his stride. More flashes.
Then we were outside. The limo was there. New shouts. Fans catching sight of him and running toward us. Cameras going off, flashes, screams—still the excited kind—the thunder of a sprinting crowd.
Sights and sounds caught up with me, yanked me out of this strange daze. My heart in my throat as the guard calmly opened the door, Abram placed me gently inside, I slid down the bench, and he followed. The guard closed the door, the locks engaged, we were off.
Abram turned to me as the car lurched forward, threaded his fingers through my hair, his eyes darting over my face. “Are you okay?”