Set to Music

by Negeen Papehn

  Anthony glances in my direction, worry lines stretched across his forehead, and I give him a thumbs-up so he knows we’re all good. I see the relief loosen his brow and feed through his coiled shoulders. When he nods at me with warm, appreciative eyes, my whole body tingles. The fact that I possess the power to ease this man’s tension makes me feel like his personal superhero.

  The guys finish their last few songs and head backstage. A crowd of female groupies weave their way through the band and crew members, some draping their arms across shoulders and waists, others damn near licking their faces. I’m not entirely sure what they think they’ll accomplish. Come the next city, they’ll be well forgotten, lost in a new blur of bodies wanting favor from these guys. I fight the urge to pull them aside, one by one, and convince them to run for the hills.

  Everyone piles into Anthony’s dressing room, and he seems less than thrilled. Covered in a sheen of glossy sweat, his black T-shirt sticks to his biceps, catching my attention. As he moves, each hill and valley in his arms calls to me. By the way the other women in the room are gawking, the muscle landscape must be calling to them, too. Dolled up and thin, they look like supermodels. I tug at my top, smoothing out the edges, trying not to feel insecure as I lean against the wall in my jeans and sandals.

  Comparing myself to other women has never been foreign to me. Raised by an Iranian mother, appearances were always at the forefront of my mind. Living in a culture that judges relentlessly, how we’re perceived was directly equated to our self-worth.

  As a teenager, that translated into wearing the right clothes, always having the perfect hairdo, and being thin. Not to mention getting good grades and dating the right Iranian boys. But over time, trying to fit into some imaginary, perfect, Persian-girl box felt impossible, so I decided I wouldn’t fall victim to the unrealistic expectations placed on women of my culture. And for the most part, I’ve succeeded. But being on the road, with all the glitz and glamour, there are moments like these when I find myself feeling that familiar insecurity in the pit of my stomach. I brush it aside. I accept myself as I am.

  And honestly, I’d take sandals over heels any day.

  It takes seconds for the band to raid the alcohol table and once they’re done, they each take their seats on the couches and chairs spread out along the walls. I wait for everyone to move aside before I pour myself something.

  “Ooh, Doc, you’re joining us for the party tonight?” Carlos calls from across the room.

  “Just one drink. I’m on the clock.” I lift my glass in salute. “Remember you need to take it easy, Carlos. Doctor’s orders.”

  One groupie clings to him. “Oh baby, is something wrong?”

  I grimace. Baby? She’s barely met this guy.

  Carlos throws me a warning glance, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. I don’t keep up with the latest on TMZ or People magazine, but I know they’re trying to keep Carlos’s heart condition out of the news.

  He pulls his female companion in closer. “I’m taking it easy, don’t you worry, pretty doctor lady,” he answers, as the girl nestled beside him gazes at him longingly. He pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and I can hear her sigh even from across the room. He’s successfully distracted her from any curiosity she may have about the status of his health. And any potential stories she can sell for a buck later.

  I take note to watch what I say about his medical condition while others are present. This is just one more instance that makes me realize I’d never survive in this media-fueled, imaged-focused world they all live in. No one blames me for almost spilling the beans, but I can’t help thinking I nearly did.

  Anthony and Carlos exchange glances and a silent warning crosses the space between them. Carlos raises his water bottle, wiggling it from side to side as proof that he’s being mindful of his health.

  I check my phone. Carlos’s monitor is working now that he’s not onstage, and he’s totally fine. Many people have arrhythmias and never have any major issues. Maybe I’m just trying to find something wrong because I’ve become paranoid that I’ll miss something?

  Suddenly, Mike catches my eye. He’s leaning against the door to the dressing room, halfway in and halfway out, like he can’t decide if he’s joining the party or calling it a night. He’s staring at Carlos, and there’s an odd expression on his face. Is he sad? Angry? Both? It’s hard to tell. But when their eyes meet, Carlos straightens, casually letting his arm fall to his side. His female companion uses it as an excuse to cuddle in closer. Mike doesn’t say a word, just heads back out the door. I’m about to go check on him when Anthony appears in front of me.

  “Want to get some air?” His voice runs over me like silk on skin, smooth and tempting. When I glance up into his brilliant dark eyes, they shine back at me like the black of the night sky.

  “Sure,” I hear myself say before I even think about it. “But aren’t we leaving soon?”

  “Nah, we have a little time. It takes a while to load the equipment back onto the vans.”

  “Okay.”

  He hands me another cup filled with an elixir of his making, and takes my now empty glass, placing it on the nearest table. “The doctor needs a night off, too.” The sparkle in his gaze causes shivers to run down my spine.

  We make our way down the hall to a stairwell I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To my spot.” The ambiguity of his response has me intrigued, and I find myself following him up two flights of stairs that narrow as we go.

  The stairwell gets darker the farther up we are, the single lightbulbs spaced apart more widely. I start to wonder if this was a good idea.

  He must sense my hesitation because he says, “We’re almost there.” Then he reaches out and grabs my free hand, intertwining his fingers with mine, making my pulse race.

  What are you doing? This guy cannot make you feel this way.

  Maman’s warnings echo in my head. But before I have a chance to yank my hand away and protest this outing, running back in the direction we came, we make it to another closed door.

  Anthony lets go of my hand, leaving a longing where the heat of his fingers just were. He uses his shoulder to push his weight into the door, releasing a loud screech as it swings outward. He throws me an adorable smile, gesturing with his chin to step outside. I comply, because at this point, I’d just look silly if I turn on my heels and run.

  I’m not expecting what awaits me. We’re on the rooftop, the view of the Dallas lights twinkling in a complete circle around us. They feed up into the night sky, wrapping us in a blanket of stars. There are benches spread out every few feet with large pots of peonies and gerbera daisies strategically placed in color coordination between them. At the edge, in the far left, there are two comfy couch swings.

  “Did you do this?”

  Anthony chuckles, the deep rumble of his voice now familiar and comforting. “No. This was all here.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “I always like hiding on rooftops, so I ask the stage manager at each venue if there’s access to one. It’s quiet and peaceful. I sneak away when everyone is partying, because at that point they’re too drunk to notice. Or care.”

  I follow him over to one of the swings and we sit down. It’s small enough that my thigh is pressed against his. Despite the cool breeze, I can still feel his heat.

  “You’re different than I thought you’d be.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” He cocks his head to the side, a playful challenge in his expression.

  I clear my throat. “I think it may be a good thing.” Or a bad one, since I shouldn’t be liking you this much.

  “Tell me more,” he urges.

  No getting out of it now. “When I first met you, you were this big-time rock star. All I knew about you was what I read and the person you are up onstage. The whole bro
oding, don’t-mess-with-me guy.”

  “Wait,” he says. His grin is mischievous and I shiver. “Are you saying you Googled me, Darya?”

  “What?” I shrug. “Not everyone is a diehard fan of Anthony Castillo.”

  “Oh! So cold,” he teases. I can’t help but giggle. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, very few people know the real me. Sometimes it’s just easier to let them believe in the bad-boy exterior I’m told to be. Guess people like that shit. Plus, the tattoos don’t help.”

  “I like the tattoos,” I blurt. When his eyes widen with delight, I pray I’m not blushing. “I mean, uh, you know…they’re cool. Goes with the rock star thing.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t think I was some sort of gangster,” he says, as I take a sip of my drink. His response catches me off guard and I practically inhale the alcohol. He reaches out and pats my back while I try to catch my breath.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to say that. And just so you know, I don’t invest in stupid stereotypes. They’re usually wrong, anyway. It would be like you assuming I’m a terrorist just because I’m Muslim.”

  Now it’s his turn to choke on his drink. “Is that what people think?” he sputters.

  “You’d be surprised. Even though I’m a woman, it doesn’t keep them from stopping me at TSA. It’s either that, or someone assuming I’m related to the Kardashians.”

  He starts laughing. “That’s funny. I mean, the Kardashian part, not the TSA part. That’s wrong and it sucks.” He leans against the side of the swing and gives me a wicked smile. “You know, I could totally introduce you to them if you want me to.”

  It takes me a minute to realize he’s not joking. “You know the Kardashians?”

  “I know a lot of people.”

  I shake my head. “You’re Niloo’s dream come true.”

  His smile fades into something more…vulnerable. “What about your dreams? What would make them come true?” His voice lowers into a husky sexiness, and my breath hitches.

  “Well, if you ask Maman, she’d say marrying a nice, successful, Iranian boy would make all my dreams come true.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Then I guess she wouldn’t like me much, huh?”

  He says that as if it’s a bad thing. For him. Does he want Maman to like him? My heart is beating in my throat, heat stirring in deep, dark places, making my insides pulse with desire.

  “She wouldn’t love the tattoos,” I answer, my voice breathy with longing. My eyes trace the letters scrawled across his fingers that I can now see clearly. “Self-Made.” “Do they all mean something?”

  “Yeah, most of them do.” He’s staring at me with an intensity that makes me bold.

  “Why did you get this one?” I reach out and run the tip of my index finger across his knuckles. I let my hand rest on his as he answers.

  “My dad.” I can feel the tension heighten, and he leans forward. “I made it on my own, without his help.” He runs his tongue across his lower lip, and my body tingles.

  “And this one?” I let my hand fall to his forearm, tracing the word “Mom,” trapped in a nest of roses, thorns and all. Goose bumps rise across his flesh at my touch, and a thrill rushes through me. What are you doing, Darya?

  The voice of reason continues to warn me to turn around and head back downstairs, leaving this silly notion of Anthony behind. There’s no future here. I can’t take him home to Maman, proving to her that her fears of me touring the country with a rock star ended up just as she’d predicted. She’d never accept him, and despite being a grown woman, my upbringing requires her approval, regardless of how ridiculous it sounds. Especially now that she’s sick. But I’m enamored of the way Anthony makes me feel and I really don’t want it to stop.

  His complexity is refreshing, so many things I’d never imagined he’d be if I hadn’t gotten to know him. Sure, he’s got the cool, edgy exterior of a rock star, and he’s sexy as hell, but he’s also a loving brother and a responsible son. He’s fiercely loyal to those he loves and he’d walk through fire for them. Are we really that different?

  “This one represents my parents,” he answers. His gaze drops to my lips and I pull the lower one between my teeth to stifle the sigh threatening to undo me. “He’s the thorns and she’s trapped inside his vines.”

  My heart hurts for him with that admission, but with each explanation, my body shifts closer, until there’s barely the space of a breeze between us. My fingers trace one tattoo after the next, his fascination with me making me brave. I hang onto his words, balancing between passion and common sense. Deep, brooding thoughts are written across his body for the world to see, and I find it honest and captivating.

  “Can I kiss you, Darya?”

  My name leaves his lips and my chest bursts open with anticipation. My heart begins to race, thrumming background music to our moment. He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my cheek. Desire encourages me forward until I can no longer hear the voice of warning in my head. I’m lost in the most beautiful of possibilities.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  He closes the distance, his lips pressing into mine, causing an explosion to awaken inside me. His hand slips around my waist as he deepens the kiss, his palm moving up to the small of my back. Heat radiates from his fingertips, rays of warmth and wanting spreading across my flesh. I wrap my arms around his neck, exploring his mouth with my tongue. He tastes like fire and ecstasy. He feels like hope.

  In one fluid swoop, he pulls me onto his lap, so I’m straddling him on the swing. It sways slowly back and forth with each movement we make, hungry hands and lips trying to consume the other’s. His fingers wrap around my hair, cupping my head in a protective way. There’s no danger, no threat, but the safety in this man’s arms is like a drug surging through my blood.

  I want him. I need him.

  Suddenly, a cough comes from behind me and we both go still.

  “Uhm, boss, the vans are packed and we’re ready to head back to the hotel.” The apology in Emmanuel’s voice for the intrusion is clear as day. I immediately slide off Anthony’s lap but don’t turn around, walking over to the edge of the roof instead. I feel like a teenager caught in a boy’s room. If I don’t make eye contact, maybe he won’t know it’s me. Fat chance, but still.

  “Okay, give us a minute.”

  As quickly as the lust-fueled desire began, it escapes me, replaced by regret. Its weight crashes to the bottom of my stomach like a boulder nailing me to the ground. What am I doing?

  I hear the shuffle of Anthony’s feet then feel the graze of his fingertips as he reaches out for me. I pull away.

  “Please don’t.”

  His arm drops to his side and he steps back. A frigid breeze finds my skin, blowing away any heat from a few moments before. The soles of my sandals are thin and the cold of the concrete seeps into my bones. He doesn’t say anything, just silently waits for some explanation of my hot and cold dance. I take a deep breath to steady my nerves, and turn to face him.

  “Anthony,” I begin, but the words are lost on my tongue, forgotten in the vast ocean of his eyes. He watches me carefully, the pupils once filled with kindness transforming into hard, dark coal. He knows I think this was a mistake, even after the tenderness we shared. I want to reach out to him, to let him know it’s me, not him. There are things he can’t possibly understand, certain obligations in my life that don’t make sense to others. But how cliché would that sound right now?

  “Let’s go. Everyone is waiting.”

  He heads to the door without a word about what we did and how I’m acting like I wished it hadn’t happened. Even with the awkwardness and disappointment, he still stands aside, holding the door, and allows me to pass through before he does, his mother having brought him up well. But the silence that consumes us down the three flights of stairs is deafening. Pan
ic beats wildly through my veins the closer we get to the exit. I know that if I don’t say something to rectify the situation, the possibilities that made my heart race just minutes ago are gone to the abyss of my silence.

  “Anthony, we should talk,” I finally choke out once we make it to the bottom.

  I hear his intake of breath, impatient and forceful. He doesn’t look back at me when he says, “Darya, it’s fine. I get it.”

  This time, he lets the door swing shut behind him.

  …

  The entire drive, Anthony avoids me. He sits in the front seat, despite never doing that before, and stares quietly out the window. Confusion and doubt twist and turn in my stomach, making me sick. I think of the kiss, of pushing Anthony away, of a lost chance I know I shouldn’t even acknowledge but can’t help but miss now that it’s gone. By the time the van pulls into the hotel, I can’t figure out whether Anthony is totally right or totally wrong for me. Either way, sadness lays heavily across my shoulders as I drag myself into my room.

  I don’t attend the after-hours fun in Hugo and Mateo’s suite. I try to tell myself that it’s because we have an early morning and I need to get some sleep. We’re heading back on the road to our next venue in Kansas City. But I know I’m fooling myself. I don’t have the courage to face Anthony after the way I treated him. Not that he’d even talk to me if I wanted to explain.

  Tired of mulling over my current choices, I call Niloo, needing to hear a familiar voice. It’s late, but I’m hoping she’s up.

  “Hey.” She answers on the first ring. Her voice dulls the ache in my chest.

  “Hi.”

  “What’s going on? It’s late. Everything okay?”

  I desperately want to tell her about Anthony, to dive into the details of how his lips felt on mine and the way my body responded to his touch. How I wish I were still up on the roof, wrapped in his arms, his strong fingers pressing into my flesh as he kissed me with a fierce need I’ve never experienced before.