It was strange calling a cab to my apartment later that night instead of pressing the buzzer for a chauffeur. It was stranger still to meet them at the rear of the complex, not risking security catching me on my way out and alerting my mom to my disappearance.
I settled down into the backseat and tugged my gloves up higher on my arms. My eyeliner was a sweeping black, giving me an emo goth look at total odds to the woman I was. I liked it.
“Cyrus Bar,” the cab driver said as we pulled up outside.
The line of people on the sidewalk by the main doors was about as opposite to events in Bishop’s Landing as you could possibly get. Rocker types in messy, torn t-shirts, black lace, and boots. I guess this Blue Hawk guy attracted quite a weirdo fan base.
I tottered down the line on stilettos, and Tristan was waiting for me there, right by the main doors. He looked seriously damn good. Tight black jeans with a leather jacket over a fitted black tee, and his mahogany hair swept back from his forehead like a guy from the 70s. If Blue Hawk was in any way still wobbling over his sexuality status, then seeing Tristan Fields tonight would surely seal the deal.
He whistled when he saw me. “Hell, baby. You sure look fucking good.”
I gave him a twirl and grinned, because I felt it to match. I felt really fucking good. It was a sensation I wasn’t all that used to.
I stayed quiet as Tristan waved us through security and past the entrance desk. Hell knows what he’d listed me as, but it sure wasn’t Elaine Constantine. They barely even looked my way as I stepped on by.
I could already hear the warm up band’s bass as we climbed the stairs, thumping right through the floor. Loud. It was loud. Loud and wild.
Wild and free.
Tristan took my hand and we stepped through to the main stage area, and it was intimate, just like he’d said it would be. There was a huddle of people on the dancefloor moving along to the music, and another huddle gathering at the bar, ordering drinks. We pushed our way through to join them, holding back in the crowd. That in itself was a novelty.
The Constantines never had to wait for anything, ever. I walked straight through a line wherever I saw one. Again, I weirdly liked having to be patient without people nudging and staring at me wherever I went.
“What do you want to drink?” Tristan asked, right into my ear over the bass.
“Champagne,” I said, and he pulled a face at me.
“Champagne doesn’t really work in this place. How about a beer?”
I shrugged at him. “Sure, yeah. A beer. Whatever. Just make sure it’s got alcohol in it. I want to get trashed.”
I heard his sigh, even over the music. “You always want to get trashed, Lainey. Maybe one day you’ll break the mould and try having fun sober.”
Even amongst the weirdness, I never believed life would ever get that weird. Sober and I didn’t really work well together. Even the thought made me churn inside.
The music had swept me up in its grip by the time we made it to the front of the bar. The guitar was thrashing loud, and I could feel it, right the way through me. The guy’s vocals were savage, but filled with so much passion I couldn’t ignore it. I stared at him as Tristan ordered the drinks, and my heart did a strange flip as I saw how dark his features were – especially under the spotlights. He was tall, and broad, and his eyes were fierce. Deep, like burning ashes. His jaw was firm, and even though he looked like some kind of heavy metal pinup, there was something about him that excited me.
I took the beer from Tristan with a thanks, but still I couldn’t stop looking at the singer for the warm-up act. Tristan noticed my interest as we made it to the edge of the dancefloor and gave me a nudge.
“Blue knows him, the singer. He told me.”
“Yeah? He’s got quite a voice.”
“Quite a body, too.” He paused. “His name is Stephen. He’s from the UK. London.”
I could imagine his accent, and it gave me shivers and chills. That’s when it hit me – just where the fixation was coming from.
It was coming from Lucian Morelli. He reminded me of Lucian Morelli.
His darkness. His strength. His fierce eyes.
The rawness of Stephen’s voice reminded me of the malice in Lucian’s, just enough to make my tummy flutter, and the thought of his British accent was enough to make me tremble.
Yeah. This was about Lucian Morelli.
Tristan nudged me again. “You could talk to hot-guy-Stephen after the gig, maybe? I mean, you can’t touch him, but you can have a good time imagining it.”
I flashed him a scowl. “Yeah, don’t need to keep rubbing it in. I can’t touch him. Fuck life, and fuck my fucking family.”
He looked around us, and I saw the fear in his eyes. “Just as well there’s none of your crowd in here to hear you say that shit.”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I wouldn’t care if they were. I could give them the middle finger before they made me pay for my sins.”
Hot-guy-Stephen started up another track, and I felt a wave of tears pricking. I choked them down, because I hated them. I hated ever having to cry.
If only people knew . . . if only people knew just how much I was suffering like a bad girl, just by trying to be good.
But nobody knew that. Nobody but my mother. My mother and the Power brothers, who were chasing me down for my black-market debts – most of them not even mine.
Luckily, coke and alcohol were friends enough to blank the whole sorry mess from my mind. Speaking of. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I
