And memories of the past.”
In the church chamber, the wailing of the guitars soared overhead, while the pounding of the drums coursed through the floor. The highest notes, like those of a choir, seemed to linger long after the next chord was strummed. And Crow’s voice cut through it all—forceful and passionate, like a preacher giving a sermon.
She’d been spending time with Crow for a month or so, and she’d always known he was a good musician—his videos only proved that over and over again. But here, in the old church, Em was blown away by his talent. She grew warm thinking of the afternoon she’d gotten into his car to escape a harsh winter rain storm . . . the song he’d played for her . . . the way he’d slipped off his shirt for her to wear . . . the way his lips had brushed against her jaw . . .
It was crazy—she almost felt like Crow was singing right to her, stirring up emotions that she’d tried to ignore. And his words, they were so real. Like he could somehow see inside her head, like he knew her secrets. Like he knew what she’d come here to tell him. Like this was her confessional, her moment to ask for forgiveness.
Somehow, Crow’s song made her feel less alone. She wasn’t the only one caught up in this mess. She had the uncanny sense that Crow was part of it too.
With a burst of feedback from the monitors, The Slump’s set came to a close. There was loud applause, and as the crowd broke apart, with most people making a rush for the bar, Em watched as Crow jumped easily down from the stage and walked straight in her direction. So. He had seen her in the crowd. She’d wondered. There had been a moment when their eyes had met, and it was as though an electric current had run straight through her. . . .
She shook out her shoulders, slung on her black blazer, and reminded herself why she’d come here: for answers.
Then he was standing next to her—very close. She resumed her pose against the wall, feeling her shoulder blades against the brick behind her.
“You know this isn’t a real church, right, angel?” He put his hand on the wall above her head and looked down into Em’s eyes. There was a sheen of sweat along his hairline and he smelled like fire.
She felt her knees buckle ever so slightly but managed to swoop sideways and out from under his arm. “I had to leave my halo at the door,” she said. “Beautiful set.”
For a second, she saw a real flash of pleasure in his face, lighting up his greenish eyes, turning them temporarily golden. Then he shrugged. “Just a few things we’re playing around with,” he said nonchalantly. There was whiskey on his breath.
“Well, it was good,” Em said firmly. Crow smirked and she added, “But I didn’t just come to hear you play. We need to talk.” She looked around at all the people still milling around the club, waiting for the next band. There it was again—the feeling of being watched.
“I’m gonna need another drink if we’re going to get all serious,” he said, turning and striding toward the bar without waiting for her to respond.
She trailed after him, watching girls lower their eyelids flirtatiously as he passed by. He was oblivious.
“I’ll have a another,” Crow said just a little too loudly when he got to the bar. “And a PBR chaser. And whatever she’s having.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder in Em’s direction.
“Just a seltzer, please,” she said. “Are you using one of your fake IDs?” she added under her breath.
“Like I need it,” Crow shrugged. “I’m a regular.” When his drink arrived, two inches of brown liquid with one lonely ice cube, he slammed half of it in one sip and followed that with a swig of beer. So much for asking him for a ride home. He stared at her, daring her to pass judgment.
“Can we find somewhere to talk?” she asked, looking around the bar to avoid his gaze. His eyes were so intense—as though he could see directly into her.
And maybe he could. She trusted him. She really did, despite what everyone said. She realized she knew virtually nothing about him except that he’d dropped out of high school . . . or been kicked out, depending on who you asked. But when she heard his music there was an understanding there, an honesty that just felt right. Plus he just couldn’t have made up what Drea said out of spite or sketchiness. She couldn’t make herself believe that.
“How about over there,” he said, pointing to a small wooden love seat in a corner dimly lit by a glowing tea light.
Once they sat down and Em had arranged it so her knees weren’t touching his, she forced herself to ask the question that had been burning inside of her all day. “Do you think it’s true? What Drea said?” Was it her, or did every candle in the place flicker at the exact same time, like a gust of wind was passing through?
There was silence as Crow studied his beer can. Em could feel the ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom of bass drums through her feet.