“You know I’d never do that to you, right?”
“How do you know?” I ask, and when he just stares at me like he’s not sure what I’m asking, I say, “The band is getting huge, Joel. You have girls throwing themselves at you every time you perform.”
“They aren’t you,” he says simply.
“What happens when you get tired of me?”
“Not going to happen.”
“But how do you know?”
He studies his fingers as they gently tuck my hair behind my ear, and I study his face as he touches me. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted to draw,” he says, his gaze coming to settle on mine. “You’re the only girl I’ve ever wanted to date. To live with. You’re the only one with a dad I wanted to meet. You’re the only one I’ve wanted to fall asleep with and wake up next to. A lot of girls came before you, Dee . . . a lot of girls . . . but you’re the only one. I know it’ll always be you because it’s only ever been you.”
I close my eyes to prevent the tears from falling, and Joel leans forward to plant a tender kiss against my brow.
“I mean it when I say I love you,” he says.
“I know.”
“How I feel isn’t going to change.” I open my eyes, and he brushes his thumb across the wet apple of my cheek.
“Do you promise?”
“I’m promising it every time I say those three words,” he says. A moment passes, and then he says them. “I love you, Dee.”
A soft smile touches my lips, and still lost in those deep blue eyes—which hold the secrets of my own heart—I make a promise back. “I love you too.”
Epilogue
Joel
ONSTAGE, THERE ARE different levels of multitasking. There’s Adam, who belts out lyrics while working the crowd. There’s Mike, who pounds at the drums with his hands and the pedals with his feet. There are Shawn and Kit, who pretend to be focused on the performance instead of each other—whatever that’s about. And there’s me, trying to keep the beat while Dee is standing offstage in a tiny black skirt that I swear to God is riding higher and higher every time I look her way.
Between songs, I reach behind my guitar to shift myself inside my jeans, knowing it’s a lost cause. She gives me a little smirk, and my answering groan is lost to the screams of the crowd.
Mike’s drumsticks start the next song, and I turn my attention back to the pit. Adam has it fired up tonight, and the waves are rolling in a storm that makes my skin hum. Under the searing blue and green lights, my T-shirt is clinging to the sheen of sweat on my skin and my blood is boiling hot. My bass pours through Mayhem’s massive speakers, and my entire body bounces with the beat. The girls who aren’t focused on Adam or Shawn scream lyrics at me, reaching with braceleted arms and desperate fingers. A pair of panties flies in my direction, but I take a step back to let them fall to the stage. I turn a smile on Dee, who, with her arms crossed and a grin on her face, shakes her head at me.
I turn back toward the crowd, knocked completely off my game. My fingers play on auto even though what I’m really thinking about is why the hell Dee just stood there shaking her head instead of tossing her panties at me. For the past couple weeks, we’ve played a little game: if I catch her panties when she throws them, I get a reward. If I don’t, she gets one. Either way, I’m the luckiest fucking guy I know. Half the time, I’ve let them fall at my feet just so I have an excuse to taste her.
“Why didn’t you throw your panties onstage?” I ask in her ear as soon as our first “last song” ends. The crowd is chanting for “one more song” over and over again, but the guys are busy chugging down water and taking a much needed break from the lights. Dee tugs on my damp sleeve so she can answer in my ear.
“I’m not wearing any,” she says, and my hand instantly slides over the curve of her ass. No panty lines. Christ. Unable to keep my lips off her any longer, I kiss the salt on the curve her neck and begin dipping my fingers under the waistband of her skirt to check for the strap of a thong or a g-string in case she’s only teasing.
“Last song, man,” Shawn says, smacking me on the shoulder before taking the stage.