Aiden doesn’t come over, eyeing the glass behind me carefully, as if he’s afraid of someone peeking in and noticing him. I tap the pen on the edge of the board after writing my name.
“I used to own all your albums,” I say, breaking the uncomfortable silence that starts settling in around us. “Herculean Effort was my favorite, for a long time.”
One of his brows arches. “Oh yeah? The way you’ve acted tonight, I assumed you weren’t a fan.”
“I’m not.”
“Ouch.”
My head snaps up, eyes wide. He’s got his hand pressed to his chest, and he’s smirking. God, that fucking smirk. I drop my gaze to the silver chain around his neck, heat flooding my face.
“I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just… I don’t know, I guess I outgrew you.”
He snorts. “You’re bad for a man’s ego.”
Pushing my tongue against my cheek, I roll my words around in my head, trying to filter out what to say next.
I want to ask about his inspiration for his songs, if there’s a reason they have mythological undertones, as if he takes the public’s references to him being a modern-day Orpheus to heart.
Want to ask if it’s hard being talented and under constant scrutiny. I can’t imagine there’s much room for creativity under a microscope.
I mull over each potential question, trying to figure out what the old me—the wannabe groupie—would want to know most.
The receptionist returns before I can continue, taking the clipboard from me and holding out a manicured hand.
“License?” she asks after I’ve spent more than a few seconds gaping at the length of her glittery black nails.
How she gets anything done with those claws is beyond me.
Slipping the card from my purse, I place it in the center of her palm and hook a thumb in Aiden’s direction. “Can you make sure he doesn’t see that?”
Her dark eyes narrow, sliding from me to him. “Why?”
“I don’t want him to know my name.”
Aiden laughs, the sound loud as it echoes off the cement walls. The receptionist frowns, curling her fingers around my license, and looks back at me. “This feels illegal.”
Gio, a tall, burly man with a braided red beard and a silver bar through the bridge of his nose, returns to the front of the shop with stencils and a clear spray bottle. He steps into one of the cubicles and starts rustling around, though I can’t see what exactly he’s doing.
“It’s not illegal, Jenna.” Aiden rolls his shoulders, and I hate the way he says her name. “Just a little game we’re playing.”
Twin storms rake down over my form, traveling so slow on their ascent that it feels like a caress. My breath catches in my throat as he pauses at my lips, reaching up to scrub his jaw with the side of one hand.
Never in my life have I wanted so badly to touch another person. To be touched by them.
The longer we stand here, stuck in some sort of impasse, the heavier that want gets. It presses down on my stomach, flattening my insides until want morphs into need, and I’m tempted to launch myself across the room and into his arms.
I have no clue if he’d catch me, but it doesn’t matter, because before I have a chance, Gio calls his name and gestures for him to enter the cubicle. A few moments later, that buzzing sound from before picks up, and I clench my jaw.
The receptionist watches me while she photocopies my license, and I shift in my seat, her stare unnerving. She walks back over, handing me the card, and tilts her head.
“Whatever this is,” she says in a low voice, just for me. “It’s not going to end well.”
Slipping my license back into my purse, a wave of unease washes over me, flushing out any good feelings I’ve had about tonight.
There’s truth in her words, but I don’t want to acknowledge them.
So, instead, I sit back down on the bench, slump down against the window, and wait. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I try not to feel too disappointed when I see there are still no messages or calls from my “friends.”
Then again, I’m not sure what I expected. Outside of school, we don’t really interact, and the only reason I roomed with them for the trip was because I had to.
Still, a little concern would be nice. Especially since they’d have to report to the chaperones in the morning, not to mention the police, if I was really missing.
Snapping a picture of the artwork hanging on the wall behind the mahogany desk, I send it to my brother’s girlfriend, unsure if she’s even awake right now.
I wince when the little bubbles pop up, indicating her reply. Awake, and probably getting reacquainted with Boyd after days apart.
Fiona: He’s gonna kill you.
Grinning, I swipe out of the app and switch over to social media, scrolling through the boring posts of the people back home. For a town living under the thumb of organized crime, the people there sure don’t have a lot going on.
Glancing up, I see Aiden’s dark head of hair over the cubicle wall. The buzzing continues on, echoing ominously in my ears as I pull up the hashtag with his name, filtering through thousands of tagged photos for the first time in years.
Jealousy stabs at my chest as I soak in the pictures of him and Sylvie Michaels, with her dark hair, tan skin, and almond-shaped eyes. She looks almost regal standing next to him on red carpet after red carpet, and my self-esteem rattles inside its empty cage.
Once again, I have no idea why he’s spent the night with me, but I suppose that doesn’t much matter now.
The night’s almost over, anyway.
Farther down, there are tons of concert photos; him posing with a black electric guitar on stage, sometimes crowd-surfing or holding the mic to the audience. Bright lights and laser shows obscure the pictures, making him little more than a silhouette performing for people.
I’m so engrossed in my findings that I don’t hear anyone approach me. A shadow falls over my form, and my muscles seize as I jolt upright, nearly dropping my phone in the process.
“Jesus.” I exhale a shaky breath, my shoes slapping onto the floor as I lock my screen. “You can’t sneak up on people like that.”