Who cares? I shouldn’t. He’s over six feet of pure, hot, muscled male, and he’s been watching me as if he wants to do very bad things to my body.
I should let him. I can’t deny I’ve been fantasizing about licking my way down his pecs and rock-hard abs, to follow that thin treasure trail vanishing into his pants, and dive lower, touch his cock, see if it’s as big and beautiful as it appears under the cloth.
The thought makes me groan. He’s so sexy.
What possessed me to lick his finger? He tasted salty and sweet, and like Zane. I swallow hard and try desperately to focus on other things—like getting dressed for the concert. On my make-up and hair—not the image of Zane, stuck in my mind—light gilding his square jaw, his long lashes, the three hoops piercing one eyebrow.
I wonder if he has more metal elsewhere on his body. In winter, with all the thick layers of clothes, it was hard to tell, but last night, in his thin T-shirt, I thought I saw studs in his nipples. I imagine taking them into my mouth, tugging with my teeth. I imagine the sounds he’ll make, how much harder he’ll get, how he’ll fist his hands into the sheets and arch his body off the bed…
Oh God, is it suddenly too hot in here? I fan myself. Sweat beads my brow.
Slow down, Dakota. Sober up and think.
Okay, so Zane is a walking wet dream, and I want him badly. But what I want most is to break through his walls and see the real him. To crack the enigma that is Zane. I’ve been duped by appearances before—almost to my death. I think of Collin, and I shudder. I remember the hurt of his betrayal, then the fear as he pushed me, the terror of falling, the pain… And the despair that followed.
Taking a deep breath, I add the final touches to my face, grab my bag and step outside.
The bar is slowly filling. Rafe is there, checking the electronics. He glances up and nods as I pass him to go backstage. There’s a small room where we can leave our bags and stuff during the concert.
When I return, I find Luke, our lead guitarist, checking his electric guitar.
He grins at me, his green eyes lighting up. “Hey, Koko.”
“Hey. Where are Quinn and Riley?”
Quinn is the second electric guitar and vocals. Riley plays the bass. And they’re late.
“Quinn is on his way,” Luke says. “Don’t know where Riley is.”
Stress knots my stomach, as it always does before a concert. I reach over my shoulder, rub the incision scar between my shoulder blades in time-honored ritual and remind myself this isn’t worth getting scared over. What’s important is that I’m here, alive and well. Walking, for chrissakes, and not stuck in a wheelchair. I made it back to my feet, and I’m working on finding again my trust in people.
In men. I think of Zane again, and a pleasant shiver runs up my spine.
Besides, it’s not like this is a big event or anything. This is just a small bar, and we only have one hour to do our thing, but still. I need this. It’s my moment of release, where I vent my anger at the world and all the filth it harbors, the people who hurt me and got away with it. Or didn’t quite get away, but that doesn’t make them any less guilty.
Anger at my past naivety and innocence. I’m a survivor, but the price was steep and makes me wary of people, leery of their smiles and pretenses. Their facades and all that’s hiding behind.
Damn you, Collin.
“Koko? Riley’s here.”
I turn to see Riley’s slender frame at the door of the bar. He’s slouched, his bass case at his feet, and even from here I can tell he’s wasted.
Like, really wasted, not just drunk. Zane’s voice echoes in my ears, explaining the difference, and I can’t help but smile at the memory.
Riley walks unsteadily toward us, and my smile slips. This is so not good. “Heya, Koko. Luke.”
Luke ignores Riley, his face twisting into a grimace of disgust as he bends over his guitar. Riley glances from him to me, uncertainty flashing across his face. This could get ugly. I’m close to losing my temper. He’s done this way too many times, and it’s not funny.
But Quinn’s arrival defuses the situation. He swaggers in, his posture and easy grin reminding me again of Zane.
God. Lately everything reminds me of Zane. How is that even possible?
I force my mind on the concert. I warm up my voice as the guys unpack and tune their instruments. Rafe plays different rhythms on the drums, and we start rehearsing a few tricky parts. Even Riley seems to sober up enough to do this.
More people trickle in. I realize I’m searching the crowd for a tall Mohawk and groan out loud.
Stupid, Dakota. Why did you invite him, practically force him to say he’d come? He clearly has no interest in such a thing, and he isn’t coming.
I think again of how he stood at the party, alone on the shore, the water lapping at his boots. He looked as if he was about to jump into the lake.
No, not Zane. I shiver and clutch the mike harder. He’s always teasing, always grinning. He’s the cornerstone of the Brotherhood, the foundation, the protector and guardian. Everyone says so.
I shake my head, doubt buzzing at the edges of my consciousness. Zane is strong. It’s what attracts me to him. He’s a survivor, like me. He wants to make sure everyone’s okay, like me.
Laughter, voices, the clinking of glasses, shuffling of feet, screeching of barstools being shoved back and forth. I know this cacophony. It relaxes me. It’s almost time.
Delaney, the bar owner, nods at me from a corner, and it’s time to start. Rafe bangs his drums, getting everyone’s attention, then drops into the rhythm of our first song. They are all old punk rock songs, full of pure, unadulterated rage at a world gone wrong.
As I launch into the first line, my voice seems to thunder, echoing against the walls. Tension seeps out of me as I sing. It bleeds out of my pores like poison, and it feels good. The bass is a throb inside my bones, deep and constant, while the guitars scream over the destruction like birds of prey.
I yell and rage, about my past, about my bastard ex-boyfriend Collin, about myself. The harmonies fill my head, my heartbeat synchronized to the drum beat, so that I am the music. I am the song. It’s my heart beat that’s filling the bar from side to side. My anger. My pain. My indictment.
One song flows into another, the beat changing, harsher, faster. The faces in front of me blur. It’s a sea, a landscape, and I’m the wind blowing over them, blasting across the surface, raising waves.
I’m shaking when I shout out the last word, and the drums stop. The clapping starts, and the faceless crowd cries “Deathmoth!” again and again. I take a step back as the details resurface, as the world returns. The faces are unknown, but a little to the right I recognize Audrey and Asher, and behind them are Dylan, Tessa, Tyler and Erin. If Erin is here, it’s a good bet Zane is nearby. They’re good friends, after all. But I can’t see him anywhere.