I glanced back at him and he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I inhaled and shifted away slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I was always fascinated when I watched you perform,” he confessed and my breath caught. “You’d start out all prim and proper, so dignified in those long, flowy dresses you wear on stage, your back straight, chest forward. Then you’d start to play and you’d slowly unravel. By the end of one song your hair would fall from its clip, by then end of the next, the straps of your dress would be loose at your shoulders. You were so real. You fucking slayed me. You mesmerised everyone and that’s because you were so unaware.”
I had no words, no idea how to respond. I never expected him to say something like that, not with the low rumble of the engine and the chatter of other passengers surrounding us.
“Are you trying to butter me up? Am I going to be sleeping in the broom closet instead of sharing with Leanne when we arrive in Brussels?” I asked, needing to break the intensity of the moment, the honesty of it. He was making me feel too many things.
He smiled, seeming to guess I was embarrassed, and shot back, “Nah, but I might need you to wash my underwear as part of your PA duties.”
I cocked a brow. “Only your underwear? How very specific.”
“I’ll get Neil to do my clothes, but I thought I’d save the honour of my dirty jocks for you,” he said and winked.
“Delightful,” I chuckled.
“How about this, if you do mine I’ll do yours.”
“Oh, romantic.”
“Only for you, Reyrey,” he said, using my old pet name. It was the first time he’d used it in over two years and I felt . . . conflicted. Although, it was going to happen eventually the more time we spent together.
I took a moment to look out the window as the world whizzed by. In two hours we’d be in another country. I’d be in a strange place and Trevor would be the only familiar thing. I needed to prepare, needed to steel myself. Trev Cross was like honey. I was naturally drawn to his sweetness, but was wary to get too close. We needed to stay friends. I wanted him in my life as a friend, because everything else aside, I had missed him. But I was wiser now. I’d been scarred before by his neglect.
I wouldn’t melt for his charms like I always used to . . .
Seven.
Past.
Saturday gigs paid the best money, but I hadn’t wanted to play tonight. I’d been two seconds away from cancelling when I forced myself to get a grip. Trev was just busy. That was the reason I hadn’t heard from him all week. That had to be the reason.
I brushed some powder over my cheeks, lined my eyes heavily with black, and donned a long purple dress. It was sleeveless but draped nicely over my hips, covering those parts I was always so conscious of. Was that why Trev wasn’t calling? Had seeing me naked turned him off?
No, that couldn’t be it. If it was, then he wouldn’t have been so . . . verbal in expressing his pleasure.
The club’s MC announced my set and I walked out onto the stage, a black veil over my face, my stage name “Queenie” scrawled along my left arm in gold sharpie. I wondered vaguely if it would be hard to scrub off. The crowd cheered, albeit drunkenly, and I took a seat at my keyboard. I carefully drew the veil back and started to play.
It always took me a few songs to get comfortable. But then, when that perfect moment hit, where I was one with my voice and my instrument, I felt like I was soaring, gliding through air. I started the final song of my set, a new one I’d penned just a few days ago. It was called “Completely Incomplete.”
My hand without fingers
My song without words
This is what it feels like when you’re not in my world
Com-com-com-completely incomplete
My eyes without vision
My voice without sound
This what I become when you’re not around
Com-com-com-completely incomplete
The upbeat piano ditty was at odds with my mournful lyrics. A chill fell over me and I opened my eyes. There in the middle of the crowd stood Trev. His bright blue gaze caught the light and glowed. He was half demon, half angel. Everything I ever wanted but never took. I pounded the keys with more force, sweat trickled down the middle of my spine, and a dull ache swelled inside me.
His presence made me forget how much it hurt when he didn’t call. He made me forget everything that came before. All I felt was the moment, whittled down to one single emotion.
Want.
It was a base instinct, one I couldn’t control. I finished my set and stood as the crowd whistled and clapped. When I entered the backstage area and stumbled into my tiny dressing room, I felt drunk, even though I hadn’t taken a drop of alcohol. Foggy headed. There was an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, like the devil beckoning me with the promise of everlasting pleasure, urging me to take his hand.
I felt Trev get nearer, some sixth sense knew he was coming, then he pulled back the curtain separating the tiny nook of a dressing room from the corridor. My fingers shook as I lifted a makeup wipe to clean my face. My eyes went to him, but I didn’t speak.
“Hey,” he breathed. His hair was messy and his clothes rumpled. There were bags under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
“Rough day?” I asked, quiet, subdued, while on the inside I was edgy, skittish, tense.
He stepped past the curtain and pulled it over, shrouding us in a cloak of false privacy. You could still hear the noise of the club, still hear the footsteps going to and fro. I watched as he ran a hand down his face and exhaled heavily. He came and sat on the edge of the dressing table.
“Rough week,” he answered, his attention wandering over my face and down to my cleavage. A twinge of desire flittered through me like feathery wings beating in my belly.
“Want to talk about it?”
His expression softened and I was gifted with a rare moment of the real Trev, the one who had fears and hopes and dreams. “Not really.”
“Okay.”
He sighed. “It’s just, the TV people don’t think the show is going to be strong enough with only three of us. They want to audition others. Callum’s been up in arms about it.” He paused and rolled his eyes. “You know how delicate his ego can be. I don’t care about sharing the spotlight, I just don’t want other people coming in and taking a cut of the money. James is trying to be diplomatic about it, but I know he’s quietly pissed, too.”
I wasn’t surprised that Trev cared more about the money than the spotlight, even though most people would’ve thought it was the opposite. He’d been so poor as a kid that money meant more to him than material things. It meant safety, security. It meant not being at the mercy of another person ever again.