Page 30 of Revel
I don’t forgive.
I never forget.
But I’m sure it kills her to know I’m forgetting her.
Despite the circumstances, I can’t say I was the best boyfriend, and though I won’t admit this, there could have been reasons why Hensley chose the comfort of someone else. I’ve always been a bad seed, as my grandmother would say. It runs in my veins.
My arm is knocked, the amber liquid in my glass jolting, swirling to the brim but lacks the height to spill over the edge. I watch it. The way it rocks like the waves in the ocean before it finally settles to a vibration of the movement at the table. Still, I can’t look away from it. Each voice around me sends another low ripple through it.
“Revel?” This voice is louder, directed my way, in an attempt to get my attention. I don’t give the questioner the pleasure of my attention. Instead, I focus on the liquid again. “During last night’s show, it was Ms. Ash who followed Revved on the lineup. Given your rift with the pop star, do you think it’s wise for the tour manager to do that?”
I don’t know why the question’s directed at me, but I guess in some sense, I can. Everyone wants to know what I think of Red. Truth is, I’m pissed off she’s here because I can’t ignore her.
I look at her father in the back of the room. The one doing nothing, and saying at all.You’re a cunt.How can that motherfucker watch as the press tears down his only daughter? I’m all for riling up Red, but that’s different. It’s expected from me. This guy is supposed to be protecting her.
My thoughts scramble, my actions slow, indifferent to the involvement around me. I should answer the question. I don’t know why the question bothers me so much.
Princess clears her throat, our eyes lock again, still not unintentional. I lean toward the microphone. “I don’t really think it fucking matters what the line-up is. Do you?” The man who asked the question begins to interject, but I’m not finished. My ruthless stare lands on the man with gray hair, slicked back and trimmed carefully. Too bad he’s about to be out of a job. “She’s an entertainer. She may not be a fucking grunge rocker or motherfucking metal. Like it or not, she’s here to give the audience what they want. Whatever that is. It’s not about what genre she sings, her label, her manager.” Lazy-lidded eyes drift to the crowd before me, shocked and uneasy, then back to evergreen-wild, waiting, wide with uncertainty. “It’s about her and her audience. They’relistening. They won’t be forever.”
“Well you know,” he says, trying to defend himself, smiling at those around him, thinking he has me backed into a corner. Nobody has me. My stare lands on his, which falters under the darkness in mine. But he continues with, “Quoting you at the Grammys you said, ‘but her lyrics say absolutely nothing other than she clearly hasn’t had her cherry popped,’ one would questionwhyshe’s even on this tour.”
Rage courses inside my veins. Fuck this motherfucker. I clench my jaw and then down the drink in front of me and then reach for my cigarettes in my pocket. “Well, I changed my fucking mind.” I blink at him with a mixture of annoyance and rage, pinning him with a look that wipes the smugness from his face. “Don’t make it personal. She’s here. She’s got an audience. Who gives a fuck? It’s a line-up. Unless you motherfuckers actually have a question, I’m done.”
Are you looking at her? Do you see the expression on her face? The uncomfortable way she shifts in her seat, reaches for her water bottle as the pink-nervousness crawls up her neckline? What about the way she tucks untamed strands behind her ears in an attempt to get a better view? What about the liar beside her? Hell, every artist at this table is looking to me, wondering where the fuck that response came from.
I want to laugh at the irony of it. The predictability they had been expecting from me. Maybe that’s why I said it. I’m not even sure.
Flooded in fluorescent lights from high above, Red’s hair shines brightly, glowing like the green in her eyes. It’s like a fucking Christmas ornament flickering in my mind. Heavy on the eyes, she blinks, unprepared for my statement.
You and me both, Red.
An hour later, we’re walking out, and once again, I’m next to her. I round the corner, discretely placing my hand on the small of her back and leading her away.
“What was that about?” she whispers, her eyes darting around the room lined with concrete walls. These venues are all the same. Bare. Cold. Distant. I can relate. She’s wearing an off-shoulder green sweater. It keeps falling off and revealing her skin to me.
“Not sure,” I mutter.
She swallows. Hard. She looks like her heart is about to jump through her chest. I don’t know this for sure, obviously, but judging by the physical indications she’s giving me, it’s looking that way. “Isn’t this bad for your image, Slade?”
I smirk, reaching for my cigarettes. I light one. Then I touch her skin. It’s like touching fire with my bare hands. She watches with intensity, doe-eyed and curious. “I’ll take my chances.” I lean in, smoke blowing over her face. Backed up against a concrete wall, the coolness hits her back, and she jumps. I smile down at her. “You can’t outrun a shadow, but you can invite it to dance.” My hiss of words only for her, holding a deeper meaning than she can understand.
“Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?” Her eyes drift over my shoulder. I don’t have to turn around to know who she’s looking at. “Are you doing this to get back at Hensley?”
I’m irrational, unjustified in my revenge, illogical and nothing she needs, yet here I am. Unable to walk away from her. Yet I challenge her with, “Am I being nice?”
Red’s tiny fist rises, knocking against my chest. She demands an explanation. “Answer the question.”
I don’t want to answer her. Maybe because I don’t know the answer, or because I want to take her fist and shove her against the wall before I kiss the anger I have for her out of me. I shrug, my expression blank. “Haven’t decided yet.” A furious blush creeps into her cheeks. My chest brushes her cleavage. “Princess,” I whisper, cupping the side of her face and pressing my forehead to hers. “But if you’re testing the waters, you better know how to swim.”
The meaning behind my words crashes over her, her body shaking against mine, breathing the same air. I don’t have to know what she’s thinking—her reaction gives it away. Her mind is spinning, trying to figure out my intentions.
“I’m not a toy,” she breathes. “Not for you.”
To an extent, she’ll never understand what it is that draws the two of us together. I’m not her playmate. I’m her monster.
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” My cigarette dangles from my lips, smoke billowing through my nose, my swagger unaffected, a dry menacing rumble to my words. I could kiss her now, and there’s nothing she could, or would, do about it.
Look closely. Do you notice the blazing curiosity in her eyes? What about the harsh breathing? Shewantsme to react.
