Page 43 of Revel
Laughter breaks out between the band. Revel’s no longer in sight, and I’m left wondering what to do next. Had I made him that upset over suggesting we do a song together? Did he think I was using him?
Holy hell, this hurts. I mean, I knew this was a possibility, him saying no, but I didn’t realize how badly the denial would feel. Maybe I let myself believe he was letting me in and thinking of me as an equal, not someone incapable of sharing the stage with him. Maybe because he’s right. I don’t deserve to.
Drawing in a shaky breath, I stand from the chair, my emotions all over the place. Feeling heat rising up my throat, spreading across my cheeks, I say nothing when I leave the room, the large glass door snapping closed behind me. I walk about fifteen feet, intending on finding Bella so we can discuss the setlist tonight with the band when I’m yanked to the side and into a dark corner which happens to be the men’s bathroom.
Frantically searching for the source, my eyes land on him.
Revel pushes me against the wall and locks the door beside me. Holy crap. Is he going to murder me for suggesting a duet? I stare back at lifeless blue and the blackness that seems to overtake them. Is he high? Drunk? I can’t tell.
“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of my mouth, because I don’t know what else to say. I put him on the spot in front of his band and manager.
He doesn’t reply.
“I uh. . . .” Feeling hot tears behind my eyes, I squeeze my eyes shut and lose the courage to say anything else. What really do I have to be sorry for? Besides putting him on the spot. I don’t regret suggesting the duet though.
“Why?” he asks, though he seems to hesitate slightly.
“Why what?”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because. I should have gone to you first.”
I turn away from him, but he grabs my arm and pulls me toward him before I can reach for the door. His palm against my skin is warm, a reminder he’s actually human, sometimes.
I turn my face away from his, trying to breathe. Being this close to him, he smells like cinnamon and cigarettes. I don’t like the smell of the smoke, but it’s another reminder of him, and I’m beginning to crave the unique scent of him.
“Hey,” he says, putting pressure on my cheek. “Look at me.”
I look up at him, unsure of the expression I’m going to be met with.
“Look,” he begins, his voice softer than I’ve heard before, a hint of southern roots finding its way into his tenor. He exhales through his nose, his gaze dropping to the floor. His body stiffens, and he lets go of me, running a hand down his jaw in frustration. “Why do you want to do a song together?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I think because I like the way we sound together. I mean, I saw the video of the other night,” I tease, attempting to draw some humor from our situation. “Wekilledthat Garth Brooks song.”
His eyes soften, the glare giving way, and I want to keep joking with him, pulling back the layers of his hard exterior to see what he’s really like. And then his eyes narrow, the softness gone. “What’s in it for me?”
“I. . . uh. . . . ” Holy crap. Tension fills the air between us. Did he want me to have sex with him in exchange for us doing a song together? Is that how this worked? I know I’ve been sheltered in this world, but Jesus, I had no idea business could work like this. Or does it?
He stares at me for a beat, and though I can see so much emotion in his eyes, I don’t know what any of it means. He steps closer, his intimidation nearly blinding. I watch as he swallows, his eyes locked on mine. “What’s. In. It. For. Me?”
I clear my throat and take in a big breath of air only to say exactly what I don’t mean. “I’m not having sex with you!” I blurt, my cheeks so hot they might as well be the same color as my hair. Truth is, I’d have sex with him despite the song. There, I said it.
To my surprise, Revel laughs. “Princess, when we do, and we will, eventually, you’ll be begging me for it, and there certainly won’t be any conditions attached to it. So I’ll ask you one more time, what’s in it for me?”
“I. . . honestly don’t know.” It’s the truth. I don’t.
He seems to consider that. “Okay, I’ll do it, but it’s never to be recorded under your label. I’ll have my manager do up a contract, and we will both sign it.”
At first, I don’t know how to respond, or how I feel about it. Never to be recorded under my label. . . what does that mean? “Why not my label?”
He licks his bottom lip, his focus on a spot behind my head. “I don’t want your dad to be any part of this.”
Well, there it is. I can read between the lines and deep down, I know why he doesn’t trust my dad. “So that’s why you said no back there?”
His head dips in confirmation, but no words follow.
“What about your band? Will they agree? Do you want them to be a part of it?” I’m digging here. I want to know if he thinks I’m worthy.
