Briar’s voice is dreamy and lush at the same time. All eyes are on her. I support her on vocals and on lead guitar. We’ve got something special, even if we aren’t some big—or let’s face it, small—rock band.
Playing music is the way I feel alive these days, the most like myself. Something like happy amid everything else. On stage, I’m free from all the stresses of everyday life. For most of an hour, there’s no worries about my tuition, or money, or Carys a country away. It’s bliss, and I’ll play every minute I can get.
After we leave the stage to a roar of cheers from the crowd, I join Jackson and Briar for one drink at the bar, buoyed by our set.
Finally, I have a chance to breathe. This is the last gig before the holidays. We’ve been burning the candles at all ends. Especially me.
We clink our pints and drink. They lose themselves in each other, which doesn’t help the conversation. They’re kind of disgustingly sweet, even after two years together. He’s a bear of man, as fierce on drums as Briar is ethereal in her singing and performance.
I should have broughtWuthering Heightsfrom the greenroom to the bar.
Instead, I stand there looking longingly into my pint, trying to remember the last time someone looked at me like Jackson looks at Briar. Or like Aubrey looks at Blake. I swear it’s been so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like.
Don’t even think about that.
Someone puts a pint down next to mine, as if on cue. I glance over.
A bright-eyed man smiles at me. He looks very wholesome, a boy-next-door type. Possible vacuum salesman. “You were great up there.”
Unused to the compliment, I fidget with my pint, turning the glass in my hands on the bar. “Uh, thanks. It’s not just me up there, though.”
Taking compliments is definitely not my strong suit.
“Your band was great,” he corrects. Still smiling. Admittedly, he’s kind of attractive. He’s a few years older than me, in a smart suit too formal for tonight’s party. He’s close, leaning in, like he’s interested in more conversation.
Shit.
“Uh, thanks,” I say again. “I’m glad we could play this…event. Are you a designer, or, um, artist? For whatever this is tonight?”
“Fundraiser for the Queer Art Society,” he says smoothly. “And the answer is none of the above.”
“I suppose zero out of two isn’t very good, is it?” I consider him. Not really my type—he’s too clean-cut.
Even so, if I wasn’t so damn tired, I’d be up for a night’s fling, which nicely dodges the dating ban, but I can’t even manage credible banter. Hell, if we even tried to hook up, I’d probably fall asleep in the middle of everything. Some hookup.
And that’s about when I remember Ben Campbell looking far too delicious in the café earlier. Talk about temptation on legs. I’d stay awake for him.
“I’ll help you out. I’m in communications,” says the man. “For an art charity.”
“Right. Thanks.” That explains the too-slick suit and tie he’s wearing.
“Can I get you a drink? My name’s François.”
“I probably shouldn’t. I need to get back to Heathcliff.”
He blinks. “Your boyfriend?”
“Something like that,” I say apologetically. “It’s a bit complicated. His estate. My lack of one. My mother’s beside herself.”
That last bit at least is true.
God, Charlie, you’re hopeless. Though I can’t just say I don’t date. That always leads to an awkward conversation.
“It’s a shame Heathcliff is so…demanding.” I do my best to give an apologetic shrug, swirling the last of my lager in the glass. It’s not exactly a lie.
“Good luck with that,” he says.
“I’m gonna need it, believe me.” I down my drink and set the glass down with some finality, and straighten, still holding the glass. I’m about to make excuses to leave.
