23. James
Chapter 23
James
A pril follows me backstage, and I gesture towards a chair in the corner, offering for her to sit while I pack up.
“So, how did you enjoy the show?” I ask, bending down to wind up my cables.
“It was amazing. Everyone was having so much fun. You were so great out there,” she says.
“Thanks,” I respond, my voice gruff, and she nods.
God, she’s stunning.
Those tight jeans make her legs look endless. Her silk shirt hugs her in all the right places, dipping in at her waist to show off those killer curves. She always looks incredible, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her tonight. Every step she took, every glance she threw my way, pulled me deeper under her spell. I haven’t seen that side of April in a long time, careless and free, and I can’t help but want to see more of it. I feel a little smug knowing I was the person playing the music that made her body move and sway.
And it was me she was stealing glances at.
They were my eyes she sought out across the room, and it sent sparks straight through me. It was impossible not to feel a surge of pride knowing I played a part in her happiness tonight.
I carefully place the rolled-up cables in a tub alongside the power boards and my pedals, making sure everything is organised. Then, I throw the covers over my amp and speaker box, securing them for the trip home. Finally, I slide my bass back into her case, clicking it shut.
I stand and rub the back of my neck. “So, are you staying a little longer?” I ask. I’m fucking exhausted. I always am after a gig, and I could really use a shower, but if she decides to stay, I could hang around a while longer.
Anything to be near her.
“I don’t think so. I’m a little tired after a long week,” she says.
“Ah. Well, thanks for making the trip. How’s Basil going?”
“He’s great! Honestly, I don’t know what I would have done without him and my girlfriends these past few months. They’ve been a wonderful distraction.”
A distraction .
From my piece-of-shit brother.
She stands and approaches my equipment, peering into the tub of cables.
“You lug this stuff around with you every time you gig?” she asks.
“Yeah, you get used to it after a while. It becomes second nature—the more you do it, the quicker it is to pack up at the end.”
I watch as she circles the room, her forefinger trailing lightly over my amp, speaker, and guitar case.
There’s something about the way she touches my gear that I like.
She stops in front of my guitar case, thumbing the latches before lifting her gaze to mine. “May I?” she asks.
I raise my eyebrows. “Go for it.”
Her whole face lights up—not just a polite grin, no. It’s a full, beaming smile that catches me off guard. I watch as she clicks the latches, swings the lid open, and lifts my bass, sliding the strap over her shoulder.
“This thing is heavier than it looks,” she says, her fingers brushing lightly over the strings. I slip my hands into my pockets, watching her with intrigue.
Honestly, I could watch her all bloody night.
“How’s practice been this week?” She glances up at me.
“It’s been good. We’re getting there,” I reply.
“Well, if you play anything like you did tonight, they’ll love you,” she says, looking at me with a sincere expression.
Her sparkling eyes hold mine. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, her voice soft.
There’s a pause as we watch each other, and I want to reach out and touch her more than ever. But then, the audition, the possibility of landing the gig, and the reality that I’d be away for seven months of the year all come rushing to mind, and I stop myself.
“So,” she says, breaking the stillness, “how old were you when you started playing?” Her fingers fumble over the strings. The notes are scattered, but I can’t help the twitch tugging at my mouth as I watch her. There’s something endearing about the way her fingers glide up and down the neck, pressing on the frets as if she’s trying to figure it out by feel alone.
“I was twelve when my dad gave me my first guitar—an old Yamaha acoustic. I begged for a guitar for the longest time. We didn’t have much money growing up, so I never expected it. But that Christmas, I came downstairs and spotted a guitar case poking out from under the tree. I couldn’t believe it. I remember skipping the last two steps and rushing over to open it. It was the best gift I’ve ever received.” I shrug. “From that moment on, I was hooked. I spent hours learning to play. I played until my fingers were raw, but I didn’t care. It was everything to me. Years later, I picked up the bass.”
I reach out, wrapping my hand around hers. “Here,” I say, gently pressing her finger down on the fret. “Hold your finger there.” Then I guide her other hand, trailing it down the fretboard. Still holding her hand, I move her fingers to demonstrate a walking bass line. I let go and begin to step away, noticing the way she watches me.
“I’m doing it,” she says, looking up at me excitedly—and my heart almost bursts out of my chest.
I return her smile. “You’re a pro.”
She plays around, moving her hand up and down the neck of the bass, trying out different notes. “God, this hurts my fingers. How do you play for so long?”
“I mainly use my pick, but you do get used to it after a while.” I shrug.
“Ouch.” She drops the neck, inspecting her finger. Without thinking, I step forward and take her hand in mine, examining it closely.
“Does it burn?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says.
Our eyes meet, and, without thought, I lift her hand to my mouth, gently sucking her finger and soothing it with my tongue. Her lips part slightly, and she sucks in a breath, but she doesn’t pull away. I know this is entirely inappropriate, but at this point, I can’t bring myself to care.
Her lashes flutter, and I slowly remove her finger from my mouth. She rubs the glistening tip with her thumb, her focus on me unwavering.
I lower my voice. “Better?”
She swallows. “Much.”
Instinctively, she moves closer, dissolving the space between us, and the guitar presses into my stomach. I tentatively reach out brush the exposed column of her elegant neck, and she takes it as an invitation to rise onto her toes.
Fuck.
I know I’m treading a dangerous line with her, but I can’t pull away now—not when I’m this close to her. She’s temptation, and I can’t resist.
I lower my head to meet hers and thread my fingers gently through her hair, tilting her head at just the right angle. She exhales softly, closing her eyes as I lean in. Her sweet gloss brushes against my lips when the door suddenly flies open, shattering the moment.
The heat evaporates like morning mist.
I drop my hand and turn towards the intruder with a jolt.
Tom stands in the doorway wearing a shit-eating grin. My pulse rages and bubbles to the surface, threatening to spill over and scorch everything in its path.
“Bloody hell, Tom. What is it?” I ask, irritated.
“Sorry, mate,” he says, wincing. “Oliver’s nearly done loading his drums into the van. I was going to offer a hand with your gear, but I’ll … come back later,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder.
“It’s fine, Tom,” April says, glancing at me. “I’ll leave you to finish packing up. You’ve had a long night.”
She swiftly removes the strap and hands me the guitar, which I place back in its case. She presses a quick kiss to my cheek, leaving a glossy mark, before heading out.
I shoot Tom a murderous glare.
He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms and leaning against the door-frame. “Interrupting something, was I?”
Smart-ass.
“If you want to help”—I lean down and grab my tub, walking over to Tom and shoving it into his arms with more force than necessary—“you can start with this,” I say.