36. Tatum
36
TATUM
A fter going to the bathroom, I wash my hands, then head back outside, finding Paxton leaning against the edge of the open doors leading outside. My breath catches in my lungs as the moonlight shines around him, making him look even more like a Greek god than he normally does.
Forcing my feet to move, I walk toward him. “Hey, is the concert over?”
He nods. “Yeah. We’re just chillin’.”
“Awesome.”
“So, what’d you think?” he prods, reminding me of a shy little boy in need of approval. It only makes me fall for him more.
“What did I think?” I fold my arms to try to focus on the concert part and not his thoughtfulness behind it. “I can’t believe you convinced Doomsday to come play.”
“I owed you an introduction, remember?”
I nod. “Well, yeah. But still, that was insane.”
“Just wait ‘til you meet him.” Pax offers me his hand, and I stare at it, surprised by the memory it sparks and how hard it hits out of nowhere.
“I hate ice skating,” I mutter.
“Aw, but you’re so good at it,” my mom gushes.
“No, I’m not. Ophelia’s ? —”
“Don’t compare yourself.” She reaches down and adjusts the fluffy pink hat on my head. “You are you, and Lia is Lia, remember?”
I look down at Lia’s hand-me-down skates covering my feet. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“Good girl. Do you want my help or would you rather ? —”
“I got it.”
With a nod, she stands. “Stay close to the wall, okay?”
My head dips as I take a deep breath, peeking up to find my mom skating toward my dad and their friends at the center of the rink. Sometimes, after the hockey games, the arena opens to the public for ice skating. Everyone loves it. Everyone but me.
Clinging to the side barrier, my fingers dig into the tiny lip beneath the glass as I shuffle along the ice. I wish I could just sit on the bench with my book, but noooo. Stupid ice skating. Someone zooms past, and my body stifffens, preparing to be tackled or knocked on my bum, when another person stops beside me.
“Hey, Tater Tot.”
I glance up at Archer, giving him a weak smile. “Hey.”
“You doin’ okay?”
My attention shifts to the skating maniac who almost made me fall. It’s Maverick. Of course, it’s Maverick. He’s chasing after Ophelia, and she’s screaming at him to go away. My parents aren’t even bothering to intervene. Why would they? Mav driving Ophelia nuts is more common than the two playing nicely most days.
Would’ve been nice if he didn’t almost knock me over in the process, though.
“Sorry about Mav,” Archer adds, following my line of sight.
“It’s fine.”
“He didn’t bump you, did he?”
I shake my head.
“Good.” Offering his hand, he adds, “Want me to help?”
I stare at his outstretched hand, my tongue growing to three times its normal size. Do I want his help? I mean, if anyone else had asked, I’d for sure say no, but Arch? Arch is different. He’s always been so…nice, and when I’m with him, my palms sweat, and my head gets dizzy, and… I gulp, shaking my head again.
“You sure?” he asks.
My vocal cords refuse to work, so I nod instead, watching as he raises his offered hand and squeezes the back of his neck. “All right. Well, if you need me to beat up my brother for you, let me know, okay?”
Like a stupid bobble head, I nod again, and off he goes, catching up with his brother who’s pulling Lia’s pigtails.
The memory vanishes, dissipating as quickly as it hit, and I suck my lips into my mouth. Would things have been different if I’d taken Archer’s hand that day? We were kids, and I know it didn’t mean anything on his end, but still. What if…what if?—
“Hey, you good?” Pax murmurs.
Forcing myself to breathe, I peek up at him. The softness in his gaze. The reassurance shining in his eyes. The easy stance. Like we have all the time in the world to stand on the beach while I debate whether or not I want to hold his hand. And the truth is, I’ve never held a guy’s hand before. I’ve kissed countless guys, slept with plenty, but hand-holding? He’s my first, and part of me wonders if he knows it, too.
My lungs deflate on a slow, controlled breath before I give in, praying he can’t feel the slight tremble in my fingers. If he can, he doesn’t say anything. He simply gives me a soft squeeze. His hand is warm and rough and way more comforting than any touch has a right to be. I like it, though. I like it a lot.
Lacing our fingers, he murmurs, “Come on,” and guides me through the small throng of people. Each of them takes a turn telling him how freaking amazing his performance was, and Pax smiles at each of them, running his free hand over his shaggy head, squeezing the back of his neck, accepting their compliments with humility and grace and a confidence I can’t help but find hella attractive.
When we finally reach the bonfire, Pax takes a deep breath and looks down at me, his forehead wrinkling with concern.
“Is there a problem?” I ask.
“I’m second-guessing this decision.”
“What decision?”
“The whole…introduction part.”
I laugh, surprised by his sudden change of tune. “Hey, no take backs. I thought you wanted a do-over.”
“I do want a do-over,” he says with a huff. “Just not at the expense of…”
“Of?” I prod.
He stays quiet, eyeing me warily.
“Oh, come on,” I push. “You were doing so well. Besides, you’ve already come this far. Might as well hold up your end of the deal and introduce me, right?”
“Yeah, there’s only one problem.”
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“Coop’s a flirt.”
I smirk. “So?”
“So, he’s a flirt, and I’m willingly introducing him to a girl who isn’t mine. Does that sound like a bright idea to you?”
I don’t bother answering because he said mine. The four letter word makes my breath catch, and I replay his statement one more time. Mine. Before, I would’ve run the opposite direction from a trigger like that. Now, though? Now, it only feeds my interest. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m ready to give myself to the guy or whatever, but…is that what he really wants? Me? In all my messy glory and with all my fucked-up baggage?
I’ve had guys want me before, but none of them knew…everything. None of them knew anything. The difference is staggering, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
When I realize he’s staring at me, a question shining in his pretty espresso eyes, I push aside my inner spiral and try to focus on our conversation. What did he say again?
I’m willingly introducing him to a girl who isn’t mine.
Right.
“So?” I repeat.
“So, I know I'm known for being the dumbass of my band, but this feels like a low point, even for me.”
I laugh. “Whatever, Pax. Now, you’re being ridiculous.”
I go to smack his chest, but he grabs my wrist and tugs me into him, pinning me with his penetrating gaze. “Tell me this isn’t a stupid idea.”
“Is this you not being jealous again?”
“Nah, I’m very jealous, and I have no problem admitting it.”
Pulling back slightly, I take in the heat in his eyes and the tightness in his jaw. It’s a major turn-on. Seeing him like this. Honestly, I’m jealous. How sure he is of himself, including when it comes to showing his insecurities. Without shame or fear of judgment. He said it himself. He’s very jealous and has no problem admitting it. Like, damn.
“Good,” I decide. “Girls like it when guys are jealous.”
His brows lift. “Oh, they do, do they?”
“Not toxically,” I clarify. “But it’s nice knowing you’re wanted.”
“Agreed. So, do you want me?”
Rolling my eyes, I tug my hand from his grasp, ignoring the stupid pitter-patter in my chest. “About this introduction…”
He grumbles something under his breath, but I don’t hear anything specific as he lifts his chin at someone over my head. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
“Not much.” I turn around to find the infamous Cooper Johnson staring down at me. “This your girl?”
Don’t swoon. Don’t swoon. Don’t swoon.
“Not yet,” Pax jokes. “But I’m working on it.”
I smirk up at him, then offer my hand to the infamous Doomsday lead singer. “Hi, I’m Tatum.”
“Nice to meet you, Tatum. How’d you like the performance?”
How’d I like the performance? Is this man serious?
“You guys killed it,” I gush, trying to keep my enthusiasm in check, but seriously. It’s Cooper freaking Johnson. Clearing my throat, I add, “If I’d known I’d be meeting you, I would’ve brought a poster for you to sign or something.”
With a grin, he glances at Pax behind me, then tucks his hands into his pockets, offering, “I mean, I have a sharpie. I could always sign where I usually do?—”
“Not a chance,” Pax interrupts. His fingers brush against my hip as if he wants to pull me into him, but he stops at the last second, dropping his hand back to his side.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Yeah, I’ve heard the rumors. I know exactly where the infamous Coop likes to sign. “Aw, come on, Pax. It’s just my boobs. I’m sure Coop wouldn’t mind.”
Pax glares down at me. “The only name that’ll be on your skin is mine.”
“Uh-huh, keep dreaming, buddy.” I lift my forearm to Cooper. “Here would be great.”
Retrieving a Sharpie from his back pocket, he bites the lid with his teeth and pulls the cap off, scribbling his name across the inside of my arm. Arms crossed, Pax watches, not even bothering to hide his frustration, and I can’t decide what I like more. The look on his face, or the fact that my favorite artist of all time is writing his name on me.
Actually, I take it back. Sure, both things are pretty freaking epic, but only one of them is making my pulse vibrate and my knees weak, and that’s terrifying on a whole new level.
Yeah, Pax.
I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to worry about, which gives me something to worry about.
Nibbling my bottom lip, I stare at the thick, bold signature etched onto my arm as Cooper adds “XOXO” above it.
“Coop, you promised me a tour of your tattoos!” a girl calls from my left.
Capping the marker, Cooper gives me one more smirk. “Guess that’s my cue. Nice to meet you, Tatum.”
“You, too.” I smile back at him, surprised by the lack of butterflies assaulting my stomach. I mean, it’s Cooper freaking Johnson, and I’m not falling all over myself? Who have I become? Oh, I know. A girl who’s infatuated with a different rockstar. The one still glued to my side. “And thanks again for the concert!”
“Anytime, Tatum.”
As he leaves, Pax turns to me when someone calls his name. It’s another girl. She’s blonde. Her boobs are falling out of her tight red top. It matches her lipstick. The top, not her boobs. That would be weird.
Then again, standing here feels weird, too, when a girl is clearly fawning over the guy beside me. And why wouldn’t she? He’s Paxton Six. Not Pax Turner. Not the guy who held my hair back while I puked my guts out or pinned me to the cupboards in the pantry before shattering my world. He’s Paxton Six.
So, why do I feel so off-balance?
“I’m, uh, I’m gonna track Rory down,” I announce.
Ignoring the girl, Pax drags his hand down my arm, tracing Cooper’s signature. “You sure?”
“Yeah, totally. I don’t want her to feel like the third wheel or anything. You should go,” I urge. “Bask in your rockstar awesomeness.”
“I thought you said I already have a big enough head?”
“You do,” I agree, “But you’re only a rockstar once, right? Go. Have fun. I’ll be…around.”
I know he wants to push back. I can see it in his gaze. Feel it in his fingertips against my bare forearm. Instead, he gives in, surprising me, though I can’t say I’m not disappointed.
“Come find me before you leave,” he tells me.
“Who says I’m going anywhere?”
His gaze flicks from my bare arm to my eyes. “Please, Birthday Girl?”
Damn you and your pleases, Paxton Six.
Tucking my hair behind my ear, I murmur, “I’ll, uh, I’ll come find you.”
“Promise?”
I gulp, forcing my head to bob. “Yes.”
“Thank you.”