Fifteen
Austin
The Fillmore is crowded, and I’ve lost Rhys, Theo, and Crystal. I’m at the edge of the crowd, where the thrum of the bass vibrates through the soles of my shoes, when she materializes like a specter from the venue’s semi-darkness. Sandrine. She was one of my regulars for a while there, but then she became a little too clingy. Uninvited, unexpected, she slinks over just as Velvet Anomaly takes the stage, their opening chords eliciting a cheer from the crowd.
“Hey, Austin,” she purrs, sliding close enough that her breath ghosts across my ear. Her perfume is a heady mix of jasmine and something recklessly spicy. It clings to her like a second skin, and now also to me.
“Sandrine, what are you doing here?” I keep my voice level, but there’s tension in my chest. I didn’t invite her. I didn’t even tell her about the show.
She doesn’t seem to notice or care, her arm looping through mine with a familiarity we’ve never actually cultivated. “I heard your favorite band was playing. And I’ve missed you.” Her fingers stroke down my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps.
The first set picks up speed, the crowd roiling around us, but Sandrine stays glued to my side. She sways to the music, pressing against me every chance she gets. With each passing song, I feel more like an anchor than a spectator, tethered in place by her persistent attention.
“Great show, huh?” she shouts over the music, her lips brushing against my cheek as if it were accidental.
“Sure,” I manage, though I haven’t been able to focus. Sandrine’s presence is an itch I can’t scratch, a distraction. Every time I try to step away, to lose myself in the pulse of the performance, she’s right there, tugging me back into her orbit.
By the third set, she’s all but draped herself over me, her laughter ringing out, drawing glances I’d prefer to avoid. It’s not that I don’t enjoy attention—it comes with the territory, after all—but Sandrine’s brand of it is too much. Too intense. It feels like a spotlight I can’t escape.
“Come on, let’s get closer!” she suggests, tugging at my hand. But I stay rooted, unwilling to navigate the crush of bodies, to parade her clinginess like it’s something I signed up for.
“Good view from here,” I say instead, keeping my gaze fixed on the stage, on anything but her expectant look. I can sense her pout, the shift in her energy, but I have no desire to give in, not when I’m already fighting the urge to blend into the shadows.
As the final notes ring out and applause fills the air, I’m relieved. Not because the show wasn’t incredible—it was—but because it means I can finally disentangle from Sandrine’s unwelcome embrace and slip backstage, where the genuine camaraderie awaits.
“Wasn’t that amazing?” she says, still buzzing with a fervor I can’t match.
“Definitely,” I reply, though my words feel hollow. Amazing, yes, but not for the reasons she’s implying. The amazing part will be finding solace among friends, away from her intrusive presence.
“Let’s go congratulate them,” she beams, oblivious to my escape plan.
The house lights rise, dousing us in harsh reality. Sandrine’s fingers curl around my arm, her voice a velvet purr against the din of the departing crowd. “How about we make our own afterparty? Just you and me, tangled up until morning?”
We’ve certainly celebrated that way before, but I’m no longer interested. “Sorry, I’ve already got plans with the band,” I tell her, tugging my arm free.
“I’ll come along.” Her eyes light with the prospect.
Shaking my head, I keep it polite but firm. “No backstage pass, no entry. Band rules. Maybe another time, Sandrine.”
A flicker of disappointment crosses her features before she masks it with a casual shrug. “Your loss,” she teases.
I wave and fight against the exiting crowd until I push through the backstage door. The clamor fades into a dull roar, replaced by the intimate buzz of conversation and laughter.
“Hey, man!” Lead singer Turner Bishop’s voice cuts through the chatter as he pulls me into one of those half-hug, half-backslap greetings. He’s still keyed up with the adrenaline of the performance. “Killer show, huh?”
“Absolutely,” I agree. “You guys owned it out there.”
Crystal sidles up beside him, her smile weary but warm. “Hey, Austin.” She glances around, the question of her missing husband unspoken, yet apparent in the crease of her brow.
“Hey, Crystal.” My attempt at comfort is a gentle pat on her shoulder. “How you holding up?”
She nods and looks away, so I keep on moving. Theo and Rhys are nearby, deep in discussion about something I can’t identify. They look up as I approach, and we fall into easy banter, the kind you only get with people who’ve seen your worst and stuck around.
Turner rejoins us after a moment, the high from the stage waning as something more contemplative takes its place. “You know,” he says, eyes sweeping the room where clusters of college acquaintances mingle. “I’ve been thinking. With the band taking a break and all…”
“Thinking about what?” Theo chimes in, leaning back against the table.
“Joining forces with you guys at EnergiFusion,” Turner says. “After four albums in six years, the band’s taking an extended break. Might be good to try something…stable.”
Those four albums are truly epic, and they’ve climbed the charts. But the rumor is they all hate each other. I will believe that when Turner tells us.
Rhys raises an eyebrow, seeming intrigued, while Theo nods thoughtfully. I glance between them, my mind a flurry of concerns. We worked with Turner on our final project back in the day, and he’s floated the idea of joining us before, but he once had a new design for an electric vehicle. That’s it. He’s a mechanical guy, not physics and chemistry, which is where we are.
“Interesting idea,” I muse aloud, careful to keep my tone neutral. “We’ll have to see how things shake out after the dust settles and Justin comes out of hiding.”
“Sure, sure,” Turner agrees, though I can tell he’s already picturing himself among us, another cog in our well-oiled machine.
As much as I value his friendship, I can’t quite shake the feeling that his addition might bring more problems than harmony. “Turner,” I begin, clasping his shoulder to make sure he’s focused. “I appreciate where you’re coming from, man, but now’s not the time. We’ve got a lot on our plate.”
He frowns, his face shadowed in the dim lighting. “Something I should know about?” There’s a flicker of concern in his eyes, the showman’s fa?ade slipping for a moment.
“Let’s just say Justin’s disappearance has left us scrambling, and then there are these fires…” My voice trails off, unwilling to divulge too much. “We’re trying to keep a lid on things until we sort it all out.”
“Got it.” Turner nods slowly. “Well, when the dust settles, let me know if you change your mind.”
“Sure thing,” I agree, though I doubt that’ll be anytime soon. “Take some down time, Turner. Enjoy the break. You’ve earned it.”
“Will do.” He claps me on the back, his energy undimmed. “I’ll hold you to that, though. Don’t forget about me.”
“Never could,” I reply, forcing a chuckle as I watch him blend back into the throng of well-wishers and industry hopefuls. “Let’s enjoy tonight, yeah?” I suggest, turning back to the others. “They’ve hit the top forty in the U.S. and UK. Man, that’s a true accomplishment!”
“Agreed,” Crystal says, lifting her glass. “To Velvet Anomaly.”
Our glasses clink, and I shift my weight as a new batch of women materializes around us. But I’m not interested in any groupie. That surprises me a bit—first Sandrine, now this. Then my mind goes to Danica. It’s been nearly a week since we went to dinner, and I haven’t seen her at the loft, but I could swear I saw her in the crowd this evening. Sandrine kept me from confirming that, but regardless, I can’t seem to get Danica out of my head.
Extricating myself from the ladies, I draw closer to my friends and plaster on a smile, raising my glass to a night of forced revelry, hoping beyond hope that the morning brings clearer skies.
Eventually, we call it a night, and I step outside, the noise of the party fading with each footfall toward Steve and the waiting car. My house or the loft? Both are tempting—places to hide, to avoid decisions, to maybe sleep off this gnawing sense of unease.
But then there’s Danica. Her image swims unbidden into my mind—strawberry blonde hair catching the light, those cornflower blue eyes, and a soft smile that suggests she knows more than she lets on. Was that her at the show tonight? What would it be like to peel away the layers? To understand what makes her tick?
Steve waits while I decide. Danica’s the kind of puzzle that won’t let go, and damn, if I’m not curious enough to try to solve it.
“Where to?” Steve asks again.
“Alamo Square,” I say finally. “Just a quick stop, though, and then back to the loft. My trainer is due there at six. I’d rather get a few more minutes of sleep than get over there that early.”
Steve nods, and the city lights streak by as we drive. When we pull up to my place—a Victorian that’s seen more history than I have—and I select a bottle, an expensive pinot noir, smooth and complex, like I hope the evening will be. A glance in the hallway mirror gives me pause. Do I look all right? It’s not something I usually fret over, but with Danica, it feels like appearances carry weight. Not just the way I look, but how I present myself.
The reflection staring back at me has shadows under his eyes, but there’s determination there too. “Here goes nothing,” I mutter.
With the bottle tucked under my arm and a bag in my other hand, I get back into the car, and we head over to the loft. Anticipation coils tighter with every passing block, until we pull up to the building.
Waving goodbye to Steve, I head up to drop my things in my apartment and then knock on Anna’s door. It’s late. A decent person would wait for another time, but this feels urgent.
“Danica,” I call softly, hoping she’s awake.
The door swings open, and there she is, in a bathrobe that hints at curves beneath. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders.
“Hey,” she says, seeming a little confused.
“Hi,” I reply, my gaze dropping to the sizable cat at her feet. Mischa looks up at me with a stare that seems almost judgmental, then lets out a bizarre meow that sounds like she’s been chain-smoking for years.
Danica scoops the cat into her arms. “Don’t mind Mischa. Did you need something? Would you like to come in?”
I step in as she moves aside, and the warmth of the apartment envelops me. “I think I caught a glimpse of you at the Velvet Anomaly show tonight,” I tell her, setting the wine on the nearest surface. “You blend into the shadows well.”
Her laugh is light, but I catch a flicker of something guarded in her eyes before she looks away. “Yeah, I was there,” she admits. “Saw you too, with her...” Her voice trails off, laced with an unspoken question.
“Sandrine?” I shake my head, trying to dismiss the whole encounter. “She happened to be there, and she was clinging like a designer label. But she’s not—we’re not seeing each other.”
Her expression softens, but the undercurrent of curiosity remains. “So, what brings you by so late on a school night?”
“I needed to see you,” I say, the words slipping out. “And maybe unravel a few enigmas wrapped in mystery…while sharing a good bottle of wine.”
“Enigmas, huh?” She tilts her head, considering me with newfound interest. “Well, I suppose every enigma needs someone to solve it.”
“Let’s consider tonight the first clue,” I suggest.
I follow Danica into the cozy warmth of the living room, the cat’s motor running contentedly in her arms. As she settles into the corner of the large sectional couch, the creature leaps from her lap and prowls her domain with the swagger of a queen.
“Speaking of late-night parties,” she begins, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry I had to call the cops a couple weeks ago. I couldn’t find you anywhere. It was so late, and the party was not slowing down but getting bigger and louder.” Her gaze is steady, but I catch the faintest tremor in her voice—a little defensiveness.
I burst out laughing, the absurdity of it all crashing down on me. “You called the police? Hell, maybe I should pass the noise complaint ticket on to you then.” But my humor fades quickly. “You couldn’t find me because I wasn’t there. Who was there? I have no idea how that party even got started.”
“You didn’t know about the party?”
I shake my head. “My personal assistant brought the ticket to me, and she was pissed to find the place such a mess. It was a surprise. You’d think if someone was having a party at my place, they would have at least invited me.”
Danica shakes her head. “I walked all around looking for you. I saw the woman you were with tonight there and the actress LiLi Borden with Jean-Claude Trembel, the MMA fighter she’s dating. I only know that because I googled them later.”
I try to keep my anger in check. Sandrine had a party at the loft ? That is very uncool. “I’m sorry it was so loud you had to call the police.”
“Maybe you should change your locks,” Danica suggests, her eyes reflecting concern—or is it curiosity?—in the soft light of the room.
“Maybe.”
She’s probably right, but I don’t want to think of Sandrine right now. I’m here for a different kind of escape. I stand and move to the expansive window, drawn by the view beyond the glass. San Francisco never fails to impress with its shifting tableau, and the view from Anna’s window differs from mine. We both get part of Levi Park, but I can see the water, and her view is of the financial district and downtown.
“Come here, look at this,” I beckon to Danica. “This is a spectacular view and so different than mine.”
Danica joins me, her presence a warmth at my side.
“Never gets old, does it?” I say, finding pleasure in her proximity.
“Never,” she confirms softly.
“Thanks for inviting me in,” I murmur, the contours of the city blurring as I turn to capture her reaction, searching for a sign that tonight might take us in a new direction.
“I’ll get some glasses,” she says before I can lean in and kiss her.