Chapter 18 Odin
A pleasant tightness, unfamiliar yet welcome, settles in my chest, a stark contrast to the usual anxiety. Lying beside Nicola, city lights stripe the ceiling. I feel lighter. The lead weight in my gut eases, not gone, but less. Nicola chips away at my hardened shell, letting in light and air.
She sleeps, curled on her side, breathing softly.
I watch her, fingers hovering above her cheek, mesmerized by her dark hair spilling across the white pillowcase like ink on snow.
Goddamn, she’s beautiful. Real, honest beauty, like sunlight breaking through a storm.
Corny, maybe, but true, and truth is rare for me.
“Dessert?” I murmur, the word still tasting of her, after we’ve connected. 'Sex' feels clinical. With Nicola, everything is deeper, richer. Real.
She blinks luminous green eyes, still flushed. “Dessert?” she echoes, a slow smile curving her lips, playful mischief flickering. “After all that?”
A genuine chuckle rumbles in my chest, unfamiliar even to me. “Fuel for the flight back. Besides,” I smile, “I know a place.”
Gigi’s Gelato, a hole-in-the-wall in Little Five Points. No chic, no valet, definitely not ‘billionaire-approved,’ but mine. Mine from Atlanta tour stops, when life was noise and chaos, and felt… full. Before.
We walk, cool night air a balm after the humid hotel room. Nicola’s hand is secure in mine. She’s swallowed by my leather jacket, worn softness smelling faintly of her now, vanilla and so mething uniquely Nicola, sunshine and old books. Intoxicating.
“Where are we going?” she asks, voice soft, drowsy wonder.
“You’ll see,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips. “A landmark.”
We walk deeper into the city, downtown giving way to gritty side streets, graffiti art on brick walls, air thick with spices, exhaust, and sugary bakery scents. Raw, edgy, alive Atlanta. It resonates with a ghost of who I was, before I sanded down every edge, became palatable, predictable.
Then we’re there. ‘Gigi’s Gelato’ the flickering neon sign proclaims, faded, crooked, but glowing warmly. Inside, crammed, buzzing with chatter and clattering spoons. Polaroids and prints paper the walls, grinning faces, gelato cones, frozen joy.
“Gelato?” Nicola asks, eyebrows arched. “You brought me for gelato?” Teasing lilt, but eyes sparkle with curiosity.
“Best gelato in the city,” I declare, pulling her inside. Sweet cream, toasted hazelnuts, ripe strawberries – a sensory explosion. Too long since I allowed pure, uncomplicated goodness.
We squeeze into a corner booth, worn vinyl cool and slightly sticky. The waitress approaches, vibrant pink hair, silver hoops, piercings, eyes widening in recognition. Old habits. Maya stops, gaze locking on mine, a slow smile. Decades of stadium roars might have faded, but echoes linger.
“Odin Baxter,” she breathes, voice hushed, surprise and reverence. “Wow. Haven’t seen you… forever.”
“Hey, Maya,” I reply, old rockstar persona surfacing easily. “Brought a friend. Maya, this is Nicola. Nicola, meet Maya.”
Maya grins at Nicola, warm, genuine. “Nice to meet you, Nicola. Odin always did have good taste.” She winks, conspiratorial flash of silver, and Nicola blushes, delicate pink on cheekbones. Adorable.
We order – pistachio for me, ‘Midnight Chocolate’ for Nicola – and Maya vanishes behind the counter. Gelato materializes quickly, twin towers of sweetness in paper cups. Nicola takes a tentative spoonful, eyes widening.
“Oh. My. God,” she breathes, whisper of delight. “This is… incredible.”
“Told you,” I say, unexpected pride. Stupid, proud of a gelato place held together by hope and sticky tables, but it’s mine. A piece of a buried past, simpler times, even amidst chaos.
We eat in comfortable silence, cheerful murmur and soft scrape of spoons. Nicola studies the wall of photos, brow furrowed.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, leaning closer.
“Just… all these people,” she gestures with her spoon. “They look so… happy. Like this place is special.”
“It is,” I say, voice softer, weighted with memory. “It was… my escape. Back then.”
She turns, green eyes searching mine. “Escape from what?” Gentle voice, curiosity, not judgment.
I hesitate, gelato tasting like ash. Do I tell her? Expose the darkness? But looking at her warmth, I can’t hide. Not from her.
“From… everything,” I say, word catching. “The noise, the pressure, the… loneliness.”
She reaches across the table, hand warm and certain on mine. “Loneliness? But you were… Odin Baxter. Rock god. Crowds worshiping you.”
“Surrounded by fans,” I correct, bitterness igniting. “Difference, Nicola. Vast chasm. Fans scream for a version of you, inflated under spotlights. They don’t see you.”
Her fingers tighten, silent anchor. “But… Riley said band, crew. Weren’t they … family?”
Family. Blow to the lungs. They were. My family, my chosen blood, until fate ripped them away, leaving silence and ash.
“They were,” I manage, words rough. “They were… everything.”
Silence descends, heavier now, unspoken grief, ghosts of laughter and music. Nicola doesn’t press, doesn’t pry. She sits there, hand steady, quiet presence a balm. Something shifts within me. Weight in my chest less crushing. Manageable.
We finish gelato, lingering sweetness a fragile counterpoint to bitter memories. Stepping out of Gigi’s, night air crisper, cleaner. We walk in quiet, city lights twinkling above.
“Where to now?” Nicola asks, soft voice breaking the hush.
I tip my head back, gazing at the stars. A plan solidifies. “Somewhere else I want to show you,” I say, voice gaining energy. “Somewhere… bigger.”
I hail a cab, give an address. Nicola looks at me, unspoken questions, curiosity and trust. She trusts me. Jolting realization. She trusts me, even after everything.
Cab pulls up abruptly before a colossal stadium, looming bulk silhouetted, floodlights illuminating the stage, dramatic shadows. Dark, silent save for electricity hum, imposing, yet prepared. Nicola stares up, mouth ajar, awe and dawning understanding.
“A stadium?” she whispers. “You… brought me here?”
“This,” I say, stepping out, reaching for her hand, “is where it all happened. For me. And tonight, it’s just for us.”
We walk towards the silent giant. Security guard nods us through a side entrance. Air within cool, stale, subtly charged, heavy quiet, anticipation. Backstage labyrinth, dimly lit, ghosts of past performances, but tonight, prepared, waiting.
“This is…” Nicola starts, voice tr ailing off.
“This is where I lived,” I say, voice echoing, gesturing at faded glamour and grit. “For years. Backstage, onstage, arenas all over. Tonight, it’s all ours.”
I guide her through the maze – past dressing rooms, faded rock legends’ names peeling on doors, equipment cases like sleeping monsters. We emerge, blinking, onto the vast, empty stage, stadium yawns open, silent maw of seats stretching into shadowed darkness, subtly lit.
“Wow,” Nicola breathes, awe-filled voice, eyes wide. “It’s… huge.”
“Yeah,” I say, phantom echo of adrenaline stirring. “It is. Tonight, it’s our private venue.”
I walk to the stage edge, gazing at vacant seats. Memories crash in: deafening roar, blinding lights, raw energy. Distant, half-remembered dream, another life. But tonight, different. Intimate.
Nicola stands beside me, hand brushing mine, silent question. “It must have been… incredible,” she says, hushed wonder.
“It was,” I admit, bittersweet ache, phantom loss. “Everything and nothing. Deafening roar and hollow echo. But tonight… tonight is different.”
I turn to her, upturned face in stage lights, green eyes luminous. Impulse surges, forgotten current igniting. Need to create, express, break silence. To sing, for her.
“You know,” I say, voice rough, cracked, “I haven’t sung in… years. Really sung. But… I want to, for you. Here.”
Her eyes widen further. “You haven’t? But… you’re going to now?”
“Not since…” I trail off, unspoken weight of the crash, of loss. “Tonight feels… different.”
“Would you…?” she asks, hesitant, fragile hope, vulnerability mirroring mine. “I would be honored,” she breathes, soft awe and reverence.
Ter rifyingly exposed, yet exactly what I need.
I draw a deep breath, stadium air cleaner than I’ve been breathing, close my eyes, fragmented memories – music, lights, sea of faces. Then, I open my mouth, and sound pours out.
Rusty at first, hesitant, uncertain. Then, something clicks. Muscle memory ignites, years of training resurface, raw talent breaching the surface. My voice resonates, filling the stadium, echoing off empty seats, vibrating with forgotten power.
I sing for Nicola. Not stadium anthem, but something quieter, stripped bare, from my soul. Song of loss and grief, but also fragile hope, light in darkness. A song about her.
Last note fades, silence descends, absolute, profound, only our breathing. I open my eyes, Nicola gazing up, tears shimmering.
“Odin,” she whispers, voice thick, choked. “That was… beautiful.”
I look at her, raw emotion on her face, something deep within me fractures, cracks open. Ice melts further, tentative warmth seeping in. Maybe I can do this. Loosen the past, release grief, reach for something new, terrifying, real. Something… with Nicola.
“Thank you,” I manage, voice hoarse. “For… asking.”
We stand there, breathing, being, connected by something intangible, newly forged in silence and song. Stadium, once cold symbol of lost past, now feels… different. Lighter. A vast stage not for farewell, but for a tentative new beginning.
As we leave, hand in hand beneath the starlit sky, I know something fundamental has shifted. Tonight, something irrevocably changed. Tonight, I have sung again. And it was only for her.