Chapter 23 #2
I spend the rest of the afternoon successfully keeping a reasonable distance from her, making sure my skin never brushes against hers, and our conversation stays light and neutral.
We see a ton of musical acts, which thankfully eats up any conversation time, but it also means I get to watch her dance around, carefree and happy—something that might be worse than talking with her.
By nine, we’re almost home free, with just one more act to see before I can go to my separate hotel room and jack off while I think about her to relieve myself of this tension.
Unfortunately, I didn’t consider that June wouldn’t want to simply watch from the available VIP balcony section.
Instead, she wants to go to the VIP pit, to watch the show against the barricade in a sea of bodies, with very little space between us.
That’s when I realized this entire scheme was a horrible fucking idea.
How the hell am I supposed to remain neutral and keep my shit together and not give in to the utter desire to make her mine?
Every five seconds, her body sways to the loud music playing over the speakers while we wait for the band to come on, brushing against me while I stand behind her, trying to keep everyone else away from her.
I’m forced against her, forced to smell her light perfume and hear her magical laugh and get the full brunt of every small smile she tosses over her shoulder at me.
It forces me to come to terms with the fact that I want June Taylor.
So fucking bad.
When the kick drums start, she starts cheering, and relief moves through me.
The band starting means I’m closer to the end of my own unique torture, but that relief is momentary.
With the sounds, the entire crowd invigorates and shifts, pushing to the front of the stage, and the small gap I’d maintained between June and me is absolutely gone, my chest pressing against her back.
“I’m so sorry,” I yell into her ear, frantic in my need to remain professional with her. “The crowd—”
“It’s all good, Graham!” she shouts over the chords of a guitar. “It’s the best part! Just go with it!”
Her hand reaches for mine, placing it on her hip and looking over her shoulder at me, beaming wide.
How am I supposed to argue with that look of utter happiness, with the music, with the closeness?
I can’t.
So I don’t.
Twenty minutes into the forty-minute set, I’m still plastered against June and trying my best not to think about the way her body moves and shifts, nearly grinding with her as she dances, sings, and screams to the songs. But when the chords change, going from rock to something soft, June stills.
“OH MY GOD!” she yells, eyes wide and fixated on the stage.
“We got a couple of requests to play an old song,” Riggins Greene, the lead singer of the band, says with a grin. “Hell, we all got a couple of requests from one person, asking us to play this song.”
“Begging,” the bassist yells into his mic.
“Yeah, begging,” Riggins laughs. “Even went so far as to reach out to Stell and Harper.” My heart starts to pound with nerves. “He said this song was someone out there’s favorite, and it would mean the world if we played it.”
My panic only seems to heighten with each word.
Please don’t say my name. Please don’t say my fucking name, I think, over and over.
“So, if there’s someone out there who was hoping for us to play this song, just know that someone tried really fucking hard to make all of your dreams come true,” he says, then steps from the mic, leading into the song, and relief moves through me.
“It’s my song!” an oblivious June shouts, turning in my arms and gripping my shirt in her hand excitedly as the intro continues to play.
Her smile is so damn wide, so stunning, I know that it was worth it, despite the minor heart attack I just had.
She mentioned the song a handful of times, saying it was an older tune they rarely play live, but she hoped they would.
When I looked it up that night, I recognized it as the one she had me dance with her to at the Seabreeze and decided to send a few messages to request they play it for her.
To everyone in the band.
And their significant others.
And their agent.
And their publicist.
I didn't think it would work, but figured it couldn’t hurt, just another opportunity to make June’s whims come to fruition.
“It is,” I say low, lifting a hand, and pushing some loose hair back. We’re close; it wouldn’t take much more than a couple of inches to graze my lips against hers.
“Pretty lucky!” she shouts, and I smile down at her.
I want to kiss her.
I’ve wanted to kiss her a dozen times today alone, each time, the urge to press my lips to hers becoming more and more insistent. But it’s never been as fierce as it is right now, with her hand on my chest, her big eyes staring up into mine, cheeks flushed, and excitement written across her face.
Last week, when I gave in to that urge, it was the greatest idea and the absolute worst.
Part of me thought that maybe, just maybe, I was exaggerating how good we were together. A late night of hot sex and then insane tension between us for weeks could do that, right?
I was wrong.
It was not a fluke.
I also lied. Cece never stopped to look at us, never even hesitated as she walked away.
I just wanted to kiss her, to try and prove to myself that it was just that one time, that kissing June wasn’t as explosive as my mind kept telling me.
Unfortunately, instead of sating that need, it just made my need for her a million times worse.
I convinced myself that all the moments of making her life easier, of making her small wishes and hopes for luck come true, were just because that’s what friends do for each other. But after that kiss, I was forced to come to terms with the fact that I don’t want to be just friends with her.
I want to be a whole fucking lot more with June Taylor.
Thankfully, before I can do something that I can’t take back, the singing starts. June beams up at me, squealing before turning around and singing loudly.
And just like the last time we were together when this song played, I hold her close through the entire thing.
Eventually, the set ends, the crowd disperses, and I step away from June.
As I do, my entire body feels cold. We move through the crowd, and at some point, June grabs my hand, twining her fingers through mine silently, not wanting to get separated, but even when we’re off the beach and headed to our hotel, neither of us lets go.
It takes us about twenty minutes to walk the half mile to the hotel, and with the wild traffic on the street, I know I was right in insisting we stay the night in town.
Relief moves through me as we walk into the lobby of the hotel.
I’m eager to go to my hotel room, get some distance between us, and then try to wrap my mind around why I’m being so ridiculous and irrational right now.
I just need space.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
Space will make this incessant need to kiss my assistant fade.
But when she stops before we can even make it to the front desk, grabbing my wrist with a wide, excited smile I’ve come to recognize well, I know I’m screwed.
“Make a wish!” she says, lifting her phone and closing her eyes even though we’re stopped in the center of the lobby, people having to step around us.
“What?” She opens one eye as I watch her, confused, and she glares at me.
“Make a wish! It’s 11:11!” Her eyes move to her phone again, the time displayed prominently on her screen. She closes her eyes once more.
“June, we have—”
I start to argue, but she opens both eyes this time, giving me one of her signature exaggerated sighs.
“My god, can’t you ever just do one thing without making a whole stink about it? Close your eyes and make a damn wish.”
She glares at me, and I bite back a smile. Instead, I give a sigh of my own, then, despite feeling stupid, I close my eyes and take in a deep breath.
I could fake it.
It would be easy. June is so superstitious, she would never ask what my wish was, but it would feel like a betrayal. That’s why I find myself sifting through my thoughts until I land on one that shines bright. Before I can even stop, I mentally latch onto it.
I wish I could have June Taylor.
It’s a wild thought, unruly and panic-inducing, but also, the second I think it, it feels right. I don’t know if it’s June’s own superstitious ways or the endorphins from the night, or what, but I take in a deep breath and send the thought into the universe.
Because it’s true.
I wish I could have June Taylor all to myself.
After, I open my eyes to see she’s looking up at me, a soft, peaceful smile on her lips.
“Done,” I say, and my voice sounds gruff to my own ears.
“Did you have fun tonight?” she asks, not moving from where we’re stopped in the hotel entrance, her voice soft.
“Yeah,” I admit instantly, because it's the truth. Her shoulders relax, and that smirk turns to a beaming grin.
“I really am lucky,” she murmurs. I look at her, confused, but she explains without my asking. “That was my wish. That you would say you had fun with me tonight.”
“What? Why?” Why would she waste a wish on me?
“Because we’re friends, Graham,” she says in a stage whisper before lifting her hands. “I know, I know. Scary stuff. Don’t be alarmed. But friends care if the other has fun or not.”
I laugh again, louder this time. After a moment, when I look back at her, her eyes are softer, the joking gone from them, though the smile still lingers.
“Yeah, my wish came true,” she murmurs, voice low.
In that moment, I think I begin to realize just how screwed I am.
Because I don’t think any distance would make me stop falling for June Taylor, not when I know that in some universe I can have her smiling softly at me like that.