Chapter 5. #2
The guy has a handsome face, I’ll give him that.
He looks way different in the light than he did in that dim, musty hallway.
More charming. Sensitive. Alive. Perhaps it’s because we’re engaging in an actual exchange of words.
I’m listening to him. Feeling him. I’m not monologuing my terrible, horrible day to a stranger.
It’s actually unsettling, how fast he’s becoming someone I feel like I know.
Becoming not a stranger.
When his jaw tightens and his eyebrows pinch together with conviction as he talks music to me, it works all sorts of miracles across his face, making him look both strong and masculine, yet shattered apart and cute, somewhere between a boy throwing a tantrum and a man valiantly defending his lover.
I can’t really say anything to that, so I just clear my throat and nod at his hand. He seems to follow, lowering the gauze, and then I gently clean around the gash. He flinches only once. I stop. “Am I too rough? Should I be gentler?”
He studies me for a second. Then almost sweetly he says, “It’s perfect.”
I resume cleaning, gentler despite his assurances.
He doesn’t wince anymore. He just gazes upon me like I’m a different person suddenly. Pouring his dazzling, curious eyes into my own. It’s relentless, how he stares. Incessant. Necessary.
I wish he wouldn’t do that.
After a bit of dabbing—I probably could stop already but can’t seem to, enjoying the human contact, perhaps still dazed, or very likely losing my mind—I find myself softening up.
“I didn’t mean to … offend you the other night.
With all of that nonsense about sellouts and love songs.
I don’t remember half of what I said. It was a bad night. I had no business being there.”
“I’m glad you were.”
It isn’t the words themselves that catch me off-guard. It’s how sincere they sound. Or … maybe it’s the words, too.
I don’t look at him. I won’t look at him. I can’t bear to see how he’s still staring at me right now. What the hell is up with me? My body is being flung around a bouncy house while I’m sitting here perfectly still. “Is that so?” I make myself ask.
“Yup.”
I’m trying not to fidget or read too much into what he’s saying. Or how he’s looking at me. What if that’s just how he is? Is he even into guys? “So, why? Did my trashcan speech make you … uh … appreciate the concert even more?”
He seems to enjoy a private joke. “You can say that.”
Something is going on here, and it’s flying over my head.
For some reason, I can’t stop dabbing him with the swab.
What am I even doing? And why is his voice starting to sound even sexier?
“Well, I hope you had a good time. The only thing I heard was his opening song. Had the pleasure of enjoying it by a dumpster outside after it rained.” I frown.
“Not sure what the name of the song was, but … I found it … to be …”
“Yeah?”
My dabbing stops. “One of the most moving melodies I’ve ever heard in my life.”
I can hear the melody right now. It’s been in my head since that night, even after just one listen. I smile to myself, transported to that moment outside after the rain … and the one, only pleasant experience I got to take home from that miserable night.
Then I realize the guy in front of me is still staring at me.
And I’m still holding the swab against his gash.
I retract my hand, trade the swab for a Band-Aid, and quickly start tearing it open. “Anyway, Chase Holt isn’t bad.”
“One of the most moving melodies you ever heard?”
“Yep, that’s what I said. Hold still,” I instruct him distractedly as I place the Band-Aid on his forehead. “This has antiseptic on it.”
“How can you say somethin’ like that and just move on?”
“What else do you want me to say?” I ask with a chuckle.
“That you’ll come out to a concert? He’s … He’s tourin’ around this town, practically dancin’ around it. Ten shows. I’d say that’s roughly two or so weeks to see him again.”
“See him for the first time,” I correct him, finish up with the Band-Aid, drop my hands, then frown.
“Your Chase guy doesn’t even show his face on Spotify.
Not that I fished too deeply. I’m not really a social media guy.
Well, not anymore. What kinda so-called heart throb singer-songwriter doesn’t use his looks to sell a few? ”
He lets out a breathy chuckle, amused. Holy shit, what a smile does to his face. “Maybe he’s … just not that vain.”
“You kidding? All celebrities are vain. It’s half the job, making sure you look the part. Selling your brand. Maintaining an image. All that stuff.” I close the First Aid kit. “You’re done, by the way.”
“Already?” He taps the bandage on his forehead, wincing.
“Gonna be sore for a while. Probably more so tonight. I hope it doesn’t goose-egg on you. Might want to apply cold to it when you get back to your hotel, wherever you’re staying. Maybe get a bag of frozen peas from a gas station or something. And Tylenol.”
“I wanna see you again.”
I was about to flee the table to return the First Aid kit.
His words glue me to the chair. Eyes flapping open. Stunned. “Uh … why …?” are the only words I can produce.
He drags a fingertip over his lips in thought. “Dunno,” he says, appearing thoughtful, doing that damned thing he keeps doing of gazing at me with absurd intensity. “Just … Just want to.”
My eyes drop to his lips.
The way his finger runs smoothly over them.
A plush, pink path from the flat corner to the vaguely curved-up one, leading my eyes to the slightest dimple that pops out from his ten-percent smirk.
Almost heart shaped, but a bit wide. Soft-looking.
They’re the irresistible kind you find on front pages of publications.
The kind that stops you dead in your tracks.
Lips that do talking without even opening all the way up.
I imagine myself alone with them instantly.
Watching them draw closer to me—and what that would do to my already racing heart, to my restless nights, to my perception of what a kiss is, forever and ever.
My eyes are made into a pendulum by his fingertip, back and forth over his lips along with it, hypnotized.
Then: “No.”
His finger stops. “No?”
“Not a good idea.” I don’t even have my mind made up.
I don’t know why I’m pushing him away, other than it’s difficult to look into his dazzling eyes.
“I hope I was able to clear up my whole … hating on Chase Holt thing. But you can stop wondering about it now, and … just move on with your life. And with Chase’s show schedule, which you’re clearly following. Groupie for life.”
I’m out of the chair and behind the counter already, stashing away the First Aid under a low cabinet. When I stand back up, I’m startled to find him at the counter, his lips parted, eyes sparkling. “Now I’m wonderin’ somethin’ else,” he says. “Who are you? And why can’t I see you again?”
I seriously can’t look into his eyes. That’s how dazzling. “That isn’t a Band-Aids-in-an-ice-cream-shop conversation.”
“Then how about coffee? You know a good spot here?”
This guy won’t give up. “Is there something wrong with you?” I finally ask, daring to look into the infinity of his beautiful gaze. “Does someone keep you in a cage between these concerts you go to? Are you starved for human connection or something?”
His eyes are slightly less dazzling suddenly.
He closes his mouth, then drops his gaze to the counter. After a breath, he shrugs. “Actually …” He lifts his eyes back to mine. “I think you hit the nail on the head.”
I stare back at him. “Which head …?”
“Both. I’m in a cage … and … need human connection.” After he notices I don’t answer, he leans in closer. “Coffee. That’s all. Say the name, the time, I’m there.” He gives it a thought. “As long as it’s not too crowded. Not a big fan of places with lots of people.”
“Coming from someone chasing concerts across Texas.”
“Those aren’t crowds. They’re family. So? … Coffee? I want to know more about you. Maybe for starters … why you find this cute and adorable town to be like quicksand.”
There are many things he’s said already.
That last phrase knocks the damned breath out of me.
He was listening. To everything I said in that hallway.
Perhaps that, above all else, is the sexiest fucking thing I have ever known in my life.
Is he really trapped in a cage, too? Traveling across Texas as he is, chasing Chase Holt on his tour, seems pretty damned free to me. Starved for human connection? Is that what he hopes to seek every time he goes to a show? Is Chase doing that for him?
Chase sure did that for me the other night.
Just a single song in my ears … and I was no longer alone.
“I can’t,” I say again. “Sorry. Bad timing. Life. Things.” I’m not able to produce a reason. Perhaps there’s just too many and I can’t pick one. “It was nice to meet you. Again. But maybe we shouldn’t meet again-again. I’m sorry about your face.”
He takes my hand.
My eyes go wide as he snatches a pen off the counter—where’d that come from?
—bites off the cap, and literally writes on my hand.
“I’m gonna be around,” he tells me, the cap caught between his teeth.
“Like you helpfully pointed out, tour’s in the area.
Next ten shows. I’m gonna be back here in Spruce a few more times.
Maybe every day off.” He finishes writing, recaps the pen, and releases my hand. “If you change your mind.”
I peer at my hand, blinking.
Then I look up at him. “Austin?”
He smiles. “Yep. It’s what my friends call me.
My real friends.” He reconsiders. “When I used to have real friends. Now it’s …
hard to say what’s real or not. Today’s been a lot like a dream.
Never saw it coming. Or you.” He steps back from the counter, still gazing at me in that way he’s so annoyingly good at.
“Coffee. I suddenly love it. Favorite thing. Maybe it’s yours, too. ”
“Timothy,” I catch myself saying.
He stops, lifting his eyebrows.
Why did I give him my name if I’m not gonna see him again? And why did I give him that name? “TJ,” I correct myself. Then I wonder why I corrected myself. “Or Timothy. TJ or Timothy. You can call me … whichever.”
He smiles.
Yet again disarming me with his surprise-attack sweetness.
“Hope you change your mind,” he says at the door.
“But won’t blame you if you don’t. I’m a handful for most. Call me any time of day or night.
I’m up until dead-o’clock most nights. It’s called ‘No Fool For Love Songs’, by the way …
that melody you heard that night. It was a new piece, unreleased.
Heard he was inspired by … someone very special.
” Then he smiles—Austin smiles—and leaves.
I stare down at my hand. His name. His phone number.
His handwriting.
Billy emerges at the office door. “Who was that?” he asks.
I’m not sure what he overheard. Or how to answer. “Just a guy I met,” I reply, gnawing on my lip to keep the smile away.