9. Callie
9
CALLIE
PAST, ArtFusion Day One
The first night of the festival, everyone dresses elaborately.
I know from the pictures and promo videos I see everywhere. Crowds full of faeries and Greek gods and goddesses. Butterflies. Angels. It’s a whole thing, and people have already started emerging in their outfits before we even get back to our van.
I made my outfit from scratch. I’ve been working on it since we got our last-minute invite to play last month, transforming a red corset-type bra and lace-up red pleather skirt by hand-stitching feathers and sequins onto them. I even made a headpiece that resembles winged-flames and bought sparkling hair extensions. Putting the fucker on inside a tent is difficult, but I manage, and then I cover my chest, arms, and stomach in gold body glitter. To finish it off, I do a smokey eye with gold-glitter false eyelashes and dark red glittery lipstick. I’m stepping back to try to inspect my outfit in the side-mirror of the van when Ezra lets out a low whistle of approval, and Pike and Rocky do a slow clap.
“Damn, Cal. That shit is fire .”
“ Literally .”
“Lookin’ very good.”
I smile at their compliments and do a little twirl, showing off the way my red and orange feathers flutter like dancing flames.
Rocky, Ezra, and Pike are dressed up, too, but not as elaborately as I am. No handmade accessories or makeup for them. Pike’s got on leopard print bellbottom pants and a pink knitted crop top. Rocky has on low-slung black leather pants with a silver chain-mesh tank-top, which isn’t much different from what he wears when we perform. Ezra is shirtless, wearing faded jeans, a giant silver belt-buckle, a cowboy hat, and black cowboy boots. He got the whole outfit at a thrift store for ten bucks, and he’s very proud of that. He’s sure to tell anyone who comments on it tonight. The equivalent of this dress has pockets for Ezra will be this authentic rodeo belt buckle was only seventy-five cents .
“Fucking hot, Cal.” Becket wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me into his body as he speaks.
He did not dress up. He’s wearing the same pair of shorts and Avenged Sevenfold T-shirt that he was wearing earlier. I open my mouth to tease him, but he leans in for a kiss, and I turn my face to give him my cheek.
“Lipstick,” I explain feebly. “I don’t want to mess up the glitter.”
He nods, accepting my excuse. Only I know it was a half-truth.
I take a step back and smooth my hands over my skirt, then adjust my top. When I’m certain not a feather is out of place, I look back at my band.
“Alright, boys. Let’s go.”
I turn in my knee-high boots—I put feathers and sequins on them, too—and the guys follow.
As we get farther inside the venue, the crowd thickens, and lines have already started forming at various tents and food trucks. Music from the opening band grows louder, and the pop-punk headliner starts just after sunset, which is in about an hour. It’s safe to assume there are already bodies camped out in the field in front of the stage.
“Let’s split up,” Becket suggests. “Grab whatever food or drinks you want and meet back at the guitar.” He gestures toward a fifteen-foot sculpture of an electric guitar made completely out of recycled soda cans. “Then we can head to the stage.”
Ezra salutes and heads off into the crowd without a word. He’ll probably come back with something totally random, like a glow-in-the-dark lightsaber or someone’s dog. We don’t usually let Ezra out unsupervised, so this should be interesting.
Rocky tells us exactly what he’s going to do—find a port-o-john, take a piss, then scarf some mozzarella sticks—before he’s heading in the opposite direction as Ezra.
“Be back in a bit,” Pike says with a grin, then he disappears into the crowd, leaving Becket and me to ourselves.
“What do you think? You get drinks, and I’ll grab us food?”
I nod. “Sure. Any requests?”
“Nope. Just something to get me drunk.” Becket punctuates his statement with a slap to my ass. “You?”
“I saw a truck with kabobs,” I suggest, but Becket scrunches his nose. I laugh. “Fine. Just pick something that isn’t pizza. I’m sick of pizza.”
Becket slaps my ass again before he takes off to find food, so I turn to complete my mission as well.
I weave back through the crowd until I find a line for a beer tent, then I pull out my phone to scroll mindlessly through apps while I wait.
“Clever.”
The voice over my shoulder, deep with a hint of humor, makes me jump, and when I turn toward it, my stomach falls to my feet.
Torren King stands in front of me with a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He’s wearing a black baseball hat and mirrored aviator sunglasses, but I’d know those full lips anywhere. I’ve stared at them many, many times while watching clips of The Hometown Heartless perform. I’m surprised I didn’t recognize his voice right away, because the few songs where he sings more than just backup harmonies are always my favorites.
I force myself to swallow, wetting my suddenly parched throat, before speaking.
“Excuse me?”
His lips curve up slightly at the corner. It’s barely a smirk, but it’s a much more welcoming expression than I saw on him earlier in the day.
“Your outfit,” he clarifies. “A phoenix? It’s clever.”
“Oh. I made it.”
“Nice.”
“Thanks...What...Um, what are you supposed to be?”
He gives me a shrug. “A stoned musician.”
Well. I guess he’s not trying to hide who he is.
We fall back into silence as he takes a drag from his cigarette. I can’t see his eyes, and it’s unnerving. Every part of my body is buzzing because I don’t know where he’s looking. I don’t even know if it’s at me. I don’t know if he wants to continue this conversation, or why he spoke to me in the first place.
He probably didn’t expect me to turn around. Just a compliment thrown over my shoulder and a thanks back. I take a deep breath and give him a tight smile, then start to turn around, but his voice stops me once again.
“Will you talk?”
I look back at him and furrow my brow in question. His dark eyebrow quirks up from behind his sunglasses.
“About what you saw.”
Ah . So that’s what this is. I can’t help the way my face falls.
“No, I won’t talk.”
“Because it would fucking suck if you did. And it wouldn’t work out well for you. Probably not how you’d want it to.”
I purse my lips. “I said I wouldn’t talk. I had no intention of talking. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it’s nobody’s business but yours.”
“Then why stay and watch?”
He cocks his head to the side, assessing me as he takes a long drag from his cigarette. The end glows bright red, but all I can see is my nervous expression in his mirrored aviators.
I put a hand on my hip instead of wrapping it around my stomach like I want. I make my back ramrod straight and work to school my face into something less... baffled fangirl . I give what I hope looks like a nonchalant shrug.
“It’s not every day you see one world-famous rock star slap another world-famous rock star across the face. I was curious. Sue me.”
His lips twitch at the corners, and he slowly blows out a stream of smoke.
“I could. It’d make the pap payout look like chump change.”
He’s not smiling, but he’s amused. I can hear it in his voice, and it gets my back up, squashing my nerves with anger. He’s in this beer line trying to not-so-subtly intimidate me, and he finds it amusing .
I open my mouth to snap something snarky back at him, to tell him to stop with the back-alley shakedown because it’s unnecessary and a waste of my time, but he cuts me off.
“Is that your natural hair color?”
My head jerks back in a flinch at the rapid change of topic. He bites his lip, stifling a laugh, and I scoff.
“Is this a does the carpet match the drapes kind of question? Are we in high school?”
His smile breaks free, full lips stretching over white teeth, and for some reason, my eyes zero in on his unusually sharp canines. Like understated fangs.
Jesus, Rock was right. This man would eat me alive.
“Does it?” he says with a low laugh.
I roll my eyes and turn around, giving him my back. I’m fuming. What an asshole. This is why they say to never meet your idols.
“Hey, I was just kidding,” he says, and his voice is lower. Closer than before. So close that I’m afraid to turn around to see just how much distance is left between our bodies. “It’s an unusual color, is all. Pretty, the way it’s multicolored. Copper. Cinnamon. Blonde. Matches with your outfit perfectly.”
I don’t respond, but my lips curl into a tiny smile. A compliment from a hot rock star. It’s probably shallow. It’s probably just a line. A weak excuse to hopefully keep me from going to the media. But I smile anyway.
He doesn’t speak to me again as the line inches forward. Not until we step up to the counter and I order my drinks.
“She’s on mine,” Torren says suddenly, flashing a badge of some sort to the bartender. The guy’s eyes flare, and he glances quickly from the badge to Torren, then his head bobbles in a rapid nod.
“Yes, sir. Mr. King, sir.”
I don’t even have to show him my fake ID or flash my alcohol wristband. The guy just turns and gets to work grabbing our drinks. I flick my eyes toward Torren over my shoulder.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
His cigarette is gone, his face trained forward and not on me as he shrugs.
“Consider it an apology for insulting you. It’s the least I can do. ”
I don’t know if I imagine the veiled innuendo in that last sentence. Probably. But damn if my heart doesn’t kick up anyway.
“Thank you,” I force out, hoping he can’t hear the breathlessness in my tone. “Consider yourself forgiven.”
The bartender hands me my two drinks and Torren his one. I thank the bartender and turn to leave. To my surprise, Torren follows beside me.
“You are old enough to drink, right?”
I hold my breath for a moment, consider the question quickly in my head, then take note of the two beers already in my hands. I force a laugh.
“That matters now ?” I deflect. “You already gave me the drinks.”
I see him nod in my periphery. “It matters.”
I force another laugh. I roll my eyes, then I raise the hand with the alcohol wristband...that I got with my fake ID. I wave it around as if it’s proof enough, then add, “I can show you my ID if you don’t believe me.”
He hums and I feel his eyes on me. I wait for him to call me out. To catch me in the lie. But then I see him nod again, and I slowly release a sigh of relief.
“That second one for a... friend ?”
The change of subject calms my nerves, and he draws out the word friend suggestively. Searching for a particular piece of information, I realize, and for a reason I don’t want to admit, I nod.
“Yep. For a friend.”
Not a pseudo-boyfriend. Not a guy I was planning on sleeping with tonight. Just a friend .
Torren hums and takes a sip from his drink. His head tilts downward slightly, and my nipples pebble as if I can feel his eyes caressing my skin. I would give anything to be able to see his eyes now.
Then he’s leaning toward me, closer and closer, until I involuntarily hold my breath. His lips are inches from my ear when he finally speaks.
“I hope you and your friend enjoy the show. See you later, Firebird.”
He leans back, and I suck in a harsh breath. He’s grinning, obviously enjoying how he’s unsettled me. Then he takes a few steps backward before finally turning around and giving me his back .
“Hey,” I say loudly. He stops walking and glances over his shoulder. “It’s my natural color.”
He smirks, then disappears into the crowd, leaving me bereft and dazedly staring after him.
Someone bumps into me, jostling me and sloshing Becket’s beer onto my hand. They apologize, but I don’t acknowledge them. I’m grateful, actually. It’s brought me back to reality.
Because...what the actual fuck was that?
The more I run the encounter with Torren through my head, the more I’m convinced it was a figment of my imagination. Far too bizarre to be reality.
I mentally berate myself as I head to the soda can guitar.
Did I really say does the carpet match the drapes to Torren fucking King? Way to make it awkward. He was probably just trying to compliment me, and I had to go and make it weird. My hair color is unusual. It’s not uncommon for strangers to comment on it. Usually, old ladies at the supermarket or drunk girls in bar bathrooms. Definitely not hot rock stars I’m obsessed with. But still.
What the fuck.
By the time I make it back to the guitar statue, it takes Becket taking his beer from my hand before I finally pull myself out of my fanatical spiral.
“What took you so long?” Becket asks, and my cheeks heat with guilt I don’t deserve to feel. I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t even flirt. It was just a casual conversation with a guy I’ve masturbated to. Nothing at all to feel guilty about.
“The drink line was long.” I look away and take a sip of my own beer. “What food did you get?”
He holds out a triangular cardboard box, and I groan.
“I said no pizza, Beck. I’m sick of pizza.”
He laughs. “We’ll get you your kababs tomorrow. This pizza smelled too good to pass up.”
I roll my eyes and take the slice, mumbling a half-hearted thanks as he throws his arm around my shoulder and steers me toward the main stage.
“Ezra,” I say with a laugh as soon as my eyes land on him. “What in the hell are you wearing? It’s ninety degrees! ”
Ezra grins and spins with his arms spread wide to show off a shiny black fur coat that falls to mid-shin.
“Fire, right? It’s faux .”
“Fire as in you gotta be sweatin’ your ass off,” Rocky says with a laugh. “You’re gonna reek, bro. Gonna smell like an old shag carpet soaked in beer and BO.”
Ezra grabs Rocky in a headlock before wrapping them both in the ridiculous faux fur coat. Rocky gags, Ezra grunts and hunches over, then Rock falls to the ground, spitting profanities at Ezra before scrambling back toward him. I shake my head with a sigh. They’re idiots. Pike, Becket, and I continue on our way to find a spot in front of the main stage and leave the other two to brawl in the dirt behind us.
“You look so hot, Cal.” Becket puts his hands on my hips and tugs me into his body once we’ve found a suitable spot to watch the show.
I smile up at him and will myself to absorb the compliment in the way I would have yesterday, but my heart doesn’t sputter, and my cheeks don’t flush.
“Thanks, Beck.”
I glance toward the stage while taking a subtle step out of his hold. I take a bite of my now cold pizza and sway my body to the music. The band is good. I’m familiar with them, but not well enough to know many of their lyrics. That doesn’t stop me from enjoying the experience, though. I let the excitement of the crowd energize me. I jump when they jump, clap when they clap. At one point, Ezra grabs my hand and pulls me into a dance, spinning me quickly before dipping my body so low to the ground that I let out a shriek of laughter. He doesn’t drop me, thankfully.
I’m able to sing along on a few choruses, and by the time the band’s set is over, I’m determined to buy their album as soon as the festival is over and we’re back to reality. That’s the power of a good live show. A good live show can turn even the toughest critic into a fan.
I’m laughing along with the guys, sipping on my third drink, when something like ice licks up the base of my spine, causing the sticky sweat on the back of my neck to turn cold. I glance at the people on either side of me, all in various states of intoxication, but no one seems to be paying attention to me. I do a slow spin, careful not to irritate my own mild high, and just as I’m completing the circle, my eyes find him through the sea of bodies.
His are on me.
Torren is still wearing those aviator sunglasses even though it’s dark now, but I know he’s looking at me. When I furrow my brow in question, those full lips tip into an almost imperceptible smirk, and he nods. I nod back, and his smirk grows. He jerks his head to the side, giving me what I think is a come here gesture, and I purse my lips.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver cigarette case, then plucks out one and puts it between his lips. My eyes fixate on the silver rings adorning his long, tattooed fingers as he strikes a match and lights the cigarette. He takes a drag, puts the case back in his pocket, and raises his hand in my direction.
Then, in a gesture that I swear I can feel caressing my skin, he crooks his finger at me, and like I’m under a spell, my feet carry me toward him.