10. Callie
10
CALLIE
PAST, ArtFusion Day One
“Where you goin’?”
I don’t take my eyes off Torren as I throw an answer at Becket over my shoulder.
“Getting another drink. Be right back.”
One of them shouts a drink order at me, but I don’t hear it. All my senses have zeroed in on Torren King as I push my way through the crowd of people. I don’t want to lose the eye contact I know I have. I don’t want him to disappear in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
When I’m ten feet from him, he turns on his heel and starts walking away. I follow. I follow him all the way to the edge of the park until we’re in an empty pavilion of picnic tables. There’s no one here. Everyone is either on the lawn for the headlining band or in one of the various arts and culture tents. When he turns back to face me, I stop in my tracks, leaving some space between us so I have room to breathe.
“Your friends?” he asks, and I nod.
“Yeah.”
“Who was the drink for?”
“The blond in the shorts.”
Torren lets out a low laugh, and it serves as a sever to the weird hold he’d had on me.
“Is that funny to you? ”
He shrugs. “Didn’t strike me as your type.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my type.”
“Don’t I?” he says with a grin, and I scoff.
“What do you want, Torren King?”
“Nothing. Just to talk.”
“I’m not a Heartless groupie.”
The grin doesn’t leave his face as he shakes his head. “Didn’t think you were.”
“Do you always speak in fragments?”
My annoyance is clear as I look him over. My annoyance and my attraction. The fragments irritate me as much as they intrigue me. They fit the vibe he gives off. Like he’s too cool to waste words. Like too many would inhibit the mystery surrounding him, lifting the veil to reveal the man beneath. My curiosity about seeing that man is too great to ignore.
“I can speak in full sentences, if you prefer,” he says after a moment.
“I prefer.”
“How are you enjoying the show?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m missing the band I wanted to see actually. Are you done?”
“You can go back if you want to. You don’t have to stay here with me.”
The last two words— with me —are like railroad spikes drilling my feet into the ground. I don’t care about the band. I don’t care about anything except staying right here with Torren King.
When I don’t move, he does, closing the ten feet of space between us. He doesn’t speak. He just keeps his face trained on mine. It’s unnerving. Once again, I’m forced to look at my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. My lipstick is dulled from the beers and greasy pizza. My eyeliner is smudged from the sweat. My hair is stuck to my neck. My red-feathered headpiece is still perfect, though, and my body glitter shimmers, drawing attention to my collarbone and cleavage, highlighting every inhale and exhale.
“Take off your sunglasses,” I tell him, and he doesn’t hesitate.
His long fingers remove the sunglasses slowly before hanging them on the collar of his shirt, and when he makes eye contact with me, my heart skips. Despite his dilated pupils, I can still see the glow of his irises. His eyes are so green . A different green than mine. Like emeralds instead of moss. Ethereal instead of earthy.
“Are you high?”
He tilts his head to the side. “Isn’t everyone?”
I don’t answer. I suppose everyone is. I’ve only had a few hits of a joint, but I’m definitely not sober.
“How are you here without swarms of adoring fans?”
He shrugs. “I don’t usually draw much attention on my own.”
I know what he’s implying. Sav is the one who comes with the media frenzy and the fan mobs. Torren is popular, sure, but he’s not the one people lose their minds over. Not most people, anyway. I might be a different story.
I should ask him about Sav. Ask where she is. Ask why he’s not with her. I should, but I don’t. I don’t ask for the same reason I didn’t correct him when he called Becket my friend , and the thrill of being in Torren’s presence is enough to drown out any guilt I might feel from omitting the truth.
Sav and Torren are probably broken up... again . I saw the slap. I know the rumors about their relationship. As for Becket and me, we’re not dating. Not really. We make out. We fool around. We’re, in Becket’s own words, keeping it casual . We were probably going to have sex for the first time tonight, but he’s not my boyfriend . I’m drilling that fact into my head when Torren speaks.
“You want to go back to my bus?”
“No.”
The answer comes out almost before he finishes the question, and he grins like he finds me entertaining. Almost like he expected my answer. He isn’t disappointed at all. I scowl.
“I’m not going anywhere alone with you.”
“You’re alone with me now.”
Any retort dies on my tongue, so I raise a challenging brow instead. He laughs, causing chills to skitter over my skin despite the heat, and then he shakes his head.
“I’m kidding. I just don’t want to push my luck with the crowd. I want to get to know you without the threat of fanfare.”
I open my mouth once more, to say I don’t even know what, when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and look down at the screen.
Beck
Where you at? I’m in the beer line.
Nerves claw at my throat, suddenly protective of whatever weird bubble I’ve found myself in with Torren. I don’t want it popped yet. I don’t want to be the reason his cover is blown. I flick my eyes to the man in question to find him studying me intently.
“Your friend ?”
I don’t answer him. I type out a quick text to Becket, trying my best to ignore the way Torren’s eyes make my heart quicken, mixing with my nerves and making me feel dizzy.
Me
Found a friend from high school. Be back later.
I’ve resolved to following Torren to his bus despite my earlier refusal. I shove down the niggling knowledge that it could be a very bad idea. Lust and curiosity suffocating every ounce of logical thought.
I put my phone away and look back at Torren. I’m about to tell him to lead the way when he shoves his hands in his pockets and straightens his back. I’m stunned a bit at how tall he is when he’s not sporting his cool kid slouch.
“I’ll let you get back to your friend. But if you care, I’ll be in Picasso tomorrow night at ten.”
Picasso is one of the activity tents dedicated to the arts. Every tent has a different name, and a different itinerary for the week.
“That’s during tomorrow’s headliner,” I say, the statement coming out slowly, betraying the interest I’ve been trying to hide.
“It is.”
“Are you going to tell me what you’ll be doing there?”
He smirks. “Waiting for you.”
He turns on his heel, and once again I stare at his retreating back, watching him leave and feeling like something I was gripping so tightly has slipped through my fingers.
“Why?” I call out, making him turn back around.
“Does it matter? ”
“It matters to me.”
The silence stretches between us, and the longer I wait, the further down my heart sinks in my chest. I didn’t realize how much it mattered until I said the words. Am I just an opportunity? Was I simply in the right place at the right time to catch his eye? Or is it something more strategic—a ploy to make sure I don’t go to the tabloids about Sav’s slap?
Everyone wants to be special. No one wants to feel like just another warm body to be used. Even now, standing in front of this gorgeous rock star I’ve been obsessed with for years in a scenario most people would kill for, I want it to be more than it probably is.
If he says there’s no particular reason, I won’t go.
If I don’t like what he says, I won’t go.
I won’t subject myself to any situation that will leave me feeling lesser. I have standards. I have self-respect. I won’t let him turn me into just another Heartless groupie, no matter how beautiful or tempting or mysterious he is.
Resisting the urge to fidget with my feather skirt, I stand my ground instead. I don’t take my eyes off him. I will him to tell me the truth. To tell me something compelling enough to make me meet him tomorrow night.
Then his lips curve slightly, slowly, into the kind of suggestive smirk I feel all the way to my toes.
“You intrigue me, Firebird,” he says finally, his voice a sensual rasp. “And I think I might be a bit of a pyro.”
I watch him turn to leave once more, and this time I don’t stop him. I think about what he said the whole walk back to the tent.
You intrigue me, Firebird.
I might be a bit of a pyro.
It’s corny, yes, but it’s not not compelling. Having Torren King say that I intrigue him does more things to my insides than Becket calling me hot today, and I can’t deny that.
And the nickname. Fuck. I’m a sucker for a good nickname.
I take out my phone and shoot a text to Becket. I tell him I’m going to bed because I have a headache and ask that he not wake me when he gets back to the tent. He sends back “K,” and I can practically hear the disappointment emanating from the phone screen. Becket thought we were going to have sex tonight. Hell, I thought we were going to have sex tonight.
But now, instead of dwelling on the fact that my desire to sleep with Becket has dissipated like cigarette smoke into the hot night air, I’m pulling up the festival app and searching the schedule for tomorrow night in art tent Picasso.
When my eyes find it on the itinerary, my breath lodges in my throat and my nipples pebble. Latex Body Painting.
Fuck it.
Looks like I’ll be meeting a rock star at 10:00 p.m. tomorrow night after all.