Chapter Twenty
RAVEN
CASH TAYLORSON is a liar. This place is not a fever dream.
It’s the fever dream’s acid trip after coming down from a cocaine bender.
FullSpectrum’s art installation is the most visually insane thing I have ever seen, a complete and total sensory overload that is nevertheless fantastical and wonderful.
From the moment I step into the building, I know I’m in for something special.
Knox waits for me just past the welcome desk, tickets in hand and that massive smile splashed across his features.
Most days, I can tell he got ready in a hurry, mismatched socks, wet hair, a slightly glazed look in his eyes like he just woke up.
Knox’s usual attire consists of old shirts and blue jeans that smell like they were just laundered but look like he was working in the dirt.
One morning, his T-shirt was on backward.
The only thing I know for sure at this point is that the man has an endless array of leather jackets.
Okay, five is not endless, but that’s enough for every day of the typical workweek.
But not today.
His thick beard is trimmed and oiled. His hair is combed and styled. Knox wears a classic all-black shirt and jeans, with his favorite leather jacket still on. The black has a subtle shine against his equally dark shirt and pants. He looks deliciously mysterious.
Oh, my God. This might be a mistake.
This guy is looking more like my type with every passing second.
“Good afternoon, beautiful,” he says as I approach him.
He holds up a lanyard, placing it over my head and entering my space in the process.
He smells sharp and clean, like mint, basil, and oakmoss. Like rainy afternoons and lazy mornings in bed. As soon as that scent hits my nose, I breathe deeper.
Oh, yeah. This was a mistake.
Feeling suddenly hotter, I clear my throat before saying, “Thanks.”
“You ready?”
“Let me stop off at the restroom for just a moment,” I say, spotting the signs.
By the time I’m in front of a mirror, I have half the contents of my purse out. Mascara, lip stain, and liner. Plus hairpins, a small perfume bottle, and ponytail holders.
My sepia-brown skin looks orange to my eyes, a telltale sign that my cheeks are high with blood.
I’m nervous. The last real date I went on was a year ago, and that ended with a handshake as we waited for our separate rideshares.
And now I’m about to go on a first date with a man who I let finger-bang me the first night we met and who now works for me.
Messy.
My mind is feeling out of control, so I busy my hands with touching up every minor imperfection in my makeup. I spritz myself several times, unsure if bus smell is a real thing, but suddenly feeling like I smell like it. I’m halfway through restyling my hair when I force myself to stop.
What are you doing? He just saw you. You look fine. Go!
I put my pink braids back into the half-up style I had when I walked in, put all my items back in my purse, and take three deep breaths to calm my overactive nervous system. Then I leave.
If I was expecting Knox to get less hot in the five minutes I was away, I am painfully wrong.
He’s removed his jacket, giving me a close-up view of his arm tattoos.
My core spasms a little at just the memory of the alleyway.
Thankfully, the installation demands my attention almost as soon as we step under the archway, and I have something to distract me from Knox’s arresting arms.
The first few spaces are like colorful storyboards, setting up the world we are about to experience.
Framed poster explaining certain mystical minerals.
Interactive game consoles that also give convenient directions.
Maps of the worlds and planets we are about to enter rendered entirely in moss art.
It’s like the dream before the fever starts.
It’s behind a triple layer of heavy blackout curtains that the real magic begins.
We’re bombarded by the sight and sound of hundreds of musical instruments hanging from the walls and ceiling, all playing themselves.
The drum kit suspended above us keeps tempo as the piano tickles itself.
The keys of saxophones and trumpets are pressed down by phantom fingers.
Phantom arms move the bows of violins and violas.
They all sway side to side, bursts of light coming from inside each instrument.
Knox and I cross the space and climb the stairs that lead into a dark, narrow hallway.
Our hands keep brushing against each other periodically, sending a jolt through my system.
At the end of the hallway, a new room opens up, and I feel as if we’ve entered into an all-white cave system.
The walls sparkle and shimmer with iridescent light, stalactites in every possible color hanging from the ceiling.
We follow the spiral staircase downward, finding golden stalagmites at the bottom.
“What is this madness?” I ask aloud as the golden stalagmites give way to an epic, massive forest scene that stretches across two stories.
Knox turns to me, “Do you not like it? We can go somewhere else if this isn’t your thing.”
“Absolutely not. Alice in Wonderland has nothing on this place,” I say, running off to a corner to view some odd creature. Its humanoid face is growing out of the wall.
“Alice on acid,” Knox offers, coming to stand right beside me.
“Yes!”
The longer I’m in here, the more I feel something like childlike wonder surface in me. Anywhere my attention lands, there is something else to look at, touch, or listen to. It’s chaos held together with a narrative through line.
“What’s this room?” I ask, looking down at the map in my hand as we at last leave the forest and enter a new environment.
“It’s called Soundless Subspace.” Knox glances up at the small plaque above our heads.
Knox pulls the handle, and we look inside the hatch.
It’s a cozy, bright, cocoon-like space. It’s not much bigger than the back of a small car, only big enough for two or three people to crawl in at a time.
The room smells faintly of sunscreen and dust. Every inch is covered in clear, thick plastic, and I see it’s filled with water.
It’s like a giant waterbed-like area, pink and white crystals floating inside.
We both climb inside, Knox closing the door behind us before he joins me in a lying position to look up at the ceiling.
The viewing screen above us shows a silent snippet of the installation’s storyline, but I quickly lose interest, distracted by Knox’s closeness.
Our sides nearly touch as we lie there. Every ordinary sound from outside the booth—the hum of hundreds of voices, the thrum and thunder of passing human weight—has been blocked out by the closed hatch.
All that’s left is the sounds of our breathing.
Knox’s hands rest on his stomach, fingers tapping an unheard rhythm. When our eyes meet, we both smile too quickly, looking away from each other. I suddenly feel like an awkward teenager.
“So…” he says, his thought left unfinished.
The word is eaten up by the space.
“I think the designers accomplished making it soundless in here,” I say.
“A plus for them.”
I laugh softly, not because what he said is funny, but because it gives me something to do.
Like his voice, my laugh doesn’t fade so much as be swallowed whole by the soft materials surrounding us, and all that remains is the quiet, thicker now.
Expectant. He shifts closer, the waterbed dipping slightly as he does.
That small movement feels significant, his nearness all-consuming.
His heat soaks into my skin, his smell fills my nostrils.
Clean and sharp, and welcome. I match him, turning onto my side so we face each other.
My heart hammers as his forehead meets mine, a tentative touch, like he’s giving me time to change my mind.
It’s so different from that first night in June.
The almost manic energy between us subsided into something wholly different yet no less intense.
It feels like a first kiss as our lips meet in a soft collision rather than a hard crash.
A last first kiss.
The thought arrives fully formed and sends a shock blooming through my chest and limbs, a held minor note finally resolving into a pleasant major chord.
The last time our lips met, it was a harsh and sloppy mess.
There were more teeth on my part than I initially remembered, my inhibitions and grace both nonexistent at the time.
Now our tongues meet in a languorous tangle, the oxygen trading between us for several glorious minutes.
Knox’s touch has an unexplainable familiarity as he grasps my hip, his squeeze firm and steady.
As we crawl out of the space back onto the main floor, I feel changed. The last few minutes have shifted something fundamental between us. Knox smiles at me, reaching for my hand. I welcome the gesture, our fingers curling into each other in a perfect fit.
“Oh, hey, are you Knox Knight?”
We both turn at the question.
A woman about my age is approaching us, her smile wide. The space is fairly dark, but I can see she has brown eyes and brown hair. The strands are wavy and tousled in a way that makes me wonder if her hair had been in a bun right before she approached us.
“Gill Wilson, huge fan!”
“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” Knox says, his tone and expression polite.
“Oh my God, I saw on your socials you were in the area doing some shows, but how crazy is it running into you in the real world?”
“Even the humble musician needs a night off here and there.”
I scoff at his word choice of humble. Knox Knight is not humble when it comes to his musical abilities. He glances back at me, squeezing my hand lightly.
“If it’s not too much to ask, could I get a picture with you?”
“Sure.”
Gill pulls out her phone, leaning into Knox. After a few snaps of close-ups of their faces, she looks at me.
“Would you mind?” she asks.
Her expression is hopeful as she holds out the device.