Chapter 50 Angst
Angst
Lily-Anne
Ellenor barks like a drill sergeant through the door. “ OKAY, LOVEBIRDS, THAT’S ENOUGH HOKEY-POKEY. FIELD TRIP STARTS NOW. MOVE IT OUT, DOUBLE TIME!”
Brandon groans, letting his head thunk against the shower door one more time before he leans forward to embrace me. He buries his face in my hair and inhales, his hands lingering at my waist.
“We really have to go,” I whisper, though I don’t move either.
“I know.” He exhales slowly, then he releases me, turning to the sink. Cold water splashes over his face and down his neck as he braces himself against the vanity, droplets clinging to his jaw.
“Give me a minute,” he says, voice still rough. “I’ll be right behind you.”
I slip out, my legs still unsteady, my cheeks warm.
I find the others already gathering their things in controlled chaos.
If I hoped for subtlety from Ellenor, I was delusional. She clocks me at once, her lips curling.
“You’re limping.”
“My foot’s half-broken,” I reply hotly.
“Seemed fine earlier. If I didn’t know any better, you two have been at it like rabbits since day one.”
I blow out a breath that lifts the hair from my face, my lower lip jutting out as I mutter, “I wish.”
Brandon joins us outside, neat and orderly, but his composure is betrayed when he remembers his guitar and dashes back inside.
I hurry to help him, and then we’re carpooling in Rupert and Barbara’s car with Mum, while Ellenor sits behind Sean on the motorbike yelling, “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” at us like we’re leaping into a troop carrier.
The pub is busy, but we manage to claim a table near the back.
A server brings our drinks—a pint for Rupert, wine for the rest of us.
I find myself watching Brandon across the room instead of joining the conversation.
He’s on stage with the other musicians, gesturing casually as they huddle around sheet music and instruments.
Admiration stirs. For all his protests about not wanting to perform, he fits seamlessly among them. They lean in when he speaks, nodding with what looks like genuine respect—maybe even a touch of awe.
There’s an ease to him up there, a quiet authority I’ve seen glimpses of but never like this. He belongs on that stage, whether he admits it or not.
I almost laugh when the lead singer announces their first song: The Anthem by Good Charlotte. It’s going to be a night of teenage angst after all.
“Freaking yes.” Ellenor grins, catching my eye. “Bet you ten quid they play Sum 41.”
I lean forward. “Make it twenty, they also do Green Day.”
She takes a sip of her drink, eyes sparking. “You’re on.”
“I hope they play Master of Puppets,” Barbara murmurs softly, smoothing her pearls.
“Is that the Julie Andrews one?” Rupert asks.
“No, dear.”
Metallica aside, the band plays all our favourites.
It’s the nostalgia trip I didn’t know I needed, and it feels just like it used to with Ellenor all those years ago—driving along the coast in her little second-hand car, windows down, belting college rock lyrics at the top of our lungs on a milkshake sugar high.
Thinking it would always feel like that.
Tonight, it does.
There’s something intoxicating about seeing Brandon onstage, his hands sure on the fretboard, his body leaning into the rhythm, eyes half-closed like the music consumes him.
He isn’t performing for us. He’s lost in it. And I’m lost watching him, my skin buzzing and pulse tripping. I feel like a live wire, and one touch from him might short-circuit my sanity.
Someone tousled his hair because it’s standing every which way on end, and he changed his shirt for a black one before leaving the house.
Ellenor leans close to my ear, following my gaze as she slurps her drink. “A bit of eyeliner and he’d look like what’s-his-name on that Green Day poster you had in your room.”
I swallow hard. “Yep.”
“You know…I bet you could convince him to get a tattoo of—”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Sean has one on his—”
“No.”
I don’t take my eyes off Brandon, and she backs off with a knowing smile. The music swells, and something reckless unfurls in me. For a wild moment, I imagine crossing the room and kissing him senseless onstage.
In this dress, with the lights catching on every shimmer, I almost believe I could do it.
He looks up mid-performance, eyes sweeping the room until they find mine. The connection snaps tight—electric, inevitable—and the whole pub falls away.
No band. No crowd.
Just him and me.
I forget how to breathe.
When the performance ends and the applause fades, I push my way through the crowd to find him, my pulse still racing, nerves fizzing under my skin.
He’s in the narrow hallway outside the kitchen, crouched down and packing his guitar away with calm, methodical movements, as if he didn’t just set me on fire in public.
I tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly nervous.
I’m aware of how many people are around. Some clearly know Brandon, and they stare curiously as I approach him.
He glances up from his guitar case and smiles—a small, private one just for me.
My nerves scatter.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly breathless.
He rises slowly, unfolding to his full height. The hallway feels narrower with him standing there. The other musicians keep packing up, but it all blurs into background noise the moment he steps towards me.
I close the distance, heart in my throat. My hands find his shirt, sliding up the line of buttons as I rise onto my tiptoes to press my lips to his.
He kisses me, slow and deep.
Want and need collide, finally.
Our foreheads brush as he pulls back a fraction.
“Back to the cottage?” he says, voice low.
I nod, and he takes my hand. We intend to walk, but on our way out, Sean tosses something to him.
“Take the motorbike,” Sean says as Brandon catches the keys. “You’re welcome.”
My eyebrows shoot up as we step outside. “Don’t you need a licence for that?”
Brandon’s mouth tilts in a half-smile. “I’ve got one.”
Oh.
Oh yes.
Especially when he shrugs into Sean’s leather jacket. It fits him obscenely well, drawing attention to his broad shoulders and forearms flexing.
“Don’t tell me you used to be a daredevil,” I tease, zipping mine against the chill.
His eyes flash. “Why don’t I show you?”
I try to hide how nervous I am as I climb on behind him, carefully swinging my injured leg over, my arms circling his waist.
“Hold on.”
The engine growls, and we shoot down the coastal road—wind ripping through my hair, salt air sharp on my lips. Streetlights and sea blur, golden smears against black.
I bury my face against his back, breathless with laughter and adrenaline.
We take the long way home—past the harbour, along the sleeping beachfront, then through the narrow Whitstable streets, Brandon manoeuvring the heavy bike with ease.
When we finally pull up outside the cottage, my legs are unsteady as I climb off. Brandon removes his helmet, hair mussed, eyes burning like he already knows every thought in my head.
We barely make it three steps towards the door before he stops, cups my face, and kisses me again—backing me against the wall, the cool night air clashing with the heat of him.
We shed our jackets, and he tries to unlock the door without breaking the kiss.
He fumbles the key, cursing as they fall, and I laugh, fingers curling into his shirt, dizzy and happy as he stoops to pick them up.
He straightens and whispers in my ear, “God, I can’t think when you’re this close.”
A giggle escapes me, and it incites him, because he spins me around and pins me to the door, my back meeting cool wood as his lips press against my neck, hands exploring me, pulling me as close to him as he can.
We’re lost in the kiss, trying to find the handle—then it turns, and we stumble inside the hallway, laughing, clinging to each other for balance.
“Bedroom,” Brandon rasps, and I lead the way, aware of the heat of his gaze searing a path down my spine as he follows, my metallic skirt fluttering with every step to tempt him.
We cross the threshold into the bedroom, and suddenly, the frenzy from the hallway dissolves.
I stand in the middle of the room, nervousness prickling my skin as I turn to face him, slowly, my breath straining. The anticipation that’s been building all night crystallises into something sharper, more real, the butterflies that were fluttering in my belly now scattering.
Brandon stands in the doorway, eyes burning into mine with an intensity that roots me to the spot. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away. His gaze holds me captive as he reaches back and shuts the door with a soft click.
The lock turns.
The sound echoes in the quiet room.
He moves towards me—not rushed but purposeful, like he’s savouring every step that brings him closer.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
When he reaches me, he lifts one hand to my face, fingers trailing along my jaw with aching slowness. His thumb brushes my lower lip, and I tremble.
“You’re stunning,” he says, low and appreciative, like he still can’t believe I’m here with him.
Heat floods through me. I reach for the top button of his dark shirt, fingers fumbling slightly. He covers my hand with his, kissing each of them in turn, before he helps work the buttons free. I part the fabric, revealing a broad chest with warm skin.
I push the shirt from his shoulders and let it fall.
“Turn around,” he murmurs, and I obey, feeling his hands thread through my hair before finding the zipper of my dress. He draws it down slowly, the metallic grey fabric loosening around me. His knuckles graze my spine, and goose bumps rise in their wake.
His breath is warm against the nape of my neck. “I think…I’m developing a thing for zippers.”
“Me too,” I say giddily as the dress slips from my shoulders. I let it fall, shimmering silver pooling around my feet. Then I turn.
I stand before him in nothing but the leg brace and pink lace bra and knickers—delicate, barely-there scraps that make his breath catch.