13 EVIE #2
She narrowed her eyes, and then we stood in silence as the roar of anticipation from the crowd beyond climbed and the house lights dimmed.
Just then, I felt the weight of another person suddenly pressed against my hip and shoulder.
I knew it was him the millisecond before I looked.
I turned to my left to see Carter, leaning against the wall beside me, our hips touching, and I couldn’t help the slight smile that appeared.
“Hi there,” he said. He’d changed his shirt, and it smelled of fresh laundry and something distinctly him.
Of aged whiskey and powdery summer nights and earth.
“Are you having a productive day so far?” He was nearly whispering, with mock politeness playing in his voice.
It gave the impression of two people engaged in an intimate secret.
I replied in kind. “Yes, I am. Thank you for asking. And you?”
“Better than usual.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” The crowd beyond roared again as the stage lights swirled.
“How’s the hand?”
“Better, thanks.”
“So who was it—Virginia Woolf or Sylvia Plath?” He took a drink from a water bottle and twisted the cap back, setting it beside him on a road case, then folded his arms and leaned against the wall, like he had nothing better to do.
“Pardon?”
“The book you last took to the beach. I’m guessing ... Woolf.”
Who is this guy? “Neither, actually.”
“Really?” He cocked his head. “I’m usually right about these things.”
“Well, you’re not.” Not technically, anyway. “Don’t you have someplace to be?” I gestured toward the stage.
“Okay. Fine. Don’t tell me, then.”
“If you must know, it was Graham Greene.”
“Interesting. Nice taste.”
“I’m so glad you approve.”
“I’m an Austen fan myself.” His tone was familiar and warm, like we had known each other for years, not hours, but playfully formal.
I laughed. “You are not.”
Sylvia cleared her throat. I’d somewhat forgotten she was there until I felt her stare boring into the side of my face.
“Sorry, uh, this is ...” I gestured to Sylvia.
“Well. I’ve gotta go. Stuff to do, you know?” he said, ignoring the introduction as if she didn’t exist, then walking backward toward the stage, eyes locked on mine.
I made a show of glancing at my watch and raised a brow at him. “I imagine you have someplace important to be, yes?”
Sylvia quickly followed. “Carter? Hi, I’m Sylvia from—”
“No.” He didn’t even look at her when he said it.
Dismissed her without so much as a glance.
Eyes wide, Derek stifled a laugh with his fist as Sylvia was left cold, with her mouth hanging half-open.
He really was a publicist’s nightmare. Sylvia was one of the top reviewers in New York, not someone you wanted to offend.
“And we have massive partying to do at the gardening expo,” he called over his shoulder, joking. I couldn’t help but laugh at his teasing, even if it was at my expense. He slid a monitor over his ear and disappeared onto the side of the stage.
“What an arrogant asshole,” Sylvia said, recovering.
I stood a little taller that night.
“Um.” Derek leaned in, clearly amused. “What exactly was that?”
“I bumped into him in catering earlier.” I shrugged and looked away as if it were nothing, while attempting to suppress a smile.
He gave me a look. “Uh-huh.”
“Really. I bumped into him and got my story. Nice guy.”
He raised an eyebrow, and Sylvia audibly scoffed. I could feel the heat of her glare as clearly as I could feel the heat of where he had pressed up against me.
“Okay, well, on that fascinating note, I’m heading down.” Derek nodded toward the area at the front of the stage where local photographers had lined up.
I’d always loved the energy in the air as the show was just starting, standing at the base of the stage and looking out at the thousands of people while music resonated in my bones.
Like the crackling air that precedes a thunderstorm.
Moments later, from the press pit at the front of the stage, amid a sea of thousands, I watched the crowd as the sounds of Alex’s guitar intro began playing through the massive speakers that towered two stories above me.
Mayluna would come to be known best for their nighttime shows—they weren’t a band that shone as well during the day.
And while their production was minimal as an opening band that night, it hinted at the enormous productions that would one day be their future.
Everything was cast in ghostly black and white, creating deep shadows, while a large screen behind displayed mesmerizing geometric shapes spinning slowly, the whole effect creating a kind of trancelike setting.
As the slow burn of the music played, Carter appeared, somehow completely transformed from the man I’d just interacted with.
He walked out onto the stage, his features lit only from above, and took his position at the microphone, head down at first, his face in shadow as he began to sing.
I understood immediately why he had been called “haunted.” And while previously brought to reverent silence, when he eventually looked up, the crowd went wild.
Despite being the opener, I could already see they would become stars.
Beside me, Derek followed every movement, capturing it on film in a distinctive style that would come to be well known as the years went on.
Carter sauntered deliberately and dramatically over the stage, pouring the music out to the crowd now clamoring at his feet.
When he looked over and spotted me standing there, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly, and he strolled over.
He stopped just short of where I stood and stared down at me as he sang the lyrics to one of the biggest songs of the summer.
After a moment, he was gone, and when he winked goodbye, time stopped just a little.
We often joked about that wink. No matter the prodding I gave him, he always maintained resolute innocence, refusing to admit that he had known the effect it would have on me.
“You probably pulled that wink thing a dozen times before, at every show,” I’d say, teasing him.
“Make that one special girl in the audience’s knees buckle.
It’s a good trick.” He would shake his head and laugh.
Insisted otherwise. Insisted that he barely made it through that performance, wanting to jump off the stage and disappear with me.
What he saw in me that night, I’ll never know.
Later, I stood to the side of the stage as a group of about twenty promotional winners from a radio station huddled in anticipation, waiting to be escorted into a meet and greet with The Evolution.
As I quietly watched from the corner, they glanced at the Local All Access pass that dangled around my neck with an expression I’d come to recognize.
The look that asked, How on earth did you get this job?
Yes, I wanted to respond, it is quite glamourous.
Raymond Tompkins actually threw up on my favorite boots last month.
And I was in the room when a doctor shoved an IV line of some sort of cocktail into Glenn Brixton’s arm to prepare the seventy-two-year-old to strut his stuff onstage.
“Just tuning the instrument, darlin’,” he’d said when he spotted me watching.
Fabulous stuff, really. What can I say, living the dream. Great job? Yes. Always wonderful? No.
As Mayluna filed past from the stage and Carter noticed me once again, he slowed, sweat glistening on his face from the heat and the performance.
“Are you following me?” he asked, glancing at me with a playful expression. Nearby, a teenage girl, one of the winners from the radio station promotion, looked from him to me and then back to him again, eyes wide.
“Following you? Something like that. I guess I must find you irresistible. Seems to be catching,” I quipped before instantly regretting it. I might as well have slapped a name tag on my chest with the name S YLVIA written on it.
Someone pushed a ticket stub and a Sharpie toward him, and he paused, signing it quickly as he bit his cheek with a smile. He looked up at me sideways, beneath hooded eyes, held my gaze intently for a few moments, and then:
“I think I know exactly what you mean.” His eyes flickered, and then he was gone. Disappearing behind a black door.
By that point in my career, I’d met dozens of musicians, big and small. Men and women who made a living being irresistible to an audience, while I always remained passively immune. And yet this one, on this night, was the only one to make time freeze.
Twenty minutes later, they had left the building.
I figured he was gone for good and that would be that.