Chapter 17 #2
Gingerly peering around the corner to spy our followers’ position, I spot them walking down the path next to us with their heads whipping around to find us.
I pull back, slotting myself back into position.
But Elliot’s hand suddenly grips my waist, and then he’s expertly manoeuvring and twisting us around so his back faces the path, blocking me from view. I stare at him, breathless.
‘Sorry, your hair is… eye-catching,’ he says quietly, his voice rougher than usual. ‘Better to hide you.’
Well. He’s not wrong.
My waist tingles with the memory of his hand on me, and I fiercely try to keep a creeping blush at bay.
What is happening to me?
We’re still standing eye to eye but with a little more breathing space between us now. To my amusement, he tries to appear casual to passers-by and leans against the wall of the stall.
‘Can you see anything?’
I angle my head to try and get a view behind him.
‘They’re still there,’ I breathe. ‘I don’t think they’ve seen us, though.’
They both linger in the middle of the path looking nonplussed. A sizeable part of me inwardly applauds at the sight.
‘Any sign of them leaving?’ he asks tightly.
My eyes catch his briefly and I definitely detect a hint of desperation. I’m sure he’s keen to get out of this situation as much as I am.
‘Not really. Hopefully they won’t take long.’
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair roughly. If I didn’t know him better he almost looks a bit… bashful?
Before I can look away, his eyes suddenly shift upwards and lock onto mine.
His pupils are blown wide and there’s a tenderness, something so raw in his expression, that it holds me completely still.
My breath stalls somewhere in my chest as an unmistakable flurry of warmth spreads down my belly.
His lips part ever so slightly as his hesitant blue-eyed gaze travels down my face, and a humiliating, shaky breath escapes me.
Cursing my lungs for betraying me and failing to function normally, I quickly force my gaze downward, away from his.
The drumstick sits in our hands next to us, and I immediately notice his tight grip on it – the way his hand is clenched so fiercely around it. So hard I can see the bones of his knuckles pressing against his skin.
I take another careful breath, then glance over his shoulder.
‘I think they might be gone,’ I murmur.
He instantly turns to look behind him and takes a step away from me, his body starting to protrude from our hiding nook. I hate myself for the way I mourn the feeling of his body against mine.
‘You sure?’ he replies, his voice still uneven.
‘Yeah, I can’t see them.’
He double checks this, his face an unreadable mask.
‘I guess we’re good to go,’ he says, stepping further out slowly.
My laugh comes out a little too breathy. ‘Well, that worked. Good thinking!’ I say, lightly tapping his arm with an unnatural joviality.
‘Hopefully they’re gone for good,’ he mutters, glaring down the path.
I clear my throat, keen to move conversation along and not ruminate on whatever that just was.
‘I guess some people just don’t care for sportsmanship.
They want the winnings because they think they deserve it more, or something.
The dark side of fandoms, I suppose,’ I say mildly, as we begin retracing our steps down the path at a slow pace.
‘I have heard fandoms can get competitive.’
‘Yeah. There’s normally at least a few people that give every fandom a bad name.’
‘You wouldn’t say you’re competitive? I seem to remember you saying you loved this band more than anyone?’ he asks with a knowing smirk.
‘I–’ I pause mid-step. ‘No, I didn’t? Did I?’
‘You sure did. Not to mention you quizzing me to check if I was a real fan? Remember that?’ he says, his smile growing. I blink at him and let him lead me around a clump of people.
‘I – I didn’t quiz you – I was just kidding around…’
‘I’m not sure you were though,’ he teases.
I suddenly feel the need to bite back. ‘I’m not a cheater though,’ I counter. ‘Even if I think I deserve to win in some capacity, at least I’m doing it honestly.’
‘True. But doesn’t every fan who’s taking part honestly deserve to win? Just as much as you?’ He raises his perfect brows. I glower.
No, a terrible little part of me wants to scream. I need this more than anybody.
I know I can’t say it out loud, but I can’t ignore that tiny voice that does believe I deserve this prize. That surely no one could possibly find it more significant than me. The revelation makes me feel a bit queasy.
‘Are you accusing me of being a toxic fan, Walker?’ I say in a low voice.
He hesitates, and then glances at me with the tiniest flicker of terror. ‘No, no, I’m not. But that ‘competitive’ part of fandoms you mentioned. I just thought it felt familiar, that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ I say, nearly knocking into him as someone runs past me. ‘Well, you’ve made your point abundantly clear.’
‘I’m not saying you’re toxic, Nora. But there is maybe an air of competitiveness that you share with some… fans.’
‘Right.’
The fact I can see that Elliot isn’t totally wrong in this case is making my head spin.
I feel mildly mortified by the knowledge that I could be ‘that’ kind of fan.
The entitled fan who believes that because of their unique dedication or connection to the art, they’ve earned or deserve some kind of reward.
Elliot must somehow see my mind going round in circles.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–’
‘No, it’s okay,’ I say, my voice softer. ‘I see your point.’
As he leads us around another large group, I scan the area to make sure the girls aren’t hovering nearby.
‘I think I’m just bitter they didn’t have to go in the lake as well. They should smell too. It’s only fair,’ he mutters.
I snort. ‘I’m starting to get the impression that you feel you didn’t get enough praise for going in the lake. Would you like me to get on my knees and thank you? Would you like a crown?’ I can’t escape the smile growing on my face. It’s just so easy to tease him.
‘No, thank you,’ he says flatly.
‘Are you afraid it will ruin your hair? You don’t want to mess with all that product.’
I silently curse myself for bringing his perfect hair into the conversation.
He frowns. ‘I don’t use any hair product.’
‘Oh, piss off,’ I scoff in outrage. The words leap out of my mouth before I even know they’re coming.
He laughs loudly in surprise. ‘Sorry?’
I avoid his eyes. ‘Uh – sorry, I think I bear a deep resentment for people who have perfect-looking hair with little to no effort. It’s annoying.
’ I point to my own frizzy curls for emphasis, and mentally berate myself for acknowledging his perfect-looking hair to his face. Stop fucking complimenting him!
‘No point in getting a crown anyway,’ he says. ‘It won’t match up to yours.’
‘Ha ha,’ I say dully.
‘What? I like the tiara.’
‘Really? I thought you found it silly,’ I say with an edge of suspicion.
‘No, I don’t. It suits you.’ He says it confidently, without a trace of humour or mockery. I try to keep my voice light in response.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
Christ. This guy has made me feel just about every emotion under the sun since we met. A day ago. That must deserve some kind of medal.