The Girl in the Painting

Ansel’s brother raises a brow, and it’s my turn to shrug.

“That’s what Led Zeppelin always used to say before they walked onstage.”

“No shit?” Bram asks and I nod.

Bram looks at his brother. “Keep her around, yeah?”

“Shut up.” Ansel laughs, and his fingers tighten ever-so-slightly around my shoulder. “We’ll see you after the show.”

We offer our goodbyes to the rest of the band and head back down the hallway toward the inside of the venue.

“Led Zeppelin really said that?” Ansel asks just as we walk past security.

I lift my shoulders under his arm. “Hell if I know. It just sounded good.”

His chuckle is so big and hearty, it echoes off the walls. “What am I going to do with you?”

His question is meant to be teasing, but I can’t stop myself from wondering, what is he going to do with me?

My unbidden thought puts me at the edge of the slippery slope of reality, so I back away slowly. Rock crumbles and tumbles down the cliff into the deep-seated complications of the question, but I find firmer ground just a few inches away by focusing on the here and now.

On the literal answer to his abstract question.

“Take me to the bar,” I say with a smile. “I could use a drink before the show.”

By the time New Rules takes the stage, I am one shot of whiskey—Ansel’s choice—and three beers deep. For most people, that probably doesn’t sound like a lot of alcohol, but it’s about four times as much as I’ve had to drink at any given time in the last two years.

But goddamn, I feel good.

The music feels good.

And Ansel, well, he feels good too.

We’re facing the stage, and his arms are wrapped around my waist and his chin rests on my shoulder as we watch Bram and his band finish a song from their latest album.

The venue is packed to the brim, but since Ansel is related to the band, we’re standing in our own little VIP area located on the right side of the stage.

Bram sings the final lyrics of “Temple,” and the crowd pretty much loses their shit—including me.

He grins toward the audience and reaches down to take a swig of water from the bottle sitting on the ground near Lee’s drums.

“Thank you,” Bram says into the mic. “Did you know that, ten years ago today, this is the exact spot where we got our big break?”

Everyone hoots and hollers and claps their hands, and a woman in the back screams, “I love you!”

“Love you too, honey,” he responds as he adjusts a few chords on his guitar. “All right, so we’re going to play another tune, but we’re doing things a little different tonight. I’m feeling nostalgic, so we’re going to play a cover of one of my favorite Dire Straits songs. A song we played before we knew how to play much of anything else. Here goes something awesome…”

The band starts into a rhythm, and the soft and sweet sounds of “Romeo and Juliet” fill my ears.

I sway my hips, and Ansel moves to the music with me. His warm breath is right beside my ear as he sings along to the lyrics.

I don’t know if it’s me or Ansel or the alcohol making the decisions around here, but I turn on my heels and wrap my arms around his neck. Our faces are inches from each other, and our eyes feel chained together.

He moves his hands to my lower back, and a shiver runs the distance from them to the back of my neck.

He mouths the words to the song. How about it?

My gaze moves from his eyes to his lips to his eyes again, and the urge to stand up on my tippy-toes and press my mouth to his is potent and overwhelming.

Just one little taste. That’s all I want.

Closer and closer, I shut off my mind and lean. Toward Ansel. Toward the kiss. Toward satisfaction.

“Can I get you anything else to drink?” a bar waitress yells over the music, stepping up and into our area and breaking me out of my stupor.

I shoot away from him like I’ve been tased, and the truth is, I have.

Her interruption is the only thing that stopped me from making a criminal mistake.

“Another beer please!” I pretty much shout toward her.

Surely, another beer will serve as a good distraction, right?

I may be a little tipsy, but in my slightly inebriated opinion, that’s a brilliant fucking idea. Drink beer and dance and don’t do anything stupid.

I can handle that.

Right?

Ansel

The cab driver starts the meter and heads toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

Being inside of a cab makes my stomach churn and my skin crawl with unease, but Indy was swaying on her feet and it’s nearly two in the morning. Visions of her stumbling around the subway platform—maybe off of it—made me suck up my discomfort. Plus, I didn’t want to call Hank and make him get out of bed at this hour.