They cut it off with a jointly shouted, “Fuck off,” not losing eye contact.
“I want to kiss you so badly and that’s so fucked up,” he said, watching her face for answers.
“You’re never going to kiss me again. I’m never going to trust you again.”
He saw anger; the confused, everything hurts, passionate kind. “Tell me right now you don’t want to have rip-it-all-up angry sex.”
“I don’t want to have any kind of sex with you.”
“Liar.”
Up came her hand, smack over his pec. “No, that’s your thing.” She leaned in and her caramel scent filled his head. Nothing sweet on her tongue. “I didn’t break any promises. That was all you. You were going to stand with me. You were going to love me forever.”
That’s not what he’d meant about broken promises. He’d had no choice. They were almost pressed together now; glancing touches, his knee to her thigh, her elbow winging past his gut, her foot jammed between his.
“Hate and love are a razor’s edge, Evie.”
“You
already made me bleed out any feeling I had for you.” She pulled her hand away from his chest, but gripped his forearm as if it was the only thing keeping her upright.
It might’ve been the only thing keeping him upright. “If that was true,” his voice came out a low growl, “we wouldn’t be shouting at each other.” Standing like a hug stalled; touching like damage desired.
“I’m not doing this,” she whispered, eyes closed, sounding in some way broken, like he’d hurt her anew.
He stepped back, appalled, and her hand fell away. “We should do the guerilla gig. It’s a sharp idea. I’ll do whatever you and the guys want.”
She raised her eyes to his, searching his face for what? What did she want from him? He could shake her. He could stroke her hair and smooth the frown from her brow. It was fucked up but he’d give her anything she asked for.
“We’re not friends, Jay. We’re not anything. Going back to the Grumpy Fiddler is nothing to me. I don’t want your apologies. I don’t need your approval. I don’t want to be singled out for your attention.”
He’d barely reacted to that with a blunt nod when she left him, going back to the conference room. He slumped against the wall. She remembered. She was anything but indifferent to him, but they were not friends and he didn’t want to see that confusion on her face, hear that hurt in her voice again. No more accidental touches. No more looking for explanations or spoiling for a fight.
Back in the conference room, Evie was the only one who didn’t look over at him when he walked back in. He didn’t have to do this. World’s End were one of the biggest bands on the planet right now. He had his own social media marketing people. He could shove his own phone in his own face and post his own message to fans to sell more tickets that Lost Property would get the benefit of with their cut from extra shows.
“It’ll be dope, Jay,” Abel said.
He’d thought Abel would be in his life forever. It would be legendary. They must’ve renovated the old pub by now. It wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t be the reminder he didn’t want.
“If the Foo Fighters can play a pizzeria, Property of Paradise can play the Grumpy Fiddler,” he said.
Abel threw both arms in the air. Isaac high fived him. Jay could see Oscar’s lips curve up. Mum and Errol were in obvious agreement. His boys were happy, they’d get extra time off to play tourist while there were PoP rehearsals and the show.
That left Evie, swiping her phone screen, as if this wasn’t something she’d set in motion.
PoP would play a guerilla gig, but it was Evie who was all stealth.
FIVE
Evie was the only one not sweating and yet she felt the heat.
Grip was shirtless and steaming. Abel’s tee was plastered to him. Isaac was red-faced and sweat dripped off Oscar’s nose onto his keyboard.
And Jay?
Jay was obscenely wet, his hair plastered back, his white singlet almost transparent, his jeans gone dark in patches at the waist.
She was thirsty to the soles of her feet from staring at him. And the longer the rehearsal went on, the more she valued the hiding place she used to watch from, and the more she thirsted.