A Light in the Dark Page 8

  I turned away from him and sniffed the air, but I wasn’t stealthy enough.

  “Electricity and chrome, leather and vinyl,” he murmured in answer to my unasked question. “Maybe a little blood, sweat, and tears?”

  I skirted him, the tight space forcing my arm to brush against his as I passed. Talk about electricity. My whole body buzzed just being close to him, alone with him, here in my private world. “Yep,” I confirmed, trying to play it cool. “Add a couple of dust bunnies to the mix and you have no sweeter smell in all the world.” My hair had left damp patches on the shoulders of my T-shirt, and I reached up and lifted it off my neck and fluffed the ends a little in an attempt to cool the flush of heat that still suffused my skin.

  “Actually, your hair smells pretty good, too.”

  I let it drop back down around my shoulders but I didn’t turn to look at him. Did he think I’d been fishing for a compliment with that move? Oh, why did I let him unsettle me so badly?

  I coughed, and in a voice I hoped sounded light and confident, said, “Thanks. Pina colada. I’m glad it doesn’t taste as good as it smells. I’d eat my hair.” For the love of all that is good and gory, T-Bird. You sound as smart as a rock.

  Sebastian chuckled softly behind me, but I ignored him the best I could, and pointed at a stool in the middle of the room. It was the same one he’d sat on last Saturday night, the same one I’d pictured him on all week. “You’ll be there. You can use the amp on the floor, and there’s a power bar behind it if you need to plug anything else in.” I dragged another stool close as he pulled his Strat out of its case and plugged it in.

  This was the perfect opportunity to talk to him, to ask him what his beef with me had been in class last semester, to find out why he seemed to have changed his mind about me now. But every time I opened my mouth to speak, the words failed me. What was I supposed to say? How come you were such a jerk to me? What’s with the multiple personalities? Is there more to your story than the fact that you’re really, really ridiculously good-looking?

  “Need any cables?” I asked instead, pointing to a row of black coils hanging from a pegboard on one wall. Maybe after we played together a while first. Nothing like making music to break the ice, loosen the tongue a little.

  “I’m good,” he assured me. He was watching me again, even while he tuned up, so I busied myself strapping on my own guitar and plugging her in. The stools were the tiniest bit tall for me, and I had to stand on tiptoe to get my backside on the seat, but I managed, rotating to face him, our knees only inches apart. My eyes flew to his, wondering if I could spin away and slide my stool back without him noticing.

  Dang it. He was still staring at me. I smiled bravely. Soldier on, T-Bird. “Ready?”

  “I’m ready,” he replied, his voice low, husky.

  I dipped my chin, my breath coming quicker, but my eyes kept darting back to his unwavering gaze. How was I going to get through this?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I was one of those players who knew instinctively how to make my guitar sing, but I’d been born sorely lacking a steady time signature. Which was why having a strong rhythm guitar player was essential to our band. A drummer with excellent meter, like Jon, didn’t hurt either. Between Tom and Jon, they made sounding good a cake walk for me.

  Sebastian didn’t seem to suffer from the same malady I did, and when I suggested we use one of the preset rhythm tracks that were a necessity for me when practicing alone, he shook his head.

  “I’m good.” He laid the palm of his hand over his strings to deaden them, that half grin back in place. His eyes stayed glued to my face, but I still felt a strong impulse to hide behind my guitar. “Unless you need it, of course.”

  For a moment, I couldn’t decide whether to try and fake it, or be up front with him about my tendency to drag the tempo of every song, but I decided I’d rather be the one to tell him about it, than to have him think I wasn’t a big enough girl to admit when I needed help. I had my pride, but I wasn’t a diva.

  “I usually use one when I practice. It’s good discipline.” Okay. So that wasn’t quite the whole truth, but it was good enough for now, according to said pride. He didn’t need to know all my secrets right up front.

  Sebastian played a few bar chords, nodded, and then eyed me with a challenging glint. “Your call.”

  “You think you can keep us on track without it?” I would make it his problem, not mine.

  “Is that what I auditioned for? You need someone to keep you on track?” He winked, his voice low, teasing. “I’m your man, then.”

  “Ah. You’re one of those funny guys,” I retorted, my own fingers flitting over the strings of my ES-335.

  “Funny or not, I’m up for it. I won’t let you down, Tish.” He began strumming chords to the old classic from Bill Withers, “Lean on Me.”

  “That’s a piano song.” Now why did I say that? Trying to sound smart, that’s why. What an idiot.

  Sebastian just nodded agreeably and continued to pick out the chords. I finally gave in and played along.

  With little discussion, we moved right into a few of the more popular Marauders tunes, on which he had no trouble. I slipped off the stool and nudged it away so I could stand, and then began picking out the gypsy-like melody to our longest piece, “Siren’s Song.” It was one we often played as an opener. It started out low and pensive, building into a surge and flow, amping up our listeners for almost five minutes before I even sang the first words. I loved it for showcasing my guitar playing and working my voice in ways no other song did, but also because it was about a man who wins the heart of a siren, a woman who no longer believes in the goodness of love, but only in what she can gain from the men she lures into her arms. By the time the song reached its final crescendo, at somewhere around six minutes, our audiences were pretty fired up for whatever we were bringing.

  Sebastian stood, too, so we were facing each other. I called out a few chords during an intricate bridge so he wouldn’t lag, but Sebastian hadn’t been kidding. The man was a living, breathing metronome and he made finding my groove effortless. I began to sing, low and quiet at first, taking my time warming up while enjoying the way our guitars merged into one sound. When I heard him searching for harmonies, I stepped up to a microphone and cranked my vocals up a little, nodding at him to do the same with the microphone I’d set up for him.

  Something happened. I couldn’t tell you what it was, I couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment it did. But as we stood facing each other, eyes locked, his chords laying the foundation for my lead work, his voice filling out the empty places beneath mine, suddenly it was there, that magic between musicians who discover holy ground together. I felt tethered to him—no, anchored by him, all the while being pushed to new heights by him, by his driving rhythm, his pulsing heartbeat.

  Wait. That was my own heartbeat, throbbing inside me in time with his down-stroke. The man was playing me, through me, around me, making the music of my heart come to life in a way I’d never experienced before.

  The song ended, fading into stillness, both of us hesitant to move, or speak, lest we dispel the magic still potent in the air between us. Then Sebastian’s eyes slowly lowered to my lips, and he took one small step toward me.

  “Do you two want to lay that down? Sounded pretty amazing.” It was Tom. Headphones on, listening to us, watching us from the dimly lit mixing room. I suddenly felt exposed, caught unawares, and for the first time in all the years I’d known Tom, I felt like he had inserted himself where he wasn’t wanted. I took a step back and unplugged my guitar, dropping the cable to the carpeted floor, my heart still doing somersaults inside my ribcage. I slowly set my guitar down on one of the myriad of stands strategically placed around the room, giving myself a moment to mask my face before looking up at Tom through the glass panel.

  It was wrong to feel this way, like he was an intruder. Wrong. This was Tom’s band, too, and it was Tom’s remarkable shoes that Sebastian was going to be filli
ng. I needed to wipe that resentment out of my mind, now. He had every right to be here for this… this practice session, or whatever it was. In fact, I should have called him and asked him to be here so he could show Sebastian the ropes.

  “Hey, Tom,” Sebastian called out before I’d composed myself. “Good to see you.”

  Tom saluted Sebastian but kept his eyes on me. “I just came from the community theater with Jordan. I was helping him put the finishing touches on a new set he built for the summer series. Your mom invited me to stay for brunch.” He spoke into the intercom microphone at the sound board, his voice low. “I didn’t know you were practicing today or I would have come by earlier.” Was that hurt I heard in his tone?

  “You know Mom,” I said, not acknowledging his last statement. “She always cooks enough to feed an army. Is she ready for us?” I was glad my voice didn’t shake as I wound my way among mic stands and monitors and other miscellaneous gear to the door to join him.

  “She said it’ll be another ten or fifteen minutes. She’s making one of her mega-breakfasts, including her famous buttermilk pancakes.” Tom watched me as I drew near, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So,” he said as I pulled the door shut behind me, closing the two of us off from Sebastian.

  I stopped a few feet away from him, propped my hip against the counter, and crossed my arms. “So.”

  “I take it you two have gotten over whatever was between you,” he said, waving a finger back and forth from me to the guy on the other side of the window. It was rude to leave him alone in there like that, but I was struggling with some serious guilt and confusion, and I didn’t think I could handle more than one guy at a time.

  “We talked a little on the phone last night. It’s all cool.” I used Sebastian’s word, mainly because I felt the need to be careful. Maybe he couldn’t hear us, but he might be able to read lips. Besides, I didn’t know how to explain things anyway. I still wasn’t sure if I liked him or not, no less if we could work creatively as a team. Yeah, we made sweet, sweet music together—and I mean, sweet—but maybe that had been beginner’s luck, a glitch in the matrix or something. I silently railed over the fact that we could have been doing this since last January if Sebastian hadn’t been such a jerk in class. And studying together? Oh, yeah.

  “You two sound pretty good. You been at it awhile already?” He glanced up at the clock on the wall, an epic Steampunk thing he’d given me for my birthday last year, complete with working gears, and then he dropped his gaze to the sound board, his fingers grazing over the sliders. My eyes widened to find that it was already pushing on 10:30 AM. We’d been playing together for close to an hour. It had seemed like only minutes.

  “He got here a little after nine.”

  “Early morning for you,” Tom commented, his voice nonchalant. But I could hear the tightness in his throat.

  “I should have called you, Tom. Sorry. It was just kind of impromptu, and I guess I wanted to see if he still had it the morning after, you know?”

  Tom looked at me then, his brows lowered. “Apparently, he does.”

  Crap. I had intended to try and keep things light, joking, but Tom wasn’t responding the way I’d hoped. I glanced over at Sebastian. He had unplugged his guitar and returned it to its case. I thought he was going to join us, but instead, he nodded at me, and then waved a hand toward us as though to indicate we should continue talking. He pulled out his Breedlove, drew a stool forward and sat down on it, propping the acoustic across one thigh. It was a little deja vu, Tom and me on this side of the glass watching Sebastian with the nameless beauty.

  He began to play and we fell silent in appreciation. The song began with drawn out arpeggiated chords, then built in intensity to match the emotion of the lyrics, simple words made complex by the instrument in Sebastian’s hands and the passion in his voice.

  Across the smoky room, she’s dancing all alone

  I’m aching for her, longing for home

  She moves like water, she drifts like fire

  And all I can do is stare

  All I can do is stare

  The echo of her words, the whisper of her song

  I’m hungry for her, longing for home

  Her touch is like tinder, her lips devour

  I can feel the weight of her stare

  Feel the weight of her stare

  I am consumed, I’m fascinated

  I am immortal when I am with her

  I am yesterday, she’s forever

  I am nothing when I’m without her.

  “He’s kind of so good he scares me.” I wasn’t being flippant. Was that song… about me? Was he trying to tell me something?

  You’re so vain, T-Bird. Of course it wasn’t. That was a song about a woman who loved and left. Not about me. I was glad for the low lighting around us; I didn’t want Tom to see my face grow red over my own foolishness.

  “He scares me, too.” Tom admitted. He didn’t sound flippant, either.

  Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him, and looked up at me through his shaggy hair. He had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen on a man, and they were fringed with thick, spiky lashes, almost like they’d been outlined in kohl. His nose sat straight on his face, like an arrow pointing to his full mouth, but his would-be perfect Herculean chin was marred by a ridged scar, courtesy of a bicycle accident in junior high. He’d gone flying over the handlebars when his bike came to an abrupt halt after a plastic bag he was holding had gotten wound up in the front tire. I couldn’t count the times I’d watched girls, women, reach out and touch that irresistible spot on his face, followed by Tom’s accommodating smile as he told an often embellished version of the tale. Sometimes it included him rescuing lost children, or stray puppies, even freeing a trapped bear. The guy knew how to work what God had given him.

  Tom’s hair. It was so soft, and although it wasn’t curly, there was a lot of it. I loved threading my fingers through it, making it fluff out like a lion’s mane. Whenever he had a headache, he made me play with his hair, claiming it soothed him more than any medication could. I wondered if he’d have to cut it short for the new job. The thought made me frown.

  I thought he’d expound on exactly why Sebastian scared him, but he said nothing more. But I could guess anyway. There didn’t seem to be anything Sebastian couldn’t do, and the idea of bringing him on board the Marauders crew felt a little like inviting the competition in to read the game plan. Except that Sebastian didn’t have a band. He didn’t seem to have a game plan of his own at all, except to get in on ours. I knelt down in front of Tom and took his hands in mine.

  “Tom? Is this really what you want? Is leaving for this job really the best thing for you?” I paused just a moment, and then added, “For us?” I knew it wasn’t really fair to Tom this late in the game, or for that matter, to Sebastian, who sat the next room over, assuming Tom’s job was his, but I asked anyway. Partly because of my fear of the unknown ahead, but also because I wanted Tom to know he could change his mind at any time, that his stool would always have his name on it.

  Tom pulled his hands from mine and placed them on either side of my face, tipping my head back a little so our eyes met. “Yes.” Then he leaned forward, and in what felt like a completely contradictory act, he kissed me, full on the lips. I felt him tremble ever so slightly at my whimper of surprise, but when I started to pull away, he held me there, his mouth soft, moving gently over mine. My thoughts in too much of a jumble to know what else to do, I stopped resisting and let him have his way for just a few more moments.

  It actually felt kind of nice to be kissed by Tom. It wasn’t officially our first kiss, but I don’t know if either one of us counted the first as such. I’d blackmailed the fifteen-year-old Tom into showing me a thing or two back when I was thirteen and still as flat-chested as a little boy. I couldn’t remember what I’d held over his head at the time, but in hindsight, he’d been surprisingly quick to concede defeat. I’d thought he
’d be more resistant to kissing Jordan’s kid sister.

  This kiss, although the initiation of it had startled me, didn’t really come as a surprise. I’d kind of been expecting it, I think; especially after Tom’s declaration of his feelings for me the other night.

  I waited… waited… waited for the fire to start, for some smoldering ember in my blood to ignite, for the melting of my bones that was supposed to follow. In vain, I waited.

  He lifted his head and drew back a little so he could see my face. I exhaled softly and brought my fingertips to my mouth. I felt the tingle behind the bridge of my nose, the gathering of moisture in my eyes, and I knew if I didn’t look away, I’d cry. I might just cry anyway, for what should have been but wasn’t.

  Only when I looked past Tom’s shoulder to find Sebastian’s hooded gaze on us… only then did my heart begin to race.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I didn’t care if Mom was ready for us or not. I couldn’t bear to be alone in the studio with the two of them, both of them watching me like they were waiting for me to make up my mind about something. What? What did they want from me?

  Actually, that kiss confirmed exactly what Tom wanted, and I now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I couldn’t give it to him.

  Hope. He wasn’t asking for declarations of undying love from me; just hope. Hope that one day, some day, maybe, just maybe….

  Oh, I could fool him, maybe even fool myself for a while. I went hollow-bellied at the thought of not having him in my life. But when I tried to imagine us arm-in-arm, making out, making love, having babies, sharing a forever future as anything more than the best of friends, I simply couldn’t see it. I didn’t get grossed out or anything; not by any means. I mean, the guy was the total all-American beefcake, after all. But the images of us together just wandered off the screen in my mind before I could really picture anything concrete.