Frankie
I open my eyes and stare at the paneled ceiling in a weary fog. My thoughts pick up right where they left off last night, the sun-drenched morning doing little to dampen them.
Better snap out of it, Frankie. You can’t be all doom and gloom in front of Darian.
I force a smile and chant through my teeth, “You’re fine. Darian’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
A knock at my door has my tangled feet warring with the covers. I jerk out of bed in a panic and breathe a sigh of relief when the words, “Room service,” drift through my suite.
Room service?
I open the door to a stack of lidded plates. A heady bouquet of sage and maple syrup pushes into my room, followed by the server with his heavily stocked cart.
He stops in the foyer and straightens. “Ms. Valentine?”
I manage a nod.
“Inside or outside?” he asks.
“Um…inside’s fine.”
I stare, wide-eyed, as he transfers the plates to the dining table and begins removing the lids. I consider asking if there’s been a mistake, but my rumbling stomach is quick to silence me. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon, fruit, biscuits and gravy, orange juice, coffee, champagne…
Champagne?
A smile pushes through the morning’s melancholy.
Darian, what are you up to?
The server’s gaze bounces around my empty room before settling on me in my I don’t do mornings nightshirt.
“I’m expecting guests,” I blurt out. “Pajama breakfast.”
He sets the stack of lids on his cart. “I apologize, ma’am. My ticket said one diner. I’ll send up additional place settings.”
“Thank you.”
“How many?”
I glance at the table, which is completely covered with food. “Six. Yeah, I think that should do it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, then presses his lips together as if to suppress a smile.
He holds up the bottle of bubbly, and I shake my head in a decisive no.
But if you have a Diet Coke on that cart somewhere…
“Very well,” he says, placing it back on ice. “And I was instructed to give you this.”
He hands me an envelope, and I wait anxiously as he packs up his cart and wheels it out of the room. The second the door closes behind him, I tear into it.
Inside, I find a flyer for Stoli and Seventh—otherwise known as the party. One of the only day parties you can’t get into without a badge. You can’t even sneak into it. I know; I’ve tried. At the bottom of the page there’s a hand-drawn arrow in red marker. I flip it over.
A BADGE AWAITS YOU AT THE FESTIVAL REGISTRATION BUILDING.
IT’S NONREFUNDABLE. I’D HATE TO SEE IT GO TO WASTE.
DF
A what awaits me where? He got me a badge?
Excitement swells like a balloon in my chest and then deflates at the thought of actually having to face him.
“But you’re not facing him,” I whisper. “Not really.”
The Darian I met yesterday is not the Darian I Googled last night. The one I met laughs and jokes and smiles. The one I Googled wouldn’t be capable of such things.
I hug the flyer to my chest.
You shouldn’t know anyway. Just pretend you don’t.
I round the corner onto Brushy Street wearing a pale pink sundress, a blue jean jacket, and a pair of black Converse sneakers that should probably be replaced. I spot Darian immediately. The patch of brick on the side of the warehouse housing the Stoli and Seventh party frames his silhouette as if he intentionally picked the spot. His charcoal suit and cream-colored oxford bear a striking contrast to the rustic wall behind him, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think I was disrupting a photo shoot. Focused on his phone, he doesn’t notice me until he hears the gravel crunch beneath my shoes. He looks up and smiles.
“Ms. Valentine, what a surprise,” he says, slipping the phone inside his coat pocket. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”
I lift the badge hanging from the lanyard around my neck. “This…” I say, shaking my head as my own smile emerges. “I did not see this coming. Thank you.” I tap the words Fox Independent printed beneath my name. “So, I work for you now, I see.”
He laughs. “I asked The Mendón to order your badge using your check-in information. I had to tell them something.” His gaze lifts to mine. “So, are you staying?”
I purse my lips, pretending to mull it over. “For now.”
“That’s a start,” he says, stepping toward me.
He offers me his arm, and I take it, linking my elbow with his as I look past him to the long line of people snaked through the parking lot.
“Does this badge have magical powers?”
“No, but I do,” he says, jutting his chin toward the throng. “Come on. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
I follow close beside him, stepping in time to the dull thud of bass that serves as the heartbeat of the city during South By. As we reach the front of the building, we’re met with an explosion of sound, and Darian tightens his hold.
I keep my head down, my eyes trained on my feet as he guides me through the crowd. We stop at the VIP entrance. A woman with short reddish hair pushed back by tortoise-shell glasses sits perched on a stool in the doorway. She flashes Darian a bright smile and waves him in.
“Thank you, Lisa,” he says, stepping aside and bringing me forward. “But she probably needs a wristband?”
I dig my ID out of my pocket and hand it to her.
“Thanks, hon,” she says, lowering her glasses. “Even badge-holders need wristbands for S&S this year.” She holds my driver’s license at arm’s length and then brings it forward until it’s in focus. “Unless, of course, you’re him.” She shoots Darian a playful glare.
“Riley inside?” he asks her.
Lisa snorts a laugh as she straps a bright yellow band to my wrist. “That boy is something else. Runnin’ around here like a headless chicken.”
Darian turns his attention to me. “Riley’s my assistant. This is his first South By.” He drags a finger across his bottom lip. “He’s a…”
“An eager beaver,” Lisa says. “Now, you two, move along.” She gives me a wink. “You’re holding up my line.”
The place is packed, which surprises me, considering the sheer size of the building and the hundreds of people still waiting outside. No wonder we couldn’t talk our way in last year; badge-holders aren’t even guaranteed entry. I get why this party’s so popular. Not only does it showcase the most sought-after bands, but it’s also decked out like a local county fair—complete with carnival games and all the popcorn, cotton candy, and caramel apples your inner child could possibly want.
“I think you forgot something,” Darian says, my driver’s license wedged between his fingers.
“Thanks. I guess I got a little excited.” I slip my ID in my jacket pocket. “This is unreal.”
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“I’m disappointed there’s no Ferris wheel,” I tease, “but other than that, yeah, I’d say it’s pretty cool.”
He laughs, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “I hear there’s an impressive lineup…and free drinks. I think we should start there.”
I follow Darian to the bar for a couple Stoli cranberry lemonades and then to a small table he’s reserved near the stage. We sit across from each other in bar-height chairs that are so close together, our knees almost touch.
I bend forward with my arms folded in my lap, my eyes narrowed. “I’m not even going to ask how you got this table.”
Darian lowers his gaze to his cup, and a small smile creeps over his face as he lifts it to his lips. “Magic,” he says and then takes a drink.
He slides out of his suit jacket, hangs it on the back of his chair, and leans against it. The new angle pushes his knees into mine.
“Magic.” I shake my head. “Of course.”
I turn in my seat to take in the party from my elevated position. In addition to the carnival games lining the perimeter, waiters dressed as carnival clowns wander through the dense crowd with trays of junk food.
“Want something?” Darian asks.
“No,” I say, drawing out the word. My hand falls to my stomach. “I think it’ll be a while before the pancakes wear off. Thank you, by the way, for breakfast.”
He cocks his head. “I hope you had more than pancakes.”
“I may never eat again.”
The current band finishes their set and begins hauling their equipment offstage. I turn back to the table just as Darian does. His eyes hold mine for a beat before our faces split in a pair of smiles.
“So, you’re—”
“They’re really—” I laugh. “You go first.”
He straightens in his chair. “So, you’re twenty-one.”
I’m not sure what to make of his question—if it is a question. I hold up my wrist. “I have the band to prove it.”
He rests his elbows on the table, arms crossed. “No, I mean, you’re only twenty-one.”
“Almost twenty-two,” I say, eyeing him skeptically. I take a sip of my drink. The cold, tart cranberry slides down my throat. “Is that a problem?”
“No, it’s not. I’m just—I thought you were older. You look—you don’t look twenty-one. And you love The Doors, and you drank a martini last night. What twenty-one-year-old drinks martinis?”
“I do, I guess.” My chest tightens. I’m feeling as if my age is somehow something to be embarrassed about.
Darian’s lips part like he’s going to speak, and then they close over the rim of his cup as he takes a drink. The silence grows thick at our small table. I turn my attention to the stage where a new band is warming up. It’s a punk band from Tampa—a loud punk band from Tampa—and I’m grateful for the distraction, however short.
When the set ends, I turn back to Darian, who’s mindlessly thumbing over the condensation coating his cup.
“You’re thirty-six,” I say matter-of-factly. “Is our age difference making you uncomfortable?”
“Yes, I’m thirty-six, and no”—he looks up at me—“it’s not that. It just surprised me; that’s all. Twenty-one is really young to be someplace like this…alone. I mean, you’re practically a…”
My body tenses. “A kid?”
“No. I’m—”
“I’m not a child,” I say calmly, quietly, despite the heat rising up the back of my neck. “I can see how my recent decisions may argue that point, but I assure you, I’m not.”
Clearly, I shouldn’t have accepted his help last night, and dinner in his room wasn’t my brightest idea ever, but Jane knew where I was. I watched him pour our martinis from the same shaker, our wine from the same bottle. And I carried a Taser.
He leans over the table. “You’re misunderstanding—”
“It’s okay—really.” I nod toward the restroom line. “I just need to—excuse me.” I slide off my chair, cringing at the unintentional creak it makes as it pushes against the concrete floor.
“Francesca, wait. Please.”
“I thought you wanted me to stay because you liked me. I don’t see what my age has to do with it.” Then, just like a child, I toss back the last bit of my watered-down drink and duck away to the only semi-private corner in the warehouse to call Jane.
“Frankie, you didn’t,” she says once I’ve relayed the story to her.
“Didn’t what? Did you hear the part where he said I was practically a kid? It’s making it really hard to imagine him naked.” Shame sets my cheeks on fire. “I shouldn’t have said that. God, I’m such a jerk. After everything I learned last night…I shouldn’t let something so stupid get to me.”
“It’s okay to feel what you feel,” Jane says. “But I think you should cut the guy some slack. You said yourself how awkward he was last night. Is it possible he didn’t mean anything by it?”
I’m pretty sure I said it was me bringing the awkward, but I decide not to correct her.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sure he didn’t. It’s just…being treated like a child makes me crazy. I get it. Twenty-one is young, but I don’t know. I really don’t see myself as a typical twenty-one-year-old.”
My dad’s diagnosis came the same year Jane had Jacob. At fifteen, I was this happy-go-lucky kid who was obsessed with boys and nail polish. At seventeen, I was taking care of my dad and helping my best friend raise a baby.
“I’m not a typical twenty-one-year-old.”
“You’re not,” Jane says, “but it sounds like you may be acting like one. He can’t possibly know why that upsets you.”
I swallow a large gulp of air, and it burns as it slides to the pit of my stomach. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. You’re human…and out of practice. And so is he.”
“Which one? Human or out of practice?”
Jane laughs. “Probably both.”
We end the call, and I’m headed back to the table when I hear Darian shout my name. I find him sitting on a bench, partially obscured by the restroom line, his hand raised in a wave. I cross the crowded walkway and sit beside him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, curling my legs beneath me. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”
“No, I promise, I didn’t.” He smiles. “I do like you, by the way.” His fingertips brush against mine as he speaks, causing goose bumps to break out across my skin. “And I was going to say, practically a target, but I suppose someone who looks the way you do would be a target anywhere…with anyone.”
My heart stutters. Someone who looks the way I do?
Darian stands from the bench, bringing my hand with him. My gaze falls to our laced fingers.
“Come on,” he says. “The last band’s about to start.”
I unfold my legs and push to my feet. “The last band? Already?”
“You were a little late.”
“Breakfast ran a little long.”
Darian grins, and his grip on my hand tightens, sending a tiny jolt of electricity up my arm. Pulling me close behind him, we weave through the crowd to the front of the stage.
“It’s going to get cramped up here,” he says, “but I promise, I won’t let you get trampled.”
“Trampled? Who’s playing?”
Before I get my answer, the lights in the warehouse dim and the voices around us fall silent. Then, from somewhere offstage, a violin begins to play.
Shut up!
I spin around. “Cross to Bear?”
“What are the chances?” Darian says, a wry smile etched on his face.
Yeah. What are the chances?
Darian’s gaze slides past me, and I turn to the front just as the band emerges onstage. My lips lift in a grin. I’m high on adrenaline, lost to the beat, oblivious, as the crowd behind us surges forward. Darian’s arms come up, caging me against the stage. Our bodies are unintentionally close. By the end of the third song, his elbows bend and his chest brushes my back. By the end of the fourth, I lean against him.
The band announces their final song, and I tilt my head, pressing my cheek against the cool cotton of his shirt. “This is my favorite part.”
A light sheen of sweat blends with his spicy cologne and holds my nose hostage. It isn’t until Cross to Bear breaks into their customary Doors cover that I’m able to pull away.
When the song ends, Darian bends to my ear. “Any interest in going backstage?”
His breath is warm and intoxicating and smells of cranberries. I momentarily lose my footing, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’m about to meet my favorite band. Fortunately, Darian thinks it does, and he chuckles at my unsteady feet.
As we head backstage, it hits me—what a complete blockhead I am. The signs posted everywhere bear the Fox Independent logo. This is his party.
“That was surreal. I can’t believe I got to see them live, much less meet them,” I say as we exit the back of the warehouse onto Eighth Street. “I’ve never met anyone famous before. Cade Corban was so nice. I had it in my head all rock stars were assholes.” The nippy air masks my blush as I glance back at Darian.
I guess not all rock stars are assholes.
“Cade…now, which one was he?”
My head whips around. “Very funny.”
“Nice guys are a rare breed in this industry,” Darian says, falling in step beside me. “I’m sorry it got cut short. They’re on a tight schedule.”
“No, it was great. Really, thank you.” I make a face. “Jane’s going to be so jealous. She’s had a thing for Cade since he was just a kid playing with Urban Riot.”
“Maybe wait to tell her, then.”
“I plan to.”
A brisk breeze rustles my hair, and I pull my jacket higher on my neck. Darian stops, slides out of his sport coat, and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I’m fine,” he says when I look up at him.
He smiles, and then his hand moves to my lower back and we continue walking. A few blocks down, we stop at a crosswalk.
“Any chance you’re hungry yet?” he asks.
“I am—surprisingly.”
Darian takes me to a French restaurant near our hotel. It’s charming, romantic, with Edith Piaf softly crooning beneath a cacophony of clattering plates and wine-warmed voices.
We make small talk as we wait for our food, but we barely speak as we eat. Dessert comes, and I realize, “This looks amazing,” is the first thing I’ve said since, “I’m too full for dessert.” I dip my spoon in my chocolate mousse and take a bite. When I look up, Darian’s eyes are fixed on me.
I set my spoon on my plate. “What is it?”
“I have a confession,” he says, a shy grin flitting on his lips. “I hate South By—all the people, the noise. But it was my year to take one for the team.” He says that last part with an eye roll, and it makes me laugh. “I was preparing myself for a week of hell when our paths crossed yesterday. I didn’t expect you to stay, but after dinner last night…” His gaze falls to his finger drawing circles on the tablecloth. “I don’t know. I just really wanted you to. I took advantage of your kindness by buying you the badge.”
Realizing he’s being sincere, I swallow back the sarcasm shaping on my tongue. “You bought me a platinum badge. I’d say it’s your kindness in question here.”
Darian lifts his head. “Except I didn’t do it to be kind. I did it so you’d stay. I preyed on your guilt.”
“My guilt?”
“You didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d let a nonrefundable gift go to waste.”
“I have a confession too,” I say.
His grin widens to a full-fledged smile. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“I’d already decided to stay.” I lift my badge and hold it above the table. “So it looks like you wasted quite a bit of money.”
“I disagree,” he says and then pauses. “I think it was worth every penny.”
I bury my gaze in my dessert as I take another bite, the warmth from his words spreading through me like a sudden fever.
“But as much as I’m enjoying your company,” he continues, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hang out with me. Obviously I didn’t think that part through.”
“Are you kidding? After I made an ass out of myself earlier?” I blink. “I’m surprised you still want me around. I overreacted. Sometimes I do that. I’m…”
Darian scoots his chair closer to mine. His gaze falls to my lips, and for just a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. I lean in…
But he takes my hand instead.
Le sigh.
“You didn’t overreact,” he says, his thumb sweeping over my knuckles. “I thought about what I said. I get how it must have sounded.” He steals his hand away and signals for the check. “Let’s get out of here.”
We end up at a small bar tucked away in the corner of downtown and sit at a table by an open window. Sipping on Lone Star longnecks, we talk and laugh as live blues filters in from a nearby showcase.
When the set ends, I excuse myself for the restroom, but the second I push out of my chair, I realize I’m a little bit drunk. Thankfully, the ladies’ room isn’t far from our table. Standing in front of the mirror, I dab cold water on my face with a paper towel and then pull my hair back in an elastic. My makeup is all but gone, and if it weren’t for the alcohol coloring my cheeks, I’d look like a ghost.
“I should probably call it a night and get back to the hotel before I’m incapable,” I say as I slide into my chair.
“I just ordered nachos,” Darian says, sitting up. “But I can cancel—”
“Nachos?” My voice comes out high-pitched and loud. “I think I can make it a little longer.”
I hope.
Darian smiles. “You’re in my hands, Francesca. I promise to deliver you safe and sound to your room.”
I’d like to be in your hands.
Ooo-kay. I may be more than a little bit drunk.
I flag down our waiter and order a bottle of water. He delivers it with the nachos just as a new band starts up. I drink half of it in one swallow.
“How am I still hungry?” I say, piling a chip high with jalapeños. “Great call.”
I devour a third of the nachos before the heat from the peppers joins forces with the alcohol already in my system. My lungs constrict.
Oh no.
I suck in a deep breath, hold it, and then slowly let it out.
No way, Frankie. You are not hiccupping.
Darian leans back in his chair and rests his arm on the windowsill. “That poor guy must have been shunned by the Four Seasons too,” he says, pointing to the twenty-something emo passed out on the sidewalk.
I follow the line of his finger. “Why don’t you go rescue him?”
“I’m not his knight in shining armor, Francesca,” he says, circling his thumb around the lip of his beer. “I’m yours.”
The way he says “I’m yours” causes my belly to flutter.
“And I suppose, as such,” he continues, “I should get you back to your room.” He takes one last look out the window before pushing back in his chair, a dry smile tugging at his lips. “I’d hate for that to be you out there.”
Yeah, me too.
By the time we reach our floor, my brain’s turned to blissful mush. I think the water was too little, too late. My filter disappeared somewhere around Sixth and Brazos, and I’m feeling both bold and amorous—a dangerous combination.
Darian stops in front of my door and peers down at me with those arresting eyes of his. I swear this morning they were a light olive, and tonight they’re a deep forest green. I don’t know how long I stay lost in them before he whispers my name, releasing me from their hold.
“Where’s your key?” he asks.
“Don’t worry; I have it.”
He laughs. “Well, I think we’re gonna need it.”
“We?” I say, my face brightening.
“You.”
I frown. Quite possibly, I pout. “Thank you for tonight,” I say, “and today. Both actually. You’ve been amazing.”
“You’re wel—”
“A perfect gentleman. And you said you liked me. You said I was worth all the pennies.”
Darian stiffens beneath my fingers as they glide across his chest and down the line of buttons on his shirt.
“But you haven’t made a pass at me,” I say. “Well, except for that almost kiss at the restaurant. What was that anyway?” The memory makes me giggle. The giggling makes me sway.
He closes his hands over mine and holds them against his chest.
“Was it because we were in public? Because this isn’t public. Well, this is,” I say, peering down the corridor. I nod toward the door of my suite and smile. “But that isn’t.”
I don’t think I’m slurring. I’m going to go on record and just say I’m not. Probably. But I can hear the desperate words leaking from my mouth, and I’m helpless to stop them. And what fun would this humiliation be if I didn’t at least try to make it worse? That’s when I decide to lean in for a kiss.
Darian steps back, dropping my hands and cupping my shoulders. Holding me in place. Holding me away from him. “No, Francesca. I’m sorry. It’s just—I can’t. Let me see your key.”
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling the key from my jacket pocket. “I don’t need to be tucked in.”
I wake around three in the morning. I’m disoriented and my head is throbbing. What the hell did I drink last night that tastes like turpentine-flavored Kool-Aid?
I make a beeline for the bathroom and brush my teeth. Twice. Then I gargle Listerine until my mouth catches fire. Much better. Holding my hair back, I wash the lingering makeup from my face. It’s then I notice the Doors vintage 1968 Strange Days concert T-shirt I’m wearing.
Strange indeed.
I contemplate how I wound up in Darian’s shirt as I journey back to bed. I’m fairly certain nothing happened last night because A.) it’s been an embarrassingly long time since I’ve had sex, and I’d probably be limping, and B.) so far, he’s been a perfect—
Oh shit.
My body freezes in place as the memories piece themselves together. “No, no, no. Oh God, no—”
“Francesca?”
I look up. Our adjoining doors are wide open. I pad lightly across the carpet and reach for the handle.
I’m just a blubbering mess, wearing your T-shirt. Nothing to see here.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” I say, pulling the door toward me.
“I wasn’t asleep. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Bad dream.” I pull the door a few more inches and then stop. “I’m in your shirt.”
“You couldn’t find your bag and I didn’t want to snoop, so I gave you a T-shirt. But you changed in the bathroom. Scout’s honor.”
“Thanks,” I say, the memory returning.
“You’re welcome.”
“Well, goodnight.”
“Wait, Francesca…come here. Please.”
Reluctantly, I release the doorknob and walk toward him. He’s wearing a pair of sexy-as-hell black-framed glasses and a white V-neck T-shirt that glows brightly beneath the light of his bedside lamp. He’s leaning against the headboard with a tattered paperback perched in his hand. Dune by Frank Herbert. My dad had the very same book in hardcover; he read it all the time. Darian sets the book on the table, removes his glasses, and scoots to the center of the bed as I approach. I sit on the edge with my back to him.
“Are you okay?” he asks again.
My shoulders curled in, my spine bowed, I stare down at my feet. “I’m so sorry.”
“Francesca—”
“I can’t believe—I mean—I’ve never—I’m so embarrassed,” I stammer, my fingers gripping the edge of his sheet. “I had way too much to drink—obviously. I got upset with you for making me feel like a child, and then I went out of my way to prove you right. I am young, and I am alone in the big, bad city. Not that it matters. I’m alone all the time. And I don’t mind being alone, except being alone is so…lonely. Jane says all I need is a herd of cats—and now I can’t stop talking. Oh God. Just kill me.”
As I start to stand, Darian’s fingers circle my wrist. “Don’t go.”
He draws the bedding back, making room for me. I hesitate.
“Just sleep,” he says in a low voice.
I lie down beside him, my back to his chest.
He wraps his arm around me. “I’m familiar with lonely.”