Beautiful Beast by Aubrey Irons (32)

“Hey, Ana?”

I half turn my head towards the door, my eyes not leaving what’s in front of me.

“Yeah?”

Loren, Andi’s bass player-slash-my-temporary-manager, clears her throat.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” I say it absently, trying to process what I’m looking at.

“Well, you’re up in five minutes.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Awesome crowd out there tonight.”

I nod.

“You sure you’re okay?”

This time, I turn, forcing a smile. “Yeah, just getting into my head space.”

“Right on.” She nods her chin past me.

“New guitar?”

Kind of.

I nod, and she whistles slowly. “Pretty sexy.”

“Thanks.”

“Very Bruce Springsteen.”

I smile thinly.

“All right, well I’ll come get you in four minutes then, cool?”

“Sure.”

She closes the door, and I turn back to the electric guitar sitting in the hard case in front of me - the one that’s “very Bruce Springsteen.”

…Probably because he recorded “Born to Run” with it in 1975.

I want to be furious. I want to scream at Bastian’s blatant disregard for our ongoing cold-war. I guess we’ve never laid down the rules, but I would think they’re pretty freaking obvious.

Stay out of and stay away from my life.

Sending me this guitar, to the venue, on the night of my first solo show in forever isn’t just a “nice gesture,” and I know it. He knows it too, which is exactly why it’s sitting in front of me.

I run my fingers over the aged wood and the pristine metal.

That said, it is a gorgeous instrument. Not to mention worth God-knows-how-much.

There’s a note that arrived along with the case when the delivery guy dropped it off. Nothing fancy, just a simple white piece of cardstock with a note written in clean black Sharpie.

No agenda, huh?

Bullshit.

The guitar makes me think of that day in his music room, and all the forbidden heat and ignoring the warnings that came with it. And I know Bastian Crown well enough to know he fucking knows that. I know him well enough now to know there are always strings when it comes to him.

Even when I can’t see them. Hell, especially when I can’t see them.

Except this time, he’s overplayed his hand. I’ve seen behind that curtain, so this time, I see this “little gift” for exactly what it is.

…Him trying to get his claws into me again. Bastian Crown, still pulling the strings to make little Anastasia Bell dance for him.

I stare at the guitar for another few seconds, feeling almost seduced by it before I quickly and angrily shut the case with a snap.

Not this time.

This time, I’m cutting the strings before he can tug on them.

I reach for an old favorite of mine instead, and I’m slinging it over my shoulder when the dressing room door opens and Loren bustles in with Andi in tow.

Loren frowns.

“You’re not playing the new one?”

“Nope.”

Andi raises a brow. “What new one?”

“She’s got this gorgeous vintage Fender that she had delivered here earlier.”

“Well, faaaancy,” Andi says, fanning herself dramatically. “It’s all that Hamptons’ money,” she says in a thickly affected accent.

“Oh, calm down,” I mutter. “I did not have it delivered here. It’s not even mine.”

Andi looks like she’s about to needle me with something else, but her face suddenly hardens at the look in my eyes.

“Oh no fucking way.”

“Yes, fucking way.”

“The asshole?”

“The one and only.”

Loren clears her throat. “Fill me in here?”

“It’s from Ana’s psycho asshole ex-boyfriend—”

“Uh, not my ex-boyfriend,” I say sullenly. I shrug. “Also not asshole, just…” I sigh and shake my head. “Okay, maybe an asshole. But it doesn’t matter, I’m not playing that thing.”

“Totally. No way,” Andi says fiercely.

She frowns. “Can I see it?”

“Sure.”

I flick the clips on the case and open it back up.

“Damn,” she whistles. “Super Bruce Springsteen looking.”

“It’s from Born to Run.”

She nods. “Yeah, no, it looks exactly like—”

“No I mean it’s literally from the record.”

Two jaws drop in front of me, and two sets of eyes snap to mine.

“Holy fuck,” Andi says, almost reverently as she stares at the guitar with a new zeal. “What is that even worth?”

“I have no idea.”

Loren shakes her head “And he just gave it to you?”

“Apparently.”

Andi sighs. “Okay, I take it back. You’re definitely playing that tonight.”

“Oh c’mon! What happened to solidarity?”

“What?” She shrugs, making a face. “Dude, if you don’t play this guitar tonight, I’m kicking you out of my house for being an idiot.”

“Nice principles,” I mutter.

“Um, this guitar definitely comes before principles.”

“Not a chance.”

“Is the asshole here tonight?”

My face sours. “God no.”

“Well…”

“Look, you don’t have to tell him you played it,” Loren says with a shrug of her shoulders. “But seriously, you can’t not use this tonight. It’d be like, sacrilege or something.”

I furrow my brow, letting my eyes trace back over the guitar, sitting nestled in the red velvet of the case.

“Also, you’re on in like one minute, so…”

“Screw it,” I mutter as I grab the guitar and pull it free.

Andi whoops. “That’s my girl. Now go rock some socks off.”

* * *

I can feel the jitters tingling through me as I step through the shadows of the backstage area. The Fender hangs heavy from my shoulder, and I can feel my heart hammering against the strap. The lights dim out on stage, and I can hear the hoots and muffled claps of the audience.

I should be nervous. Or excited. But instead, I’m outside the present. Instead, and probably because of this stupid guitar, all I’m thinking about his him.

I want to hate Bastian Crown. I really, truly want to hate him, so badly. But I can’t, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I focus on how he hurt me, and how he wrecked me, I keep coming back to the other roles he’s filled, whether he’s realized it or not.

The fuel that stoked my fire.

The push that set me out into the world to find my dreams.

The hate I never really meant, the love that might have been, the lust that consumed, and the pain that comes out in blurred lines across a page.

No matter how much I try and focus on the bad, there’s always the other part of what makes him him.

The part that I could never let go. The part that forged me into who I am. The part that forced me to face the world tall and unflinching.

The part I loved, somehow, in my own quiet, private way.

I take one last slow, deep breath as I listen to the cheering of the audience. And as I exhale, I make sure to exhale Bastian too.

Because it’s time to close that chapter.

Tonight’s not for Sebastian Crown. Tonight’s for me.

Tonight’s also, incidentally, for Jack, who’s somewhere here in the crowd apparently. We’re going to meet tonight after the show, for whatever that means and for wherever that may lead. And I’m not sure what that means, or if I’m even remotely ready for that or looking for that, or even okay with that. But it is what it is.

…A step away from Bastian, which is probably what I need right now.

I hold the guitar tight as I step out of the shadows and into the light. The venue isn’t big by any means, but it’s a full crowd tonight. There are some cheers, a few camera flashes, the clink of glasses by the bar. I smile as I wave, and it’s then that I realize I’m scanning the faces for Jack which is comically ridiculous seeing I don’t actually know what I’m looking for since we’re not officially meeting until after the show.

I strum a chord as I step up to the microphone.

“Thanks for coming out, guys. I’m Anastasia Bell, and this is my sexy new guitar.”

There’s some laughter, a few hoots.

I smile, take a breath, and I start to play.

The notes come easy, and so smoothly from the Fender, and I do what I’ve loved to do since forever - I tell a story, and I sing.

One song bleeds into another, and it’s like the crowd is mine. I’m telling jokes, and candid anecdotes on the songs, and singing my damn heart out, and they’re loving it. The feeling is warm, and a glowing goodness inside of me, and for one brief moment, I can pretend it’s almost as good as the feeling I thought I might have found, back in the place I swore I’d never go back to.

Back with the broken boy I swore I’d never see again.

And really, it almost is.

Almost.

I’m buzzing, feeling high on this entire night like a drug as I thank everyone and launch into my last song. The song for no one. The puzzle piece I’ve been trying to cram into the wrong puzzle.

Notes strum from the guitar, blood pumps in my veins, and I’m opening my mouth to sing the words that’ve taken years to finally come together when I suddenly freeze.

My eyes lock.

My mouth goes dry.

My heart clenches up tight in my chest, and my whole being tingles as the whole world tips on its axis around me.

I don’t know if I somehow missed him, or if he’s moved, but suddenly, two rows back, front and center, I see him.

Bastian.

I start to free-fall before I stop myself, forcing myself to look away.

Forcing myself to breathe.

Just play.

I do, and it all comes out. ALL of it. And like a match being lit, the song for no one suddenly takes on a new meaning. The words cut deeper, the chords ring out truer. My voice breaks in the right places - anguish, and hurt, and want, and need, all bleeding together. And I realize for the first time that the song isn’t for no one.

It’s for him.

The song is Bastian.

I just keep playing through the tears blurring my vision, almost heedless of the crowd cheering and lunging to their feet as I finish. I wave quickly, flashing something like a smile as I run from the stage before the tears can fall.

“Ana.”

Backstage, it’s the sound of his voice behind me that has me freezing in my tracks, a shiver sliding up my spin.

“Look at me.”

I shake my head.

“No,” I whisper.

“Ana.”

I feel his hand touch my arm, and I jerk away, whirling on him.

“How did you even get here,” I hiss angrily. “I was under the impression that house arrest means you can’t fly on airplanes.”

“I’m free of that,” he says grimly. “In light of the evidence against Brent and all.”

“Well good for you,” I say sarcastically. “You're free to go drink and drive all over again.”

“Stop it.”

“What,” I hiss.

“Stop pretending nothing’s changed with us.”

“What has changed with us?” I yell in the relative silence of the backstage hallway. “You’re still you, Bastian!”

“I’ve always been me, and you’ve always been you,” he growls. “The difference between now and then is that now we actually see each other for who we really are.”

I laugh bitterly. “Oh, I think I see quite clearly, actually.” My voice drips with venom as I force myself to glare at him even if I want to melt into his chest.

“So do I,” he says quietly.

I want to hate him. I want so badly to hate him. And yet that hatred is slipping through my heart like sand through fingers.

“What do you even want, Bastian? You got what you wanted, right? You got your money, you got your privileged, easy little life back.”

His jaw tenses.

“You think that’s all I wanted?”

I throw my hands up. “What else!? Jesus, what else could you possibly—”

“You.”

I try and bite back the tears brimming in my eyes.

“You know,” I say, my voice breaking. “I seem to remember you getting that too.”

“Not the part I wanted.”

He moves to me, and though I make a vain attempt at pushing him away, a part of me breaks and melts as his hands slide up my arms and pull me closer.

“Goddamnit, Texas,” he mutters softly.

I raise my angry eyes to his glaring at him through blurry vision.

“You’re what I wanted,” he hisses fiercely. “You, over all of it!”

I look away, squeezing my eyes shut.

This isn’t how I fall again.

This won’t be how I let him break me all over again.

“Bastian, you can’t just show up and decide now’s the time to be a nice for once in your—”

“There were no pictures, you know.”

My eyes quickly dart to his, watching his jaw tighten as he swallows thickly.

“That night, on the boat.” He shakes his head. “I kept my thumb over the front of the phone. There was just a flash and a few totally black shots.”

I blink, slowly shaking my head at him.

“What I did was fucked up, Ana.”

I laugh a brittle sound.

“Oh, you think so?”

His jaw clenches.

“Bastian, I’m not some fucking damsel in distress or some Disney princess who needs rescuing, all right?” I bark out a bitter laugh. “I never was, and believe me, you’re no prince.”

“Trust me,” he growls. “I’m aware of that.”

I shake my head angrily, and I go to pull away from him when he stops me.

“I did what I did because I knew you and I could never be. I had too much painful shit burning inside of me, and when you came to South Neck right before my parents crashed…”

He looks away.

“I knew that way was shut. That bridge was burned before I even realized I wanted to cross it.”

He turns his eyes back to me, the pain and the rawness in them blazing into mine.

“There was a chance I could live without your heart, Ana, but I was sure I couldn’t if it was someone else’s.”

I swallow back tears as the words slice through me.

“Ana, it was always you.”

“Please stop,” I whisper tightly.

“Goddamnit,” he hisses, pulling me against him. “I’m trying to tell you that I fucking love you.”

“Stop it.”

This time, I do pull away. This time, I break the contact, stepping away from him as I shake my head slowly.

It’s weird seeing him like this - the two sides of him naked and exposed. There’s the angry, broken little boy who shushes his nannies and forbids people from entering his home. But then there’s the side I’ve only ever glimpsed before, even when we were skin-to-skin, breath-to-breath, and heart-to-heart - as close as two people can be.

The other side, which I’m seeing open and fully in front of me, is the man he could be. Strong. Passionate. Driven. Fearless.

Capable of love.

The vision is tempting, but I know that’s all it is. I know that’s all he ever is - a sweet, dangerous temptation. The charm that pulls you in, and the beast that bites.

And I’m done walking into the same trap over and over again.

My eyes drag up to his, and slowly, my heart breaking, I shake my head.

“I- I have to go,” I say softly.

His shoulders drop.

“Goddamnit, Ana—”

“I can’t do this right now,” I say quietly. “I can’t do this ever, actually.”

I look up at him, feeling cold.

“I’m meeting someone, Bastian.”

I don’t say it to be mean, I say it to remind myself. Jack. I’m meeting Jack. The man who’s the opposite of Bastian. Jack who’s the obvious, sensible, smart choice here, if we’re picking one path to follow.

And it’s time I found a new path.

I take a slow breath and tuck my hair behind my ears before I look up at him, four feet away.

The boy who broke me and the man who finished the job.

I sling the guitar off my shoulders and set it against the wall.

“That’s yours. Goodbye, Bastian.”

I turn, and I walk away.

I make it three steps before his voice cuts me like a naked blade.

“Jill.”

Time stops.

My heart jumps a beat.

Slowly, I turn, my face white.

“What did you just call me?”

I barely breathe the words. Bastian’s eyes burn right into mine as he steps forward. He doesn’t look angry, or broken, or dark, or hateful. He looks almost lost, and it’s then that I realize I understand the expression on his face.

He’s scared.

“I fell down,” he says quietly. “In fact, I’ve been falling down for most of my life.”

I realize I’m shaking, trembling as the whole thing starts to unravel and crack around me. Tears fall freely down my cheeks as I slowly shake my head.

“Jack and Jill went up the hill, to fetch a pail of water.”

Bastian’s words cross the divide between us, shaking me to my core as I cry.

Hate, love, lust, pain.

“I fell down, I broke my crown,” he says it fiercely, his voice breaking as he steps forward toward me until he’s right in front of me. He looks me right in the eye as his hand comes up to tilt my chin up.

“But Jill?” he smiles sadly. “Well, she came—”

“Tumbling after,” I finish in a whisper.

His breath crosses the last divide between us.

Our lips break the last wall.

And the kiss is everything.