The last remnants of Indian summer linger as a warm breeze tosses my curls into my face. I swipe them back as Chloe and I come to a halt at the end of a long line. The line in front of Mississippi Lights.
Chloe faces me and pouts, irritated. “What are all these people doing here?” Her hands fly.
I shrug. “You said the band was hot.”
The line inches forward and Chloe shuffles ahead of me. “Yes, but…” She throws her hands up, not finishing what she was about to say.
“But what?” I ask.
“But they’re my hot, new band!”
I grin and shake my head. “I hate to break it to you, Chloe, you have to share them.”
“I liked Mine Shaft before all of these”—she gestures to the gathered crowd—“poseurs.”
It’s a good thing our conversation transpires in ASL, I don’t think this crowd would take kindly to being called poseurs.
I point over Chloe’s shoulder and she turns around—it’s our turn to go inside. We hand the bouncer our IDs, along with the cover charge, and he waves us through the door.
Taking in the number of people packed into the small club, it’s safe to assume everyone had Chloe’s idea to arrive early.
I grab her hand, so we aren’t separated in the massive crowd, and we weave through the dance floor toward the bar.
Leaning against the wooden bar top, I read the bartender’s lips. “What can I get you?” he asks.
Opening the note application on my phone, I type, Cosmo, please, and turn my phone around. He leans closer, squints at the text, and nods. He directs his attention to Chloe, takes her order, and gets to work.
With our drinks in hand, Chloe and I make our way back across the dance floor. Chloe knows I like to be near the front, close to the speakers.
I take a sip of my drink, and keep my eyes glued to the stage. A guy with sandy blond hair is busy adjusting the height of the cymbals on the drum set.
Turning to face Chloe, with my free hand, I quickly sign, “Is he one of the Mine Shaft guys?” I point in the direction of the drums.
Chloe’s dark eyes widen and a know-it-all grin blossoms on her face as she bobs her head up and down. “See? What I’d tell you. H-O-T!” she spells. “Wait until you see the rest of them.” She nudges my shoulder with hers and puts her beer bottle to her lips, taking a generous pull. As she swallows, she adds, “In my opinion, the lead singer is the hottest. G-R-F-F-I-N. Oh my God.” Her eyes roll back in her head and she fans herself. “I wonder if I can get him to come on Sweet Nothings?” She wags her eyebrows.
Sweet Nothings is Chloe’s—and sometimes, her sister Megan’s—massively popular YouTube baking show. Having just surpassed fifty thousand subscribers and gaining a slew of new advertisers, she’s making a killing. I wonder why she’s still in school, and when I ask, she just shrugs and signs, “I’ve made it this far, why quit now?”
I shake my head and smile. I bet she’d love for any one of the guys in Mine Shaft to join her on an episode of Sweet Nothings, that’s the Chloe I know and love.
Glancing back up at the stage, I watch the drummer tinker with the different instruments in his drum set. I stare, fascinated by each calculated adjustment he makes.
I’m sure all the careful fine-tuning is what separates good bands from great ones, ensuring the music will sound its best. For me, if there’s a decent bass line or a heavy drumbeat, I can usually find the rhythm of a song through the vibrations of the sound waves. I love watching the people who make the music, especially when they’re in caught up in a song. It’s like being privy to a secret, or sharing a deeply intimate moment.
The drummer finishes his adjustments and looks over his shoulder. Seconds later, three more guys join him on stage. The fine hairs on my arms rise, excitement tingles in my veins. There’s nothing like a live concert.
The band members take their places on stage. The lead singer, Griffin, I presume, steps toward the microphone and begins moving his hand over the strings of his bass guitar. He’s as gorgeous as Chloe mentioned. For a guy to even register on her radar, they have to be taller than her five eleven. By the looks of it, Griffin Daniels is well over that mark.
I watch Griffin’s lips move, trying to decipher a few words to the song, but I’m not close enough. Then, I feel it. I’m engulfed by waves of sound. I sway my body in time to the rhythm. I take note of the vibrations under the soles of my feet, rising up through my legs. Closing my eyes, I “listen” the only way I know how.
The skin on my cheeks prickles as each crest of sound washes over me. My heart finds the beat, and I know I’m in the same place as the guys on stage. A place where you can’t tell where your own body ends and the music begins, they’re one in the same.
When the intensity of the pulse fades away, the song comes to an end. I open my eyes and notice the guitarist for the first time. Yes, Mine Shaft lives up to the eye-candy status Chloe had billed them as, but damn, the guitarist is in a league all by himself.
I still my body and watch him, mesmerized. Every now and then, he shifts his weight, licks his lips, and presses his mouth close to the mic. I can’t read his lips, but that doesn’t mean I can’t pull my eyes away either. The way they move…the way he moves. His body, the way his fingers roam over the strings of his guitar…he’s enchanting.
My gaze drifts from his mouth, upward, following the five-o’clock shadow of his square jawline…and then his eyes. Intense, focused, he stares at something far away, lost in the music.
Watching him, I wonder what he sees…what images the song conjures in his mind. He blinks, shifts his body, and locks his eyes directly on mine.
Holy crap! I suck in a breath and hold it, almost tearing my eyes away from his in embarrassment—he caught me gawking. But I can’t. I can’t look away.
No longer in profile, I have the perfect view of his whole gorgeous face. And he’s staring right at me.
Stunned, I hold his gaze for one beat…two…three…long enough for the heat blazing in my core to work its way to my cheeks. It’s impossible. There’s no way he can see me, not with the stage lights beaming down on him. But, I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look…feel like he’s looking straight into my deepest, darkest thoughts.
His stare is so consuming, if I don’t look away, I may burn up.
As I pull my eyes away I catch the corner of his mouth turn up in a subtle half smile.
Now I know I’m imagining things! Turning to Chloe, I tap her on the shoulder. When she looks at me, I ask, “Who’s the guitarist?”
Her fingers work over the letters of his name. “T-H-O-R-I-N K-L-I-N-E.”
I set my eyes back on his whiskered, brooding face. His eyes are closed now, giving me the chance to resume my ogling without getting caught in his seductive stare. I don’t know what passed between us in those few seconds, but whatever it was, it left a current of electricity running through my veins. My insides are still buzzing like a live wire, which is completely ridiculous because I know he couldn’t have seen me. There’s no way.
I trail my gaze downward, across his broad shoulders, over his well-defined biceps, wishing I could get a close-up look at the intricate sleeve tattoos winding down his arms. I settle on the sinuous movement of his hips—a counter rhythm to his right hand stroking the strings of his guitar. I bet those fingers can work all kinds of magic. I shiver at the thought.
Despite my lusty thoughts, something else about him catches my eye: the play of emotions across his face. Usually, I can tell when one song ends and another begins, because the vibration of the music changes. I know if a song is fast or slow by the tempo of the beat, and if the song is popular—getting lots of radio exposure—I can usually guess the title. Each song has its own pulse; its own identity. But tonight, I don’t have to rely solely on what I feel. Thorin Kline, whether he knows it or not, tells a story when he plays his guitar. I may not be able to hear the words to this melancholy song, but thanks to him, I understand it just the same.
And then, there’s a shift in the tempo, and he’s smiling and happy.
* * *
Griffin, the lead singer, lifts his hands in the air and says something into the microphone. Chloe, standing beside me, jumps up and down in response.
With a little nudge from my hip, I get her attention. “What did he say?”
“We’re the best crowd they’ve ever played for,” she signs quickly, turning her attention back to the stage.
I glance around the club, watching all the cheering bodies, when my eyes fall on Trey, Chloe’s ex. I’ve never truly hated anyone, but Trey Carver is in the lead to earn that distinction.
Dammit! I hope Chloe hasn’t seen him. I’ve got to get her out of here before she does. Trey is Chloe’s personal brand of meth. I don’t know what it is about the guy, when they were together, he treated her like shit and she always took him back.
I knock my hip into her side again. When her dark eyes focus on mine, I tell her the most convincing lie I can think of. “I’m not feeling well. I really want to get home.”
“Really?” She raises an eyebrow, confused. “The band’s finished, but we could get another drink, mingle a little.”
No mingling. Mingling is bad. That is exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I shake my head and repeat myself. “No. I want to go.”
With a dramatic sinking of her shoulders, she signs, “All right. Let’s go.”
I know she’s disappointed, but what I’m doing is for her own good.
As we turn to leave, I sweep my eyes across the stage one more time, hoping to catch a final glimpse of Thorin Kline. This time, my shoulders deflate like a popped balloon. The stage is bare. Thorin’s gone.
I pivot on the heel of my shoe and nod to Chloe to go to the right side. The last time I saw Trey, he was behind us, but toward the back. Standing on my tiptoes, I scan the crowded room but don’t see him.
Chloe moves right and we press through the crowd. We’re almost to the exit when a heavy hand presses down on my shoulder.