Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (79)

With a sardonically blown kiss, Lark shuts the door.

And I still haven’t moved an inch.

I mutter a string of hushed swears as I drag a hand through my hair. “Christ Jesus. I need a feckin’ whiskey.”

“Ooh, get me a Diet Coke, please,” Lark chimes from the other side of the door, and with a demonic little cackle, I know she’s finally leaving me to my suffering this time.

I weave through the labyrinthine passageways and exit next to the stage where the opening act is setting up. If they give me suspicious looks, I don’t notice. My thoughts are only on the bar ahead and the images of pantyless Lark.

I send a Diet Coke back to the dressing room for Lark and down my first drink as the opening act starts up, managing to somehow pace myself as they play out their set. When they finish an hour later, a couple of guys transition instruments to and from the stage for KEX, and I feel a brief flood of adrenaline in my veins when I spot Lark’s cello. Finishing my drink doesn’t dull the sensation. Nor does it help make the wait more bearable, a wait that feels decades long.

I’m nursing another whiskey at the bar when cheers finally erupt. Then shouts and whistles. Arms raise, hands clapping in the air. I pocket my glasses so I can see her clearer in the distance and watch as Lark leads the way on stage. The band files in behind her. She places a water bottle on a chair toward the left but stands before a microphone positioned near the front of the stage. Her guitar strap is slung over her shoulder and she grins and waves at the audience as the other musicians take their places. Her eyes roam the audience.

Until she finds me.

She beams. Her smile is so bright and warm that when she turns away to tune her instruments with the band, I feel a chill in the air. When they’re done, she finds me again, and I give her a salute with my raised glass and grin right back at her.

“Welcome, everyone,” Xander says. A round of cheers and hollers erupts around us but my connection with Lark remains unbroken. “That’s Kevin on drums, Eric on guitar, I’m Xander, and we are KEX.” Lark tries to hide a laugh behind her mic, but I can see it in her eyes. “And we have a special guest with us tonight. Please give a warm welcome to Lark Montague.”

The cheers and whistles and claps are deafening. If there was any doubt who the audience is truly here for, it’s erased by the outpouring of love for Lark.

The band starts and Lark fits their vibe effortlessly. She’s supportive but not overshadowing, her voice a perfect balance to her counterparts’. They play out the first set, and Lark spends time during the short break to speak with the opening act and fans who approach. Though part of me wants to push through the throng of people and bask in the warmth she radiates, I stay at my table instead, convincing myself I’m content to watch Lark in her element.

I take a sip of my whiskey and watch as she lights up that stage. But I fail to pull myself back from the woman in the spotlight. I’m caught in the current of Lark and her music. I take it all in: the way she pours herself into every note with her eyes closed. The way her fingers slide across the fretboard. The way her lips press so close to the mic it looks like a kiss. Her voice is buoyant above the band, cheers, and audience, who sings along.

I’m still spellbound when Xander speaks to the crowd between songs.

“Lark is going to give us a new original song,” he says.

Lark’s shoulders seem to relax. She’s fluid, shifting her weight from one foot to the next in a slow wave of motion as she says, “I wrote this song over the past few weeks. It took me a lot longer than usual. Of all the songs I’ve ever written, it was the hardest, but it’s also my favorite.”

A round of cheers and whistles rises from the audience, drinks held aloft in salute.

“I want to dedicate this to someone in the audience,” Lark says as her eyes find mine. She smiles, and things I thought I’d never feel, never let myself feel, rise from the darkness. “It’s called ‘Ruinous Love.’”

I’ve never wanted more with a woman than to satisfy cravings. Nothing deeper than superficial need. But when I look at Lark, a woman who is so brave, so fierce, so beautifully complex, the only thing I crave is her. I feel just like the man in the story she told me that day in her craft room, like I’m falling from a cliff with nothing but a rope around my waist, hoping to capture something elusive. It’s an insatiable need for the one thing I never wanted, an inescapable obsession for the one woman I thought I’d never have.

And then Lark starts singing.

I’ve been cold for a long, long time

Dreaming of flames in the night

I’ve been living a dark and delicate lie

Oh what a sweet, strange, dangerous surprise to find



All the lingering glances that feel like heat beneath my skin, the teasing jokes, the way she smiles when I give in and play along—I’d convinced myself they were just ephemeral moments. Products of familiarity.

It’s the first time I’ve really let myself believe that I might be wrong.

Your touch, hot coals

Your scent, like smoke

Your eyes burn holes, looking back

Sparks crack so loud

Light falls on your mouth

Your hands reach out, holding a match

As if to ask

“Baby, would you burn down the world for me?

Cause I’d burn it down for you.”