Her mouth twists up. “I just wanted to watch the ball drop.”
“So, watch it.” I shrug, flopping down on the sofa across the room. My laptop sits on the coffee table, so I pull it into my lap and open up my portfolio, pretending like I don’t want to look at the show with every fiber of my being.
She keeps it on a low volume for a long time, sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs, and I manage to tune it out while Kal and Boyd pack boxes of my non-personal stuff outside.
I really hadn’t expected to be leaving Lunar Cove so soon, but I suppose if there’s no longer any threat, staying here doesn’t exactly make sense.
A pang ripples in my chest when I think about telling Caleb that I’m leaving, but on the other hand, it’s probably better that I do. Nip any lingering feelings in the bud, just in case.
I’m trying to concentrate on a web concept for some kind of paywall story app, but Fiona keeps muttering things under her breath and scooting closer to the television. Her face is almost squashed against it when I glance up again.
“Fi, for fuck’s sake, just turn it up—”
The color guard is gone from the stage, and in its place are an array of purple and black instruments, a two-headed serpentine design painted on the face of the bass drum.
My stomach churns violently, my breath hitching in my throat as I see a mop of dark brown hair and long legs cross over to say something to the keyboardist off the side.
He moves effortlessly, in black jeans and a gray peacoat, with a black electric guitar slung around his back. Commands the presence of his audience, though I don’t think he can even see them on the streets below and watching from home.
A god among mortals.
Silver eyes flash as he moves behind the mic, and I’m not really sure if the camera is broadcasting the setup part of his act, or if this is part of it.
Maybe he’s so out of practice that the whole performance is off.
But then the laser lights dim, blacking out completely for exactly three seconds.
Just how long he’d keep them off at the start of every show.
Sliding my computer off my lap, I abandon the fa?ade of work and just watch; in seconds, the stage lights up in different hues of purple and the opening chords to one of his older songs begins, a fast-paced melody I’m having a hard time paying attention to.
All I can really see and hear is him.
Tapered, inked fingers strum and pluck, and his lips seem to move in time with each stroke. The way he goes from rigid and grumpy as soon as the song begins, to lithe and free with the first verse, falling back into his music as if he never stopped playing.
I realize as I’m watching that I never asked him to play for me.
Dozens of times, he worked my body like it was his favorite instrument, but I never got to see him actually play. Never got to witness the passion bleed from his pores or see the way his art makes those silver eyes of his light up like lightning striking through storm clouds.
Wrestling the remote from Fiona, I turn the volume up, inching closer as he launches into the next song, and then the next.
My throat burns watching him. Smoke unfurls in my chest, dissolving into my bloodstream; it’s like aching for home without even realizing you left, and not knowing how to get back.
He’s mesmerizing. Captivating.
The longer I observe, the deeper into awe I fall.
It happens all at once, my descent into hell; a single sin that snowballs into something uncontrollable.
It’s madness.
Surrender.
Like staring straight into a sunset, or a religious awakening.
Ironic that I’m quite literally kneeling.
As the transition into his fourth song starts, though, Aiden glances down at the pick in his hand and freezes, staring intensely at the piece of plastic. He looks at it for so long, one of the event hosts cuts in to ask if everything is okay with his equipment.
Lifting his head, those stony eyes immediately find the camera. I suck in a breath through my teeth, feeling like he’s peering straight into my soul, even though there’s no way he can know I’m watching.
Removing one of his earpieces, he turns his head and says something to the drummer, who nods and makes some sort of hand gesture, cutting the rest of the music.
“What the heck?” Fiona says at my side, frowning. “He wasn’t even on as long as the other acts!”
But I’m not paying attention to her, my focus glued to the man on the television.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple working in his throat, and then he lets out an inaudible laugh. Adjusting his mic, he inhales deeply, and I think he’s about to start into an a cappella version of a song, but he doesn’t.
“This was supposed to be my reintroduction into the music world,” he says slowly, gripping the handle of the microphone with his fingers, keeping the pick wedged between them. “Most of you probably know, I went on hiatus about three years ago, because of some stuff that went down that kind of ruined me.”
Pausing, he tilts his head, as if considering that. “Well, ruined the old me. The Aiden James every one of you have come to love. I wish I could say the one standing here today is as into performing as he once was, and that it feels amazing to be back here, doing what I’ve dreamed about since I was a kid watching my mom do it first.”
I feel Fiona’s eyes on me, but I can’t look. Can’t breathe, hanging on his every last word.
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s great to be back, but ever since I landed in New York, I’ve felt like something was missing.” Clearing his throat, he twirls the guitar pick around in one hand, and I know then.
I know it’s the one I put in his suitcase. That he found it, after all, and brought it on stage.
Used it to perform.
“Three years ago, my life shifted completely on its axis. A single night rocked my entire world, and it took me that long to realize it wasn’t the aftermath of scandal and bad press that did it.” Pause. Another glance at the camera. “It was the girl.”
Fiona gasps, her fingers clawing my knee.
“One day, I’ll be able to go into the specifics of how I lost her, followed her to the underworld, and left without her. Like a dumbass. I’ll never be able to understand why I didn’t tell her today that I wanted to bring her back with me.”
My heart swells, painfully pressing into my ribs, trying to burst free.
“Pretty stupid of me, in all honesty. A test of faith that I failed, and will probably spend the rest of my life trying to make up for. Among other things.”
He scratches the back of his neck, lifting a shoulder in a half shrug.
“I don’t deserve her. I know that much. And I’m sure if I could see her right now, her face would be the same color as her hair. I don’t even know if she’s listening right now, but in the event that she is… well, now she knows. I’m pretty sure you’ve been it for me since the second I laid eyes on you, angel. Three years I’ve been completely fucking obsessed, and I don’t see that ending anytime soon.”
He clears his throat, and the music starts back up, playing softly.
“Anyway, I’ve wasted your time enough here tonight. You came for a show, so that’s what you’re going to get. I just wanted to get that off my chest, so when I announce my official retirement from music, the world doesn’t seem so shocked.”