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Yael
Unrequited was my favorite band, and not just because my brother was the lead singer and my best friend was the drummer. They were my favorite because their music spoke to my soul with a beat I could dance in the dark to. I could bounce on the balls of my feet and wail along with them about the end of classism and tyranny.
Tonight, they were playing a few songs at a charity concert along with three other bands and I got to watch from the front row with Haven.
When they were announced, my heart kicked up a notch, like it always did. Haven linked her arm with mine, and we both jumped up and down as the boys and our girl took the stage. My brother winked at me—Mic was at home with Simone—but my eyes didn’t stay on him. No, those traitorous beasts landed on Alex, who smirked like he’d been waiting for me to look at him.
I never knew what he’d wear on stage. Unrequited’s manager, Clark, regularly blew blood vessels over Alex refusing to conform to the band’s “image,” but the fans went crazy over his getups. From housedresses to painter’s overalls, he always surprised us.
Tonight, I nearly swallowed my tongue.
“Holy shit, what is Murray wearing?” Haven squealed. “I think I own pants just like those. Where is he hiding his dick?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Alex wore green vinyl pants that looked more like paint than clothing. They were so low, one wrong move and the entire audience would be privy to what was at the end of his defined V. On top, his chest was bare, but draping over his shoulders was one of the sequined capes my brother used to wear, claiming he was channeling Jimi Hendrix.
“Up his own ass, most likely,” I replied, making Haven giggle and elbow me in the ribs.
Alex’s eyebrow quirked. I mouthed, “You look ridiculous,” and somehow, he read me perfectly. He held his arms out to the side and raised his face to the ceiling, letting the stage lights shine down on him. The crowd, obviously, went wild.
So did the rat bastard in my chest.
Everyone loved Alex Murray. He could come on stage dressed as a mass murderer and his fans would think he was adorable.
Moses got control of his audience, prowling the stage like the rock star he was. My heart surged with pride for my brother. Our parents had never believed in him, but he hadn’t let that stop him. He’d gotten gritty, had to beg, borrow, and steal, but he’d done it. He’d followed his dream, and now he lived it.
Forgetting Alex for a minute, I let myself get swept up by my favorite band, dancing with Haven and singing lyrics I knew better than any others. Maeve and Santi built the rhythmic foundation, their beats thumping through my blood. Moses crooned from deep in his belly, pouring all that he was into his performance. And Alex...Alex’s fingers flew over his guitar strings, releasing a killer melody into my consciousness.
He glanced up, lip tucked between his teeth, his gaze finding mine, all while playing expertly. This wasn’t the first time I’d been to one of Unrequited’s concerts, nor the hundredth. Thiswasthe first time Alex’s attention kept landing on me...or maybe I’d never noticed since I always did my best not to look athim.
Spending so much time with him was obviously messing with my head. I’d probably been right about him slowly inoculating me. Soon, I wouldn’t even remember why I disliked him, and that was unacceptable.
Fortunately, since this was a multi-band show, I only had to endure Alex and his vinyl pants through four songs. When the lights went down, I released tension and unease in the longest exhale of my life. Haven and I stayed in the audience to watch the next band before we went backstage, giving me more time to gather my wits.
The band was in a greenroom filled with press and a few fans who had special passes for a quick meet and greet. I spotted Maeve first, drinking her customary post-show beer and chatting with a reporter fromRolling Stone. She slung her arm around me in a hug when I approached, then she gave Haven the same treatment. We all chatted with the reporter for a few minutes before she went off to find the next member of Unrequited to interview.
“My goodness.” Maeve swiped the sheen on her forehead with the back of her hand. “That was quick and fun. We need to get back in the studio. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being on stage with my guys.”
“You killed it, lover,” Haven said.
Maeve curtsied. “I did, didn’t I?”
In my dreams, I was a badass like Maeve, but I knew I’d never get to her level. She’d been born with a mile-wide rebellious streak and enough confidence to fill a room, which was a rare commodity. My confidence filled a quiet corner, and my rebellious streak was more of a lone dot.
“Y’all in the mood to go out tonight? No clubs or anything. I’m thinkin’ dive bar, cold beer, good conversation,” Maeve said.
“I’m in,” Haven said immediately.
“Me too.”
Maeve held her hands out as her husband, Santiago, approached. He swooped her into his arms, nuzzling his bearded face into her neck before addressing us.
“Yael. Haven.” He nodded to us both.
“We’re goin’ out,” Maeve said.
He grumbled, but relented easily. Something told me he’d been wanting to get his wife alone, but he’d also do pretty much anything if it made her happy.
I made my way across the room to find Mo and check in on him, doing both my sisterly and assistant duties. I found him talking amiably with two fans before posing for a picture, wedged between them. When they were done, I pulled him aside for a second.
