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“I care about you too,” I tell him quietly.
This time Dex Kincaid does smile, small but sure, and it’s like the sun rising over the rooftops.
Six
Dex
I’ve always loved playing the shows. The energy from the crowds is infectious; the buzz in my veins makes me feel so fucking alive. I play better than ever with thousands of eyes on me, with bass throbbing in my back teeth and sweat pouring down my spine, and tonight I’m loose-limbed as we work through our hits.
Yeah, I’ve always loved the shows, but over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself wishing they’d go faster. Wishing our set list could be shorter, so I could get back to the girl watching from the wings. I sneak a glance into the shadows, my gut swooping when I find her.
London hasn’t missed a single show. Not one. Every time we play, she sets up camp on a flight case somewhere in the wings, cross legged and bright-eyed as she watches us play.
Well.
As she watches me play. It’s been weeks since her eyes drifted to Jefferson onstage.
Instead, that emerald gaze tracks me from song to song, her sweet mouth beaming wide when I nail a difficult run. It’s fucking heady having her eyes on me like this—like a gentle hand stroking down my spine. And though my playing’s never been sharper than when she watches me, I’m also itching to get back to her side.
I like London looking at me from up close even better.
That chin tilted up, red hair shifting over her shoulders.
Her breaths coming quicker, her chest rising and falling beneath her shirt, as she sways an inch closer without meaning to.
Yeah. I’m a mess over London Peters, and there’s no hiding it these days. Some nights I wake up in a cold sweat, imagining what the press would say if they got a hold of this story—if they knew this aging rocker keeps lusting after his band mate’s daughter. Not because I give a shit what they write about me, but because London’s just starting out in life.
She wants to be a writer. She needs respect, not rumors about an older man.
“How you doing, Madrid?” Jefferson yells at the crowd between songs, the audience baying and howling like a giant pack of wolves. I bare my teeth in a grin, risking another glance at London.
But she’s not looking at me. She’s shifted over on her flight case, the songwriter Tudor sitting at her side. He leans in and says something to her, their heads bowing close together, his dark curls inches from her long red waves.
She smiles and laughs. Nods her head at whatever shit he said.
My temples are pounding. My throat is dry.
Fuck.
Spotlights glare down onto the stage, bright and blinding, and the heat of them licks over my skin, like we’re outside on a warm summer’s day, not under a roof and a rig of electric lights.
What did Tudor say to her? Did she call him over? Do they hang out together a lot?
Does she like him? Sure, he’s a few years younger than me and the other guys in the band, but he’s still too fucking old for her. Not good enough for her. Not even close.
Because London deserves a good man. The best man. And Tudor is like the rest of us: rough around the edges, made harsh by the hard living of the music world. None of us can offer any kind of stability; none of us are well behaved.
Not good enough. Never good enough for her.
West starts pounding out a new rhythm on the drums and I’m slow to catch on to our next song. Clumsy and distracted as my fingers find the strings. I cover it fast enough, dragging my head back into the show, but not before Jefferson shoots me a look over his shoulder, eyes going wide.
Green eyes.
Emeralds, like his daughter’s. Like the ones fixed on fucking Tudor right now, creasing at the corners as she laughs again, and I’m—
I’m gonna snap a string. Jesus Christ.
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