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“I never said you weren’t as hot as people think you are.” Isla gives me a sideways glance. “I just don’t get women throwing themselves at musicians like they’re gods or something. Like they do no wrong and have perfect lives. We’ve all got demons chasing us, you know?”
I want to make a comment about the fact that she just admitted to finding me attractive, but I refrain.
“Speaking of women throwing themselves at musicians, my band is playing at Iconic tonight. I don’t know if you saw the flyer, but you should come.” I feel like I’m asking her on a date, which is very much not what I’m doing.
I curse myself for the power this woman has over me. I don’t date. I don’t like women. I don’t get involved; I fuck. Why is my brain suddenly so enraptured by a woman? I can’t make sense of it. I’ve seen and been with more women than I can count—not really, but I’ve been with a lot of women. And they’ve all been sexy. So why didn’t my brain pull me toward those ones? I was fine having sex with them and never seeing them again, letting them use me, getting off, and getting on with my life.
With Isla, though, it’s like I want to be around her. I enjoy being around her.
“Yeah, I’ll be there at some point. I can’t stay long, but I’ll swing by for a bit,” she says, and I swear I feel like a fucking giddy schoolboy.
What the fuck, Bordeaux?
Twelve
Isla
Meraki (v.) to do something with soul, creativity or love;
When you leave a piece of yourself in your work.
___________
Iconic is breathtakingly beautiful.
I run my fingertips down the cold bar top as I wait for my drink, moving toward the end of the bar, closer to the stage. Vinyl records sit under my feet, protected by a glass-covered floor. I scan over the crowd of people making their way in and my eyes land on the blood-red walls, signed posters, and memorabilia scattered from floor to ceiling. It’s like a beautiful, chaotic masterpiece.
My blissful state of being totally enamored is interrupted by the screeching howl of the microphone as a gorgeous dark-haired woman picks it up off the floor and sticks it into its stand.
“Well, hey, Chicago,” Declan, the bassist for Reckless Desires, muses. The people who have made their way in swarm up to the stage and cheer her on. “Hey, hi, hello. How the fuck are ya?”
People shout gleefully as men in black shirts and dark denim jeans gather around the stage.
“We’re about to start, give us five and we’re all yours.” Declan winks at the crowd and I have to admit, she has a commanding presence that is not easy to ignore. I, along with the rest of the crowd, watch as she jumps off stage and moves down a long hallway. I’ve seen Declan on album covers and in magazines, but never in person. She’s even more gorgeous in the flesh. What is it with this band?
“Your drink, miss.” The bartender catches my attention and slides my gin down the silver-and-black bar top toward me.
“Miss Robles!”
I turn toward the voice and see Frankie and her vibrant pink mohawk making her way over to me. “Hey, Frankie,” I call to her, feeling strange calling my boss by their first name.
“Would ya make a me a Pina Colada, Johnny?” Frankie asks, batting her eyes at the bartender. She’s an older woman, but she’s fiery and spunky. She’s got an electric soul and she’s hilarious. “I’ve had a long day.” She sighs, shaking her head before turning back toward me. “How you doing, Isla? Are the boys treating you like a queen?” She pauses. “Because if they aren’t, I’ll give them hell. You just let me know.”
Her voice is raspy, like she’s smoked for a long time, but it’s soothing.
“I’m doing good. I’m excited to see one of their shows,” I tell her, taking a sip of my drink. “This place is gorgeous.”
Frankie nods, never shy about her accomplishments—another thing I’ve really grown to like about the woman. “This place is my heaven, you know? And getting to see Bordeaux play is the cherry on the fucking cake. I love seeing that boy on stage.”
I smile at her. “I’m sure you’re super proud of him.”
She glances at me and meets my smile before watching the band walk on stage. “Don’t tell him, but I think he’s pretty priceless. He’s one of the good ones... despite how he tries to be that typical, cover of Rolling Stone hard-ass.”
“We’re so pumped to be back where it all started!” Bordeaux shouts into the microphone as the band hooks their instruments around themselves. “If you know these songs, sing along with us, all right?”
He flashes the crowd a devilish smile as the drummer, Flynn, counts them all in using his drumsticks. Neon lights come to life as the music starts and the crowd screams. Iconic is a small venue, but the noise coming from it right now is unreal. I relax against the bar as the music plays and allow, just for a minute, the world inside my head to go completely quiet.
Bordeaux sings, his fingers grazing up and down his guitar neck, and I swear I’ve never heard something I’ve enjoyed more. His voice, in combination with the music they play, is intoxicating, invigorating.
