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“Quinn is on his way,” Luke says. “Don’t know where Riley is.”
Stress knots my stomach, as it always does before a concert. I reach over my shoulder, rub the incision scar between my shoulder blades in time-honored ritual and remind myself this isn’t worth getting scared over. What’s important is that I’m here, alive and well. Walking, for chrissakes, and not stuck in a wheelchair. I made it back to my feet, and I’m working on finding again my trust in people.
In men. I think of Zane again, and a pleasant shiver runs up my spine.
Besides, it’s not like this is a big event or anything. This is just a small bar, and we only have one hour to do our thing, but still. I need this. It’s my moment of release, where I vent my anger at the world and all the filth it harbors, the people who hurt me and got away with it. Or didn’t quite get away, but that doesn’t make them any less guilty.
Anger at my past naivety and innocence. I’m a survivor, but the price was steep and makes me wary of people, leery of their smiles and pretenses. Their facades and all that’s hiding behind.
Damn you, Collin.
“Koko? Riley’s here.”
I turn to see Riley’s slender frame at the door of the bar. He’s slouched, his bass case at his feet, and even from here I can tell he’s wasted.
Like, really wasted, not just drunk. Zane’s voice echoes in my ears, explaining the difference, and I can’t help but smile at the memory.
Riley walks unsteadily toward us, and my smile slips. This is so not good. “Heya, Koko. Luke.”
Luke ignores Riley, his face twisting into a grimace of disgust as he bends over his guitar. Riley glances from him to me, uncertainty flashing across his face. This could get ugly. I’m close to losing my temper. He’s done this way too many times, and it’s not funny.
But Quinn’s arrival defuses the situation. He swaggers in, his posture and easy grin reminding me again of Zane.
God. Lately everything reminds me of Zane. How is that even possible?
I force my mind on the concert. I warm up my voice as the guys unpack and tune their instruments. Rafe plays different rhythms on the drums, and we start rehearsing a few tricky parts. Even Riley seems to sober up enough to do this.
More people trickle in. I realize I’m searching the crowd for a tall Mohawk and groan out loud.
Stupid, Dakota. Why did you invite him, practically force him to say he’d come? He clearly has no interest in such a thing, and he isn’t coming.
I think again of how he stood at the party, alone on the shore, the water lapping at his boots. He looked as if he was about to jump into the lake.
r /> No, not Zane. I shiver and clutch the mike harder. He’s always teasing, always grinning. He’s the cornerstone of the Brotherhood, the foundation, the protector and guardian. Everyone says so.
I shake my head, doubt buzzing at the edges of my consciousness. Zane is strong. It’s what attracts me to him. He’s a survivor, like me. He wants to make sure everyone’s okay, like me.
Laughter, voices, the clinking of glasses, shuffling of feet, screeching of barstools being shoved back and forth. I know this cacophony. It relaxes me. It’s almost time.
Delaney, the bar owner, nods at me from a corner, and it’s time to start. Rafe bangs his drums, getting everyone’s attention, then drops into the rhythm of our first song. They are all old punk rock songs, full of pure, unadulterated rage at a world gone wrong.
As I launch into the first line, my voice seems to thunder, echoing against the walls. Tension seeps out of me as I sing. It bleeds out of my pores like poison, and it feels good. The bass is a throb inside my bones, deep and constant, while the guitars scream over the destruction like birds of prey.
I yell and rage, about my past, about my bastard ex-boyfriend Collin, about myself. The harmonies fill my head, my heartbeat synchronized to the drum beat, so that I am the music. I am the song. It’s my heart beat that’s filling the bar from side to side. My anger. My pain. My indictment.
One song flows into another, the beat changing, harsher, faster. The faces in front of me blur. It’s a sea, a landscape, and I’m the wind blowing over them, blasting across the surface, raising waves.
I’m shaking when I shout out the last word, and the drums stop. The clapping starts, and the faceless crowd cries “Deathmoth!” again and again. I take a step back as the details resurface, as the world returns. The faces are unknown, but a little to the right I recognize Audrey and Asher, and behind them are Dylan, Tessa, Tyler and Erin. If Erin is here, it’s a good bet Zane is nearby. They’re good friends, after all. But I can’t see him anywhere.
He didn’t come.
A weight settles on my chest. I force a smile on my face, and I wave at people as I step back, trying to catch my breath. I always feel a bit out of sorts when a concert ends. That’s all there is to it, I tell myself as I turn around to climb off the small stage. Nothing out of the norm.
I halt.
Zane’s here.
He’s standing with his back to the wall, arms folded over his broad chest, his almond-shaped eyes on me, hot and intense. His Mohawk is tall as ever, and the silver studs in his ears and the hoops in his brow glint. I scan him from his exotic face to the faded black T-shirt stretched over his muscled chest down to his ripped jeans, and I struggle for breath.
