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I stiffen again, coming back to the quiet conversation around me. Kieran’s fingers make slow circles on my upper thigh, slipping beneath the fabric of my jean shorts.
“Do you ever sleep, River Blue? Or are you staring into the stars again, asking the man on the moon questions?” Kieran murmurs huskily, causing more goosebumps to pucker at my skin. My breath shudders when I fall into the memories of our past and let myself feel.
“Dear man on the moon. Will Stacey ever stop being mean?” I mumble, angling my head toward the bright stars and full moon.
“Who is the man on the moon?” a voice says from the shadows, startling me from my spot. I should have listened to my ma and stayed inside.
My heart thunders in my chest when a shadowy figure emerges from behind a tree. Blowing out a breath, I narrow my eyes at the neighbor boy waltzing toward me.
“The man on the moon, duh,” I say, gesturing to the giant orb, illuminating our quiet space.
“Right,” his brows furrow when he sits beside me at a good distance. “I’m Kieran Knight.”
“River Blue,” I say with a tiny nod, turning back to the moon. “Now, where was I,” I whisper, tapping my chin.
“You were asking the moon about Stacey….” Later that week, Stacey mysteriously broke her arm on the playground after a rough round of kickball, and no one knew how. Only Kieran, the Man on the Moon, and Stacey knew the truth.
“What?” I murmur, momentarily stunned by his rough fingertips against my skin.
He chuckles, moving closer. Bold move for someone who just had his nads threatened. But this seems to be his MO. Cocky. Takes what he wants.
“Relax,” he murmurs, eyeing the other boys. “I asked if you ever sleep?” I shiver when his fingers roll further up my thigh, almost to my panty line, and then back down again, teasing my exposed skin.
“I can sleep when I’m dead,” I whisper, looking back over to my computer screen, trying to ignore the fingers I want to take for a long ride.
My professor still chatters away in my ear, reviewing the syllabus I should listen to. But I can grab it online later and read it over.
The bell over the front door rings again, drawing our eyes toward the two guys casually walking inside. My body stiffens, watching my stupid ex, Van’s, eyebrows raise at the sight before him. His wide eyes dart between the four boys standing together and me.
“Well, well, well, Whispered Words,” he says mockingly, looking each of the boys over with a snide look.
“Donavan Drake,” Ash says calmly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"It's Van," he sniffs haughtily.
Van nods his head at each of the guys in greeting, finally meeting mine. Frantic worry sits in the back of his dark eyes, searing into my soul. Internally, I roll my fucking eyes at the audacity of his stupefied expression. Like a damn deer caught in the headlights. He has no right. He kicked me to the curb. But yet, he still follows me like a lost puppy dog.
“You got the new Hartbraker’s album in yet?” he asks, clearing his throat.
Rad snorts, stepping just an inch closer to me, gaining Van’s attention. His warm body seeps into my side, and he fucking knows it. He grins like a maniac.
“Hartbraker’s bro? Zoe Hart? Didn’t she disappear for like seven years?”
Van’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Zoe Hart went into Witness Protection, bro. She almost lost her damn life through it all. She's just now been able to come out and use her real name. She’s got a hell of a voice and a hell of a story to tell. This is her first album since she went through that shit in California. Real tragic shit, look it up,” Van says, shaking his head.
His brown strands swish with his movements until he swoops it out of his eyes and turns his attention back to me. Just this once, he waits in the winds to hear what I have to say. Of course, he has to, and I don’t mind. Music is my fucking life, and The Hartbrakers? They’re phenomenal, especially since they came back stronger than ever.
I forget the awkwardness between us and go right into my happy place. Music. The band-aid covers my broken soul, healing me one chord at a time.
“We got the shipment last night,” I say quietly, pointing toward the back of the store where stairs will lead him up to the second level. “There’s a huge display up there with all her records.” He offers me a tight smile, looks around again and then nods.
Van waves his brother along, and they trudge up the stairs, but not before he looks back at me one last time with torment on his face. He licks his lips, looking toward the backroom behind the counter, and then shakes his head.
You know, a long time ago, my ma told me to never, and I repeat, NEVER fuck around with rock stars. She said they were tormented souls who’d screw you over for every penny they could get, and I guess she’s right.
Exhibit A: my damn father. But we know all about that.
Exhibit B: Van Drake. The walking, talking sex on a stick, emo, punk rock wannabe who performed at Dead End and stole my heart once in high school. He was the best thing ever to happen to me until his parents discovered us in the back of his rocking mustang. Naked and panting. Thick with sweat. Then he had to look me in the eye the next day and tell me he couldn’t be with me anymore. Yeah, how sweet of him, huh?
