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How do I navigate this? How can I repay him for his kindness? I could hang around for a bit longer. Write another song or two to share with him, hoping they’ll turn into something. Maybe they won’t. Maybe I’m avoiding going home.
He rises to his feet. “I’m being inconsiderate. If you want me to leave you alone-“
“I don’t,“ I reply too quickly.
“Okay.”
“Okay.“
“Hey, do you want to go fuck around town?” I ask, latching on to that bubble of what feels like happiness inside of me.
His smile makes a comeback, spreading warmth through every atrophied part of my body. “Fuck around with you? Hell to the yes.”
Eleven
Hail
Thenotoriousvanishedsingerof the progressive metal band, Visage, tours me around London. Apparently, he was born and raised here, though he doesn’t seem enthusiastic about that fact. Or maybe he’s not keen on talking about his childhood, and that’s what has every visible muscle in his body tensing up.
Selma warned against digging for information, but I can’t help my curiosity. I just want to get to know the guy. Is that such a crime? I choose my questions delicately, not wanting to trigger his instinct to flee. I think he’d take a little chip off my heart if he suddenly disappeared.
“Have you traveled much outside of London?” I peek over at him as we stroll along a road nestled beside the Thames river.
He chews on his bottom lip. “Toured Europe quite a bit.”
I wait anxiously for him to elaborate, desperate for more pieces of him. What was his demise? What could have stolen away his chance at a future in music? Not that he doesn’t still have a chance at it. One leaked nugget of information and he could be on top where he belongs.
When he gives me nothing, I change the topic. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.” He meets my gaze, awaiting my reaction. Dear sweet Jesus, he was young when Visage started to take off.
“You?” he asks.
I crack my knuckles against my palm. “Thirty-one. Getting old for a rockstar, right?”
He dips his head to hide a little smile. To my absolute delight, he reaches out and takes my hand. “Come on, rockstar. There’s a quiet place ahead where we can grab some dinner.”
Squeezing his hand, I follow him under a bridge between the London Eye and the Palace of Westminster. We discover a small food truck parked beneath it. Z retrieves a sad wad of pounds from the jeans I bought him, and I have a thought to offer to pay instead, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. He hasn’t outright told me he’s struggling with money, so I shouldn’t just assume that’s the problem.
I inhale my basket of fish and chips at impressive speed. While he tosses our trash, I jog down the street to buy us tickets for the London Eye. It might be cheesy, but it’s something I want to do. Or really, I just want to spend more time with him before the band hops back on the tour bus.
If I had it my way, Z would come with us. The thought strikes me to ask. I mean, if he’s considering working with me, and he doesn’t have a stable place to live, why shouldn’t he ride along?
We climb into one of the spacious viewing pods on the giant ferris wheel contraption. I thank my lucky stars that we get the pod to ourselves. Z sits on the edge of one of the center benches, gaze locked on me as I move to the glass windows and drink in the London cityscape painted on a backdrop of cloudy gray sky.
“Best tour guide ever.” I praise him.
His voice is soft and faintly threaded with nerves. “Where are you from?”
“Highland Park, Texas.” Smirking, I turn my head to look at him. “Do you know where that is, Z?”
He winces. “I know where Texas is. Hard to miss it.”
Pivoting toward him, I’m unable to stop my legs from closing the distance between us. He looks too solemn hunched over on the bench, so I sink between his spread legs. He sucks in an audible breath as he watches my hands slide up his thighs. Slowly, he raises those icy eyes to mine as his hand slips behind my neck. His other hand cradles my face in reverence.
Giving in to need, if only for today, I lean in and fit my mouth to his. Electricity sparks through me as his body melts. I grip his lean waist with both hands, clinging to this moment. To him. To us. To the idea of a future.
Damn it. I’m so done for. This feels right. I’ve never had eyes for men, at least, that I can remember. Could have been a subconscious thing.
