She wore a short red dress that showed off her long legs, with red lipstick to match. There were diamonds in her ears, of course, but her hair was a glorious mess as she whipped her head back and forth. This woman had kissed me so tenderly mere hours earlier.
I also had two mouth-sized bruises on my neck, courtesy of her bite.
I shook my head, rubbing a hand across my mouth as I got closer. Six days. I’m surprised I lasted that long. The moment I stepped into her line of sight, she launched herself into my arms with a squeal. I bent down, caught her, whirled her around and laughed into her tangled hair.
“I’m so happy to see you!” she screamed. “And I’m sweaty! But I love this song! And this band!”
Still grinning, I let her go but held her by the shoulders. “Are you drunk on our first date?”
“Nope,” she said proudly. “Just really fucking happy. Doesn’t music make you feel this way too?”
She’d nailed it. I’d also drifted from this part of my life that had been everything to me growing up. With a grin, I grabbed her hand and spun her around in time to the song. She laughed, shimmying around me. I dipped my mouth to her ear. “This is my favorite song on the album.”
She pointed at me and winked. “Mine too.”
She was too goddamn happy and too goddamn pretty, and this moment was so alive with a magic I’d never felt before. My nerves from earlier disappeared. If this was what a first date was like, then I didn’t have anything to fear. It made me want to go for broke for this whirling dervish of a woman, this smart-ass spitfire who refused to leave my thoughts.
I pulled her close. Placed one hand on her back and used the other to clutch her hand to my chest. I knew the song would be over soon, and I wanted to squeeze every last drop from it.
“Do you still think there’s a possibility that your soul mate enjoys yacht rock?” I asked her, referring to our very first conversation. How tightly wound she’d seemed, listing off robotic attributes that didn’t seem to thrill her in any way.
She slapped a hand to her forehead. “God, no. I can’t believe I said that. He either loves this music the way I do, or he can get the fuck out.”
The song ended with a huge cheer from the audience. We were about ten feet from the stage, and the guys up there looked as sweaty and happy as the crowd. I took advantage of the brief lapse in music to dip down to her ear again. “That’s my girl. I knew you’d come to your senses one day.”
She looked up at me, flushed and sparkling. “Am I your girl?”
The opening guitar riffs of Zeppelin’s “Good Times, Bad Times” kicked up.
“They fucking know this is my favorite song,” she shouted. She tilted her head back and let out a whoop of pure joy. I snatched her hand back and pulled her hard into my body. Gripped her cheeks and kissed her. She smiled against my mouth, then deepened the kiss. Swiped my tongue against hers as the music roared around us.
And it must have been the heavy bass that made my heart thump so loudly against my chest.
When we separated a second later, she looked dazed. “Yes,” I said. Keep it simple, keep it honest. “Yes, you goddamn are.”
Fiona beamed, gave me another short, slightly sloppy kiss. Then she threw her hands up and twirled, dancing again in earnest.
And I had no choice but to join her.
26
Fiona
One hour of happy, sweaty dancing later, and the band finally took a break for a quick intermission. Max and I cheered with the rest of the audience as the musicians gave quick bows and exited the stage. I pushed the sweaty hair back from my face and grinned up at the ceiling. I was riding that blissed out, electric high that comes from a band playing every one of your favorite songs. Max and I had laughed and twirled and sang along at the top of our lungs. At some point, I acknowledged the deep ache in my chest, a poignant feeling of coming home. To The Red Room, to music, to this world I’d left behind so I could achieve my goals.
There was a time in my life where I’d straddled my two separate identities easily, before I’d felt like the odd Quinn out, like I had to be the responsible one to keep our family together. This night, this rollercoaster of shimmering emotion, made me wonder if I could get it back.
The audience stayed close by, chatting, grabbing drinks at the bar. The lights came halfway up, and music was piped in over the speakers in the corners. I turned to move, but Max grabbed my wrist and tugged me close.
“May I have this dance?” His palm slid to my low back. His other hand clasped mine to his chest. There were people everywhere, and the beat was all wrong, but I gave in to temptation instead of analysis.
“Of course.” His palm roamed back up my spine until his fingers could scratch at the base of my scalp. “As first dates go, this one is my favorite so far.”
His eyes searched mine. “I’m doing okay?” he asked.
He spun me gently and my skirt floated around in a bright red circle.
“These are some advanced-level moves, Max.”
“I’m no expert, that’s for sure,” he said.
“Yeah, well…” I swallowed around a bunch of nerves. “Turns out I’m no expert either. Usually on first dates I spend the evening mentally calculating how the person’s attributes fit into my overall goals while analyzing the risk/reward of a second date.”
To his credit, Max didn’t make fun. He did swipe his thumb across my temple. “That’s a lot of work up here.”
“If I can anticipate the outcome, I can manage whether or not I get hurt.”
He nodded once before spinning me again, dropping me down into a skillful dip. I stared up at him as he held me suspended in mid-air. “I don’t get hurt because I don’t try.”
Max brought us both upright. I pressed my hand to his cheek, thought about his mom leaving him when he was just a kid. “I can understand that impulse.”
He cradled me against his chest. Pressed his lips to the top of my head as we continued to sway.
“I have an idea,” I said.
“I’m listening.”
“We’ve got some complications ahead.” I recognized my own side-step, but I still wasn’t bold enough to fully admit that Max leaving in eight days scared me.
“That we do,” he said softly.
I tilted my head, pressed up onto my tiptoes. Gave him a lingering kiss. “I trust you Max. And I’m willing to try.”
The kiss Max gave me in return was so good, so hungry, so skillful it only served to amplify the tiny voice in my brain that urged me toward caution, to stay the course no matter how boring or uninspired that made my love life. As his tongue swept against mine, and his fingers slid through my hair, I was newly aware of the precipice of danger my heart balanced upon.
This feeling—this was one-part exhilaration, one-part bitter ache—was what all those love songs were about.
We finally separated, and he nudged his nose against mine. “I called Mateo before I came in because I thought I was going to throw up due to nerves.”
“You were nervous?”
He dragged his mouth to my ear, chuckling softly. It lifted all the hair on the back of my neck. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m a hot goddamn mess around you. You’re the first woman to ever make me nervous, the first woman to ever dominate my every waking thought. And the first woman to ever make me want to try.”