Light Shadows (35 page)

I can’t remember the last time I had a decent meal. Yes, I do. It was when Dorian cooked me brunch. Four or five days ago…I don’t know. Shit, I don’t even know what day it is.

I finish my meal in silence, wondering if things will ever be normal again. If I’ll ever again have a lazy Saturday of sitting around in sweats and watching movies with Morgan. Will there ever be another Sunday family dinner? Will I ever smile again because I’m happy, and laugh because I’ve somehow found joy in this world full of so much destruction and pain?

That could be enough
, I tell myself. Just to be normal—even boring—could be enough. Even if we don’t bring Dorian back—even if he never loves me again. Being me—being regular, old Gabs—could be enough. It
would
be enough.

And for the first time, I think I sorta mean it.

“STOP SQUIRMING. YOU look great.”

I awkwardly try to stretch the dress down my thighs once again, leaning back into the buttery leather seat of the limo to aid my cause. No luck. The elastic fabric snaps right back into place, exposing every bit of my legs, and probably a little bit more at the right angle.

“Did you have to pick out something so skimpy?” I whine. “Jesus H. Christ, my vagina might catch a cold in this frigid night air.”

Niko laughs before topping off a champagne flute with bubbly and handing it to me. “Here. Relax. You look fine. Besides, your vagina is safe with me.”

I choke on the sip caught in my throat and commence to cough up a lung, which is only highlighted by the sounds of Niko’s cackling.

“No!” I rasp, my voice hoarse from nearly being murdered by a gulp of Ace of Spades. “You are forbidden from ever thinking about my vagina, let alone speaking about it. All discussions about my vagina are off the table.”

“You started it,” he shrugs. “I was only being a protective friend.”

“Sure you were,” I reply, settling back in my seat. I take another sip of champagne, and now that it’s not trying to strangle me, it’s actually quite good.

“Seriously,” Niko says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “My contact has very…lascivious…tastes. To get his attention, you need to look the part. If you show up looking like a nun, there’s no way we’re getting close enough to talk to him.”

“Why can’t you just wave a hand and get us in? Or make him
think
I’m half naked?” He already changed the color of my eyes, although he said it’d only be temporary. Why can’t he produce the illusion of a scantily clad harlot?

Niko shakes his head, reading my mind. “Where we’re going, the Dark will be everywhere. I’ll be deflecting. And you know I won’t be able to use. Luckily, as far as we know, you’re the only supernatural being on earth that’s undetectable.”

“Oh, joy,” I mutter with false enthusiasm. “Score one for Team Freak.”

Niko huffs out an aggravated breath, and scrubs a hand over his freshly shaven jaw. “Seriously, Gabs. None of that feeling-sorry-for-yourself shit tonight. Try to at least have a little fun.”

“Sorry.” I sink into the seat, feeling like a total Debbie Downer. So what if my life is crumbling at my feet, and I’ve lost just about everyone I love? I’ve got on killer shoes and oddly enough, I’m having a good hair day. Plus, I get to see The Fallen in concert, which has been on my bucket list for years.

The ride to KeyArena is short, even with the ridiculous traffic into Seattle’s entertainment center. Lucky for us, we’ve got a special pass that gets us to the very front so the limo can let us out. The Divine must be a woman, because while these shoes are hot, walking a mile and half from the packed parking lot is not an option.

The opening act is just getting into their set when an usher leads us to a private section of box seats, where it appears we’re the only two patrons. Seconds later, a waitress brings over an ice bucket holding another bottle of Ace of Spades and two glasses.

“Oh, yes. Very inconspicuous,” I smirk, swaying to the music.

“This is more so for safety than anything else,” Niko says, popping the top of the champagne and filling the glasses. “Besides, I thought you’d enjoy the show from here. You seemed really excited to see them.”

“Are you kidding me?” I shout over the pounding bass and guitar riffs. “This is great!” I grab a glass—my second of the evening—and nearly down it in one gulp. There’s no way I’m sitting down, heels be damned.

“Well, like I said, have fun.
Real
fun. None of that shit you try to put on for the rest of us to make us believe you’re ok.”

“Oh, I will,” I reply, swallowing the last of my drink. “Especially once Denny Nox takes the stage. Holy hell, I may throw my panties at him!”
Cringe.
Note to self: Champagne makes me slutty.

“Oh, so you’re a Nox fan,” Niko smirks, probably thinking I’m as basic as bitches come. I don’t care. Denny Nox is scrumptious from his coif of blown out hair to his rocker chic clothes. And those eyes? Holy fuck. I may have gotten off on the image of him winking alone.

“I heard he’s gay,” Niko mumbles behind me, folding a leg so his ankle rests on his knee.

“Hater,” I jibe. “You’re just mad that he probably could sleep with any chick he wanted just by opening his mouth. Myself included.” Ok, champagne makes me very slutty.

I hear him snort, but give the stage my attention, getting lost in the vibrant energy of the crowd. By the time the opening band finishes their set and exits the stage, I’m two more glasses of bubbly in and pleasantly tipsy.

I turn to Niko, my face lit up with anticipation. He smiles at my excitement, genuinely happy that I’m happy. Or at least I appear to be. And right now, I can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fake. What’s a manufactured smile and one birthed out of sincerity? Maybe I am happy. Maybe, just maybe, there is life after Dorian.

The house lights dim and the crowd goes completely insane, everyone screaming and cheering for the entrance of The Fallen. I find myself jumping up and down and screaming my head off too, the exhilaration in the room positively infectious. Niko steps up beside me, his eyes glued to the stage. Even he must be a little excited.

The lights come on again, flashing a rhythmic pattern of red, blue, yellow and green lights along with the intro to The Fallen’s latest hit. Hoots and hollers resound throughout the arena, almost as loud as the up-tempo melody. And just when I think it can’t get any more chaotic, Denny Nox and his band mates take the stage.

For the next hour and a half, I lose myself in music, letting it breathe beautiful life into my weary soul. I sing, I dance, I even get a little choked up when Denny belts out a ballad about falling apart, being at the lowest of lows, yet getting back up again, stronger than ever. I deem it my honorary theme song, vowing to do the same. Promising that no matter what may happen next, no matter whom and what Dorian chooses, I won’t let it break me. I will get back up. I will survive. I didn’t come this far to lie down and die of a broken heart.

At the end of the show, my feet are aching, I’m covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and my head is spinning from sharing two more bottles of champagne with Niko. And even though I didn’t sit down once, I feel like I’m flying. I don’t know if I absorbed the electric energy in the room or I’m drunk or what. I just know that I haven’t felt this
good
, this inspired, in weeks. Maybe even months.

“Come on,” Niko says, holding out my jacket so I can slip my arms through. Even though I’m burning up, I know I’ll be freezing once we hit that cold, damp air.

“Where to now?” Shit. I completely forgot that we’re actually here to work. I grab my black clutch and fish out the compact. I probably look like a hot, sweaty mess right now.

“Backstage. My connection should be meeting us there.”

“Backstage?” A fresh wave of excitement bumrushes my veins. “Do you think we’ll see the band?”

Niko shrugs and gives me a blue-eyed wink. “Probably.”

I slather on a fresh coat of red lipstick and fluff my hair, just before Niko ushers me into the crowd. We weave through hordes of gushing fans, making our way to the door marked for VIPs only. A burly door man that’s easily three times my weight, and probably a former Seahawks hopeful, asks us for our passes. Niko steps up to the much larger man, chest out and eyes trained on his.

“Here you go,” he says, just as two passes instantly appear in his hand. The guard checks them against a paper on a clipboard.

“You’re not on the list,” he gruffs.

“Look again.” It’s not a request.

The guard does as he’s told and is surprised to find our names at the very end. He waves us through, eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Thought you said you couldn’t use,” I whisper as we pass more security.

“Eh. That was nothing. Not even detectable.”

We enter the bustling backstage area, and I see why Niko had me dress the way I did. The room is a smorgasbord of skin, with chicks going as far as trying to pass off a bikini top as a shirt. I roll my eyes at the pure desperation seeping from their pores. Is this what these women aspire to be? Nothing more than potential waste receptacles for a rock star that won’t even remember their name?

“This way,” Niko says, steering me away from the scene of a groupie sucking face with who looks to be nothing more than a roadie. She looks like she would be willing to do even more to get closer to the band.

I let Niko lead me down a hallway littered with a few dozen stragglers. We go straight to the door at the end, which is guarded by another muscle-bound bouncer. Niko waves a hand casually, and the man steps aside without another look in our direction. When he places his hand on the doorknob, I hear it unlock with a
click
from the other side of the door. When we’re safely inside the dressing room, I turn around to face him, a million questions on my tongue.

“How in the…? Whose dressing room are we in?”

Niko casually strides over to a mini fridge stocked with beer and bottled water. He throws me an ice-cold plastic bottle. “Hydrate,” he says, ignoring my question. “I need you on your game.”

I unscrew the bottle of Voss, but keep my eyes trained on the cryptic Warlock as he eases down onto the plush leather sofa. So this is Niko’s tip. A band mate. At first glance, there are no distinguishing details that would give away exactly who this dressing room belongs to. Sure, there are big, lavish bouquets of flowers, along with trays and baskets of snacks. And of course, there are the amenities: flat screen TV, stereo system, video games, etc. But other than that, the room seems pretty impersonal.

“I don’t know about this, Niko,” I say, looking around. We’re in someone’s private space. Breaking and entering was
not
on the bucket list. “Does your contact even know we’re here?”

“Nope,” Niko replies, folding his hands behind his head. “But he will soon.”

“And what makes you think we can trust him?”

Niko presses his lips into a tight line, but quickly recovers. “Because he’s the only one I know that hates my father more than me.”

At that exact moment, a melee of unintelligible squawks and screams erupt outside the door. I crouch into a defensive stance, fists tightened, expecting some enraged maniac to come barging in, demanding we reveal our identities. Niko, on the other hand, is completely calm and cool, his hands still pressed to the back of his head and his feet propped onto the table. I can’t tell if it’s a front or if he really is that damn confident. Still, I can’t let my guard down. Not when I don’t know who—and what—is on the other side of that door.

The ruckus grows louder, drawing nearer. I can hear the sounds of gushing fan-girls offering any and everything for just five minutes of whoredom. The booze-filled desperation is so thick that I can nearly taste it, combined with a heady mix of sweat and sex. Holy shit, it’s strong. And it’s getting stronger, so potent that I feel nearly intoxicated. My clothing feels too tight, my skin too hot. I rip off my leather jacket like it’s on fire, panting for relief, but it’s not enough. I claw at my clothes, wishing them off, but I’m still partially aware that Niko is still here, watching me with rapt fascination as I take my heavy breasts in my hands and squeeze them through the thin fabric. It feels good, but I need more. So much more.

Just as my hands slide south, fingers grazing the inside of my fishnet-clad thighs, the door flies open. I’m still touching myself as I gaze upon Denny Nox, flanked by at least half a dozen, half-dressed girls. I want to be one of those girls. At this very moment, I hate them, yet I envy them. So much so that the taste of rage coats my tongue, and I feel my body heat for an entirely different reason.

Denny takes one look at me, panting and disheveled, and Niko, reclining leisurely on the couch, and freezes.

“Get out,” he commands, his head slightly turned towards the girls hanging off him. Each woman whines and groans, damn near begs to stay, but they turn around and leave, the door slamming at their backs.

“What are you doing here?” Denny asks, the malice in his voice making him appear even sexier, causing a fresh wave of desire to hit me like a battering ram. “And who the fuck is she?”

Niko is on his feet in a blur of movement and in front of the equally gorgeous man. He claps him on the shoulder and smiles. “Now is that any way to treat an old friend?”