Walking Heartbreak (21 page)

The orchestra pit holds no musicians tonight. It’s jam-packed with girls dancing and screaming along to their songs. I don’t remember people being so frantic at Clown Irruption’s concerts in L.A. Is this what “going viral” means for a band?

All the way in the front, two couples tap the rhythm and bob their heads calmly. The couple to the left are both dark-haired and gorgeous; he, of some sort of Asian descent, and she seemingly Indian. The other girl, a skinny blonde with a short bob, sings the lyrics perfectly, and despite being cozy in the crook of her tall, equally blond boyfriend’s arm, her eyes remain on Bo.

I’m surprised when I realize the boyfriend also focuses on Bo most of the time. He laughs heartily with his girl when Bo loses his guitar pick and fumbles for another in his pocket. At one point, the four of them shout-talk with each other over the music, and my heart jolts as I realize exactly who these people are.

The blonde, right there, is Ingela. Bo’s ex, the one who made him think he was incapable of loving anyone. From a distance, she looks innocent, sweet, and the epitome of Scandinavian-model-gorgeous.

Wow. And suddenly, it’s hard to believe he couldn’t love her. I know I’m not being rational. Looks mean nothing and chemistry is everything. But what a cruel twist of fate when one person loves dismally and the other never did?

I stare at her for too long. She feels it, and suddenly her gaze slides to me. I freeze, too stunned to retract my attention, and I register the moment when she understands I’m here for Bo. Her eyes darken, the slightest tilt of her chin showing her recognition. I flush, caught, and look away until the song ends.

Bo’s position has shifted, blocking her view of me. I realize I’ll probably meet them afterward, but I need to digest this. She’s so beautiful, so incredibly different from me. What does Bo see in me? It’s strange to know so much about her, about their relationship and the intensity of her heartbreak over my—over Bo.

Lost in fruitless musings, I don’t realize until too late that my stare remains on Bo’s back. The bass drops violently in the song, and Bo drops too, revealing Ingela and Cameron’s stares. They cut past him and straight at me.

I hold my breath. Force myself to remain still so I can absorb Ingela’s disapproval. I steel myself for rage or a polite freeze-out, but instead her lips spread in a smile as gorgeous as all of her. She elbows her boyfriend, and in sync, they both lift a hand and wave.

I flush.

It’s okay. They can’t see my coloring in this light. Tentatively, I smile back. Lift my hand in response. Bo twists, registering my half-greeting, and floats a look down to Ingela and Cameron before his face lights up in a pleased smile.

By the time Clown Irruption launches into
Fuck You
, I need to not look at the couples in front of the stage. I’m ashamed, worried about how much they know. The song airs Bo’s feelings, but it’s a play-by-play too, of something that occurred between us in his imagination. What does the audience get out of this? Do they think all of it happened? Due to the video, most think Zoe is the “muse,” I remind myself. Unless someone tells them otherwise.

I’m drawn to their expressions like a dimwitted moth. Ingela’s boyfriend wears a small smirk. He withdraws his glance as soon as it meets mine and nuzzles against Ingela’s ear. She though, stares right at me. Eyes wide, she makes no effort to hide how stunned she is.

My cheeks are aflame. I know what she went through with him. All those years she put into their relationship, while I—I’ve done nothing that could justify the desire he bares in this song. I feel like apologizing to her for what came to me so easily.

Once the curtains go down, I’m enveloped in Bo’s endorphin rush. “There you are, my lucky charm!” He rubs his face into my throat, leaving me moist with his sweat. I let out a small squeal that makes him laugh.

“Do you hear them out there?” he asks. “Do you?”

They’re stomping their feet against the wood, the echo rumbling through the space and demanding an encore.

“Yeah, that was all me,” I joke, brave and influenced by his high.

“Yes, you were so gorgeous! You inspired me, standing there all sweet and supportive.” Bo is outgoing and expressive like Emil, not his usual controlled self. He’s nuzzling, smooching me, and I feel this crazy lightness grow and fill my chest. I feel bubbly… fizzy…

Happy?

God!

“’Kay, get back out there, girls,” Troll shouts. “Ready?”

“Ja!” Emil replies in Swedish while Elias goes, “Yup-yup-yup!”

When the curtains pull apart, everyone runs back in, only Bo doesn’t let go of me. Awkwardly, I bop after him, trying to hide behind his body. It’s not easy because he’s rock-star skinny.

He grabs the microphone, half-tilts the guitar over a hip so there’s room to bring me closer. With me furtively struggling at his side, he yells into the microphone, “You want to hear another song?”

“Yeah!” the audience roars. “
Never Ever
!”
The scattered calls start in the back of the arena but spread quickly toward the front until they grow into a unison shout that floods in over the stage.

I remember that song. It’s sad and beautiful, a love song. It’s about not being able to give what it takes, and if it’s Bo’s, he probably wrote it about Ingela. Now, he presses me into his side and kisses the top of my head.

“No sad-as-shit songs tonight!” Emil screams out over the audience. Troy takes his cue and starts drilling out horror-movie-fast beats on the drums.

Half the crowd cheers back at him, while a smaller group boos.

“Tonight! It’s all about celebration. Because we’re in fucking
Deepsilver
, people! And because my man Bo, here, has gotten his mojo back. He has stopped writing sad-as-shit songs!”

Elias’ bass adds a strange rhythm to Troy’s beats, jumping up and down in a melody I don’t recognize as rock. It still complements the drums, and for a moment, I’m entranced by his porcelain-white fingers, which rip at those strings with such strength I’d break mine if I tried.

“Ha-ha!” Emil laughs to the crowd. “On drums, Troy Armstrong!” The band turns and mock-bows deep to Troy as he starts on a funk beat he speeds up until it morphs into something completely different. Punk-jazz… on speed? All I know is, Emil is cracking up.

“On bass, Elias Mikaelsson!”

Elias bobs his head, winking at me as he booms out a fast rumble on his instrument.

“On guitar—Bo Lindgren!” This is my chance to escape, I think, tensing in preparation, but Bo twangs a single string and raises it straight over his head with one hand. The thing howls, creating an intense feedback from the walls and almost drowning out Bo’s
woohooh
into the microphone. His arm is a vise around my waist, and I want to die and laugh out loud at once.

The audience screams back, the applause thunderous as the noise fades. With one hand clutching the microphone on the stand, Emil points straight at me, arm outstretched. “On muse duty: Nadia Vidal. Guys! Tell her ‘THANK YOU!’”

“Thank you!” Troy chuckle-shouts into his mic, and Elias follows suit. It’s ridiculous, and I’m traffic-light red and squirming to break free. The audience seems to notice my embarrassment and hollers and claps.

Bo plays along, dips me toward the floor, and invades my mouth with a kiss. The move raises a flood of catcalls and whistling. It’s too private in a public show, but I enjoy it—forgive me, I enjoy it.

I retreat into the merciful darkness backstage as Troy introduces Emil, and Clown Irruption moves on with their encore. Troll meets me there. Good-naturedly, he pats my shoulder and offers me a beer. I take it. I need something stronger than water.

“The boys are frisky tonight, huh?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, breathless. “You could say that.”

“It’s nice to see them like this.” He nods toward the stage. “Bo especially can be droopy sometimes, playing the whole dark, angsty thing up to an unhealthy level. Seems you’re doing something to the boy.”

The too-familiar brick of guilt coalesces again, its weight settling in against the floor of my abdomen. It’s a double shot, remorse over having left Jude, and pain over having given a part of myself to Bo.

I am not free to give anything away.

NADIA

The after-show meet-n-greet goes awry.
The audience with backstage access trickles in calmly enough, but the count must be off because at least sixty strangers are suddenly pressed together in a small area wanting to take pictures and touch the band.

Girls push to get close to Bo or Emil. They get frustrated, and scuffling ensues. A drunk girl slaps another in the face, which fires up a strange-looking older man with a beer. I catch Troll muttering, “Backup security. Now,” to venue staff.

Bo shields me with his body, a hand clamped around my waist behind him while he chats with fans. I have no problem decoding the tension in his voice. A few new guards take position at the door, efficiently blocking further entrance, and I notice Ingela by the wild hand gestures beyond them. She points at us, livid.

“Ingela is here,” I murmur to Bo.

“Troll, can you get them?” he asks. The tour manager lumbers off with a nod. Ingela’s annoyance dissipates as soon as they let her in, and she has no problem wheedling her way through the crowd, flashing smiles and
sorrys
at the huffs of disapproval. Cameron follows her, a hand on her shoulder and shooting off amiable winks at girls who have a hard time budging.

I stare—really stare at these people. Behind Ingela and Cameron with their gestures and sunny bursts of energy, walks the dark-haired couple. The woman has long, jet-black hair and golden skin that contrasts starkly with her eyes. When they meet mine, they’re the closest I’ve ever seen to purple.

She’s the opposite of Ingela, even shorter than me, curvy in the right places and gorgeous in an exotic way. Arriane, Bo said, is Ingela’s best friend.

But the one who draws you in, in a way that’s startlingly similar to Bo, is her husband, Leon. Funny how one’s brain associates.
Ninja.
Karate
, I think.

Tall and slender, Leon boasts the erect posture of an old-timey warrior. The slight tip of his chin and the pale eyes that completely ignore the frenzy surrounding us make him seem like he’s surveying humanity from above.

Calmly, the two stride forward with no need to push their way through. People step aside, and many nod in recognition. I guess if you own the hottest club in a small college town, people know you?

“Bo!” Ingela squeals and throws herself around Bo’s throat. “You dickshit! You could’ve let us in right away! How the hell does she get to be backstage and I don’t?”

Dickshit?

“Hey, man,” Cameron says, grinning and slapping Bo’s shoulder.

“Dude, I’m sorry—we had no idea it’d be like this,” Bo says, kissing Ingela’s cheek and swinging me in front of him. “Guys, this is Nadia, a friend from L.A.”

“The
muse
!” Ingela screams, causing the closest fan-girl to jump. “You can call me Inga. I’m so happy for the dork you’ve got there—he’s a total ass most of the time, but I’m glad it gets you off. Hey, at least he rocks in bed, right?”

And no. She did not just say that.

Groupies suck in air excitedly around us, while I’m busy blushing harder than I ever have.

“Nice to meet you,” I croak out and send Cameron a side-glance. The poor man must be mortified. Who says that about one’s ex—to someone he’s currently with—in front of her boyfriend?

My thoughts are interrupted by a guffaw. It comes from Cameron, and it’s so hearty he throws his head back. “Ah,” he manages and pulls Ingela in. “Not sure it applies to the occasion, but it’s
dipshit
, babe.”

“Pff, you Americans. Always so picky with words,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Right, Bo? Does Nadia pick on you too?”

Bo smiles at my side, inhales to answer, but before he can, I find myself burst out, “No, he’s perfect.”

What?

Yeah, he’s incredible, but geez, Nadia.

“Ah!” Ingela retorts. “See, baby? People
like
how Swedes talk in the civilized parts of America.”

“You’re so, so perfectly crazy,” Cameron pillow-talk-mumbles against her ear.

Sometimes things are just too intimate, too much, when I feel exactly what’s going on between people—and my face might never lose the shade of crimson that’s burning me right now.

The jostle isn’t big at first, but then a wave goes through the crowd, coinciding with Luminessence strolling off stage and into the room. The lead singer—Pop, I think—waves at Bo, who tips an imaginary hat in greeting, and that’s all we know before everything goes haywire.

The fans seem confused at first. Then instincts take over and grow into a club-sized version of mass hysteria as they shove against each other, reaching for Elias and Troy who’ve remained at the fringe of our group. I notice a commotion over by the Luminessence gang too, but security is thicker around them, so they seem to remain untouched.

Troll wedges in between the fans and us, using his solid body to thump people out of the way while speaking rapidly into his phone.

He turns, stares right at Bo, and says, “Backstage—load-in entrance. Go!” He flicks a dubious gaze my way, as if suspecting it won’t be easy with me in tow. I don’t comment because what do I know?

As we steal backwards through the crowd, through pawing hands and security elbowing people out of the way, my heart thuds like I’m the one about to get mobbed. Leon and Arriane, the last two of our group, join us at the top of the stairs, and only a few of the guest-pass holders remain close enough to make an impact.

A tall, drunk man launches himself at Troy, who notices too late. The man’s beer bottle races against us, fast in his hand, “Cheers,
Clown Irruption
!” he bellows, misses Troy’s bottle by more than a foot, and hits him in the head instead.

Troy’s eyes roll back into his skull. Somehow, before he lands, a blur of black rushes past me and smashes into the guy who hits the floor before Troy does.

That blur was Leon. God, he’s fast!

He’s got the drunk guy face down on the floor, arm twisted over his back, and with a foot, Leon presses down against his thigh. Leon’s face is marble-still, and what I read from his eyes is… unreserved dominance.

For a frantic second, I get a glimpse of Arriane. Her eyes are large behind him, but she’s as calm as he is, fearless in this anarchy.

“Walk on,” Leon murmurs, staring pointedly at the exit before he catches Arriane’s gaze again.

“Are you coming?” she asks.

I’m scared, worried, anxious, my emotions all over the place. I envy the trust Arriane displays, a trust clearly born from experience with Leon. She isn’t urging him to listen and flee with her. No, she’s just inquiring about his plan.

Leon assesses the crowd behind us and straightens in a silent challenge to a few following us. A light shake of his head accompanied by crossed arms makes them slow their pace.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Move now,” he says.

“Dude, we’ll help. You need backup to keep them at bay,” Elias cuts in.

For a moment, Leon drills a sharp stare into Elias. “They want
you
, so we’re better off getting you out first. I’ll be fine.”

“He will,” Arriane assures us quietly.

Between Cameron and Bo, they get Troy to his feet. A gash trickles at his temple, and his right eye is already tinting into a deep auburn. It’s going to swell too—I can see it.

“Run, peeps,” Cameron whispers playfully behind us. Is he not taking this seriously? Me, I’ll probably have a small meltdown once I’m to safety, but this guy?

“Yay, my adrenaline junkie’s awake,” Ingela bursts out too loudly for someone trying to leave inconspicuously.

“Indoor voice,” Arriane whispers. “Even Cameron is using it now. You can do this.”

Then we’re outside. Then we’re all crammed into Leon and Arriane’s truck. Then I start shaking and Bo pulls me onto his lap and tucks my face into his neck. Then we rush off to some place—a hotel, not the tour bus—and there’s a lot of Ingela wanting to stay in our room and pet me and feed me whiskey I don’t want, and a lot of Bo telling her he’s got this.

They finally leave when Cameron flips her over his shoulder, waves with one hand, and runs to the elevator with his girlfriend complaining the whole way.

Once the door shuts behind them, it’s just Bo and me in the semi-dark of the hotel room. I don’t have my stuff. I left it all behind at the theater.

His gaze shimmers in front of me, a hand stroking the curve of my cheek. “I’m sorry we scared you,” he murmurs. “It’s not always like this.”

“Good,” I say, letting out a small, weird laugh that doesn’t belong to me. “You would never be safe. Troy…?”

“The guys are taking him to the ER. They’ll keep us posted, but Troll will be there as soon as he’s finished having everyone’s ass at the venue.”

I smile weakly.

“Are you hungry?” His voice is so low, he stirs something warm inside me.

“No,” I breathe.

“Tired?” He’s doing that thing where his nose runs slowly up the side of mine until light kisses pucker against the corner of my mouth.

His scent is pine and sweat, cologne and a faint waft of shampoo. An undertone of
him
, delicious and drawing me in even when I’m struggling.

I’m far away from Los Angeles. Far away from Jude and our apartment, from our bed, the one I should change out. It fills the whole alcove, and we’re not using it for all it’s worth.

My mind rambles while my body is focused, awake, and igniting from this man, whose quiet insistence, phone calls, texts, made me vacillate enough to fly here.

“Your ex is nice,” I say, and my voice trembles, not out of fear but from his effect on me. Bo knows the difference, because his hand is sure when it smoothes a path up my throat.

“Yeah, she’s great,” he replies, not thinking of his ex. He thinks of us, of being close to me; his arm goes around my body, and when his mouth takes mine, it’s open and craving me right away. I don’t hold back. Yes, there’s a kernel of guilt somewhere in the back of my mind, but in this moment, him, us, is what I want.

“So long,” he whispers, backing me to the bed. “Do you mind?”

I don’t. I so don’t mind. My heart is racing again, and from the desire I see in his eyes, heat builds where I am warmest. I shake my head. He must understand, because he lets out a relieved groan and moves in over me on the sheets.

“Can I see you?”

See me?

“Don’t you already?”

“I need to see you all the way. The photo you sent,” he says, kissing me, “was only of your face.”

“O… kay.” I hold my breath for an instant; the gentle trajectory of his hands makes me want to pant. I don’t know what he’ll do next. It’s scary, delicious, what I need from him.

He starts with my sandals. Slips one off and rubs beneath the arc of my foot. I let out a whimper, my hips lifting on reflex from my splayed-out position on the mattress.

“You like that?” He smiles down at me, grey eyes twinkling.

“Maybe…”

Bo’s hands move beneath a pant leg and up my calf, kneading in ways that makes me think he does it for the both of us. “Ah. I’m only at your leg, darling, and my boner is painful already.” A small laugh reveals his disbelief.

“You do things to me,” he sighs, raising my leg and letting warm lips brush along the inside of my knee.

“I do nothing.” My voice is barely audible, but Bo still hears me. He angles up to meet my gaze through black bangs.

“You underestimate your power.” He lets go of my leg to unbutton my jeans and pull downward. His breath heats my skin as he trails behind the receding fabric, nibbling and nudging me. “I know it’s bullshit to mention him, but the devil knows how he treats you at home when you don’t see how amazing you are.”

“Don’t— Let’s not…”

“I know.” He guides my knees together, strong hands helping me curve my butt off the mattress so he can remove my underwear. “Ah silk. Just— You can’t wear it tonight. I’ll appreciate it some other time.”

Men aren’t the only ones whose blood rushes to their lower region. I feel swollen—sweetly swollen—and it’s as if he hears my thoughts, because his eyes find me there, and a groan surges from his throat.

Still dressed and on his knees above me, he slides his hands along the sides of my legs until his thumbs fan inward, reaching my inner thighs en route upward.

“So beautiful...” He trails off on a reverent pitch. “On the inside. On the outside. Right here.”

I bow into his hands when he forms them around my mound. He presses down enough to separate my lips without touching where I need him the most.

I’m so bare, so exposed. I crave the look he gives me, the raw hunger as his gaze glides from my face to my crevice. I want to drink in his expression and hide under my arm at the same time.

That little nub between my thighs. When his thumb finally strokes it, I jerk on the bed. I am
Guilt
, and yet I need his weight on me.

With an impish glance, he lowers his head, and for an agonizing moment, he sucks me into his mouth.

“Ahhh,” I moan before I can stop myself. He shakes his head slowly against me.

“Still a shy girl?” Bo is mock-disappointed. “Although not as shy as before.”