Текст книги "The Play"

Автор книги: Karina Halle

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

“Elton John is headlining on Sunday,” Bram adds, and I can tell he’s kicking Linden under the table because Linden is giving him the “what did I do?” look. “You can’t pass up a legend.”

Lachlan grunts in response. I think it means “we’ll see.”

The rest of the evening turns to talk about music festivals and bands. So many Scottish accents at once. Lachlan doesn’t provide much conversation and neither do I, we just sit there listening to Linden and Bram get in arguments over which band is better, Massive Attack or Portishead. In a way, it’s kind of nice. Their incessant yammering provides background noise and ensures that both of them are wrapped in their weird brotherly world. Which means Lachlan and I are in a world of our own.

Not that we even talk to each other, not that he’s even aware of being in this private world with me. It’s just nice to sit beside him and enjoy his presence, feel his heat, smell the warm amber of his skin. Being in the shadow of this beast is strangely comforting. He both kickstarts my heart and calms my nerves, and I can’t help but think that Bram is right. I do have it bad for him. Really, really bad. I am a smitten fucking kitten. And I’m starting to think it’s more than just in a physical way. I don’t know the guy at all—and it seems that nobody does—but I feel drawn to him, like our blood is made from magnets, pulling us together.

The sad part is, though, that all these crazy feelings are in my head. And that’s probably where they’re going to stay.

When the night gets on and Lachlan leaves to go home, I feel the loss. I don’t think I’ve ever felt sad over a guy, but all this Scot has to do is leave my vicinity and I miss him. Maybe I just miss staring at those lips, wondering what it would be like to take them between my teeth, what they would feel like against my mouth. Maybe I just miss taking in his tattoos, inventing stories for them in my head—the lion on his forearm is for his pride, the cross on his bicep is for the time he worked as a Trappist monk brewing strong beer in the Alps (I don’t know, it might be true). Maybe I miss fighting the urge to run my fingers over his beard, his nose, touching every faint scar on his face.

Or maybe I just miss the one-sided cat and mouse game that he doesn’t even know he’s playing. It’s the thrill of the chase, it’s how every small smile he gives me, every word he speaks, is a victory in itself. It’s challenging me constantly to try and win him over. And if there’s anything I’ve learned recently, it’s that I like to be challenged.

When I lie in bed later that night and stare out the window at the streetlights, I realize that, for the first time, my bed feels empty. Like it’s missing someone. And not someone who leaves in the middle of the night or the next morning. Someone who will stay.

The truth creeps in like an oil spill.

I, Kayla Moore, am a lonely, lonely girl.

***

When I walk into the office on Monday morning, there’s no denying I have a little extra swing in my step. Even though my piece won’t come out until Friday, I’m feeling good. Fantastic even. This is it. This is my new life. I’ve pushed aside all my woe is me crap from the weekend and am focused on the positive. Once that piece comes out, not only will it (hopefully) help Bram and Lachlan, but it will say to the world, “Hey fuckfaces! Hey, every person who’s doubted me! Look at me! Look what I’ve done with myself!”

But as I walk past Neil in the hallway on the way to lunch, he looks like the bringer of bad news.

“Kayla,” he says, pulling me to the side. “I need to talk to you.”

I’ve never seen him act serious before. “What?” I ask, wringing my hands together. “Everything okay?”

“Sort of,” he says. He examines his nails for a moment then looks up at me and sighs, looking completely apologetic. “There’s been a change to the article.”

I stand up straighter. “What change?”

“It’s still being printed, don’t worry,” he says quickly. “It’s just that, uh, well sweet cheeks, Joe won’t run it with your name. He’s putting down my name as the byline.”

“What?!” I exclaim, loud enough for people to stare.

“Sorry!” he says, whispering harshly. “I didn’t want it that way, but Joe says no one knows who you are. But the good news is that he’s running it. Yay.” He gives a tiny, desperate jump for joy. “Right?”

I can’t even speak to him. I push him away, whirl around, and march toward Joe’s office. I hear Neil yell behind me, “Don’t do it, it’s not worth it!” but fuck that noise. This is my article. My chance. It’s worth it.

Joe’s door is closed so I quickly rap on it, trying to take a deep breath, to control my rage which is totally out of control.

“What is it?” he asks brusquely from the other side.

I open the door and step in, shutting the door loudly behind me. He looks up in surprise then cocks his head and shakes it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I say bitterly. “You know why I’m here.”

He looks back down at his papers. Always looking at fucking papers. Use a damn computer like the rest of us.

“I know you should talk to the damn editor with a little more respect,” he says gruffly. I’ve dealt with enough gruff from Lachlan this last week so it doesn’t intimidate me in the slightest.

“You’re not running my name with the article!” I tell him, hands waving all over the place. “I wrote it. That’s not fair. That’s like…that’s like…”

“It’s business,” he says with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The article is good, and you should be proud. And it might even get some attention, which is what you wanted for this goddamn charity nonsense. But it won’t help if it’s from someone who works in advertising. All the credibility is gone.”

“Then…then, let me work here. You said I can write. You said it’s good. So then make me a staff writer.”

He shakes his head. “Kayla, you’re just fine at what you do. The weekly can’t run without ads. Let the writers handle their work. They’ve been at it for years. You’ve written one,” he jabs his finger in the air, “thing.”

“Then let me keep my name to the article and let me write more things,” I plead. “Let me try again. I can prove myself, I know I can. I can do more than just book fucking ads!”

His oversized, hairy nostrils flare at that. He carefully folds his hands in front of him. “Look. Originally you weren’t going to write it anyway. Just appreciate the experience and be proud that it was good enough to get printed, though I’m sure Neil did more than his fair share of cleaning it up. If you look at it that way, I’m sure he deserves to have his name on it just as much as you.” He clears his throat and starts rummaging through the mess of paper cups and sticky notes on his desk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to pretending you didn’t barge in here with this terrible self-entitled attitude, and you can go back to doing what you normally do. Got it?”

I press my lips together until they hurt. I so want to yell, scream, hurl things at him. But that won’t get me anywhere. I hate, hate, hate admitting defeat, but that’s what this is—utter defeat.

I leave his office, refusing to look at anyone who might have heard my outburst, and head straight into the bathroom. I’m relieved to find it empty, and I rush over to the toilet stall, put the lid down, and sit. With my head in my hands, I breathe, breathe, breathe, and try to hold it all together.

Breakdowns aren’t common for me. Not the ones that seem to tear you from the inside out, like this one is threatening to do. And I know it’s dumb that I’m feeling this way when I should have seen it coming. It’s just an article. One thing I wrote. And I was an idiot to think it was going to lead to something, that it was going to change my life.

But I can’t ignore the disappointment. It hurts. More than that, it’s embarrassing. I’ve told everyone I know about this and so many people are going to be looking for it come the weekend. Yeah, I did good…but it’s not the same.

I stay in the bathroom stall my whole lunch break, fighting back tears, swallowing my anger. Then, after a while, I push my pity aside and turn on myself, my next best target. I berate myself for freaking out on Joe like I did. He’s an ass and definitely not in the right, but I could have lost my job—my real job—by talking back like I did. That was hella risky and I wasn’t thinking straight. Even though the whole thing is just awful, what I really need to do is go back to Joe and apologize for freaking out.

But my pride can be a lioness, and instead, when I’m finally calm and composed, I go back to my office, sit down, and commit myself to my real job—the one I’m paid to do. The only one I know how to do.

Mondays fucking suck.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kayla

Naturally, I have a hard time shaking it off. I lay low all week, shutting myself away from the world. The only person I see is my mom, and I’m not even planning to go over because I know she’ll ask about it and I don’t want to let her down. But she sounds so sad and helpless over the phone, maybe even weaker than normal, and I can’t say no.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks me from her chair, watching reruns of The Nanny on TV, while I make dinner for us. I ended up telling here there were changes with the article but I didn’t go into details.

“Not really,” I say.

“That’s okay. Talk when you’re ready. Just remember what I told you last time—you’re on your own track.”

Yeah, but my track is officially going nowhere.

I spend the weekend shut in as well, eating a pint of caramel waffle cone ice cream and binging on Netflix. I know that the Outside Lands Festival is going on, I know that Steph and Nicola are getting aggravated by my inability to answer the phone or respond to their texts. I even get a text from Bram on Friday that says, “Kayla, what happened?” assuming that he’s read the article that Neil wrote. But still, I pretend that it doesn’t exist.

When I wake up on Sunday morning though, it’s not my alarm that seems to be blaring in my head. It’s my buzzer.

I groan and slip on my leopard print robe and pad my way over to the intercom.

“What?” I say angrily into the speaker, eyeing the clock on the microwave. It’s nine a.m. and I’d planned on sleeping all day long.

“Hey!” Steph yells, voice crackling. “If you don’t let us upstairs, I’m calling your mother.”

Ugh. And she would, too. Steph and my mom love each other.

“Fine,” I say, buzzing her in, unlocking my door, and then going into the kitchen to make myself a pot of coffee. All the caffeine is needed before I can deal with today.

Moments later, Steph and Nicola barge into the apartment.

“What the hell, Kayla?” Steph exclaims, tossing her purse on my sofa. Both of them look like they’ve just rolled out of bed, wearing pajama pants, flip-flops, and hoodies. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been right here,” I say tiredly, opening the bag of coffee and inhaling deeply.

Steph walks right over to me, looking me up and down, as if checking for signs of injury or bodysnatching. “You’re ignoring our calls, our texts…”

I shrug and measure out the coffee into the filter before pressing the on button. “Didn’t feel like being social this week. Sorry.”

“Bram told us about the article,” Nicola says quietly. “We read it. It’s excellent, Kayla, really. He’s so happy with it…but…what happened?”

I sigh heavily and turn to face them, crossing my arms. “You mean why is my name not on it?”

“Yeah,” Steph says. “Who is Neil? Is that the same Neil we’ve met?”

I nod. We’ve all partied together.

“Yeah, the same one. He edited it and Joe thought it would be better if his name went on the byline, since I’m not actually a writer.”

“That’s bullshit,” Nicola says, frowning. “We’re not pulling your leg when we tell you it’s great. I mean, really, you should be proud of yourself.”

Am I proud of myself though? I don’t know.

I turn away. “Well, it is what it is. I’m over it.”

“If you were over it, you wouldn’t be avoiding your best friends,” Steph says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Do you need a hug?”

I swat her hand away and back up. “Absolutely not.” I look at them both. “Why are you both here at such an ungodly hour? Who gets up at eight a.m. on a Sunday?”

“Your friends,” Steph says imploringly, “who want to make sure you’re up and ready to go to the festival today.”

“Oh, hell no,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “I’m not going to that. I’ve already missed two days. What’s the point of going to the third?”

“Two days that were a lot of fun,” Steph says. “Don’t miss the last one. It will take your mind off things, and I think you need to get out of your apartment before you start peeing into jars and letting your toenails grow long.”

“Like Howard Hughes,” Nicola adds.

I give her a dry look. “Yeah, I know who Howard Hughes is.”

“Please. Even Ava is going,” Nicola says. “She’s so excited.”

“Are you going to dress her up like a little fairy hipster?” I ask, picturing her daughter like all the feathers and headband wearing girls that swarm these festivals.

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I tell them. “But it’s Sock Sunday, and I have a lot of reading and napping to do.” I kick my leg out, showcasing the fuzzy knee-length socks with Minions on them.

“Fuck sock Sunday,” Steph says. “Do you know who else is going?” she adds conspiratorially.

I swallow, already feeling heat in my stomach. “Who?”

“Lachlan,” she says. She adds a knowing little smirk.

“So?” I tell her, ignoring the flutter in my chest. Just the mention of his name and I feel myself light up from the inside, like a switch being turned on.

“Oh, come on,” Nicola says. “Don’t pretend you’re still not all—”

“All what?” I challenge.

“Lovestruck.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “Lovestruck? Please. This is me you’re talking about. Kayla Moore. Maneater extraordinaire.” Even though that phrase has kind of lost its shine.

“Okay, not lovestruck,” Nicola corrects herself. “Infatuated.”

“Horny,” Steph adds. “Kayla is just a horny monster with a raging lady boner.”

I grimace. “It doesn’t sound so good when you say it.”

“Phffft. Whatever. The point is, you need to get laid something fierce,” she adds. “This celibacy thing is not good for you.”

“While that may or may not be true, we all know it won’t be with him,” I say, tapping my foot, wishing the damn coffee would drip faster. “And I thought he wasn’t going to go. He told me he didn’t like crowds and that it wasn’t his scene.”

“Bram bought him a VIP for today. Somehow convinced him,” Nicola says. I look over at her and she gives me a hopeful smile. “You know, he leaves next Sunday for Scotland. This might be the last time you see him.”

I rub my lips together anxiously.

“That’s true,” Steph says. “You probably should say goodbye.”

I eye them both. “I don’t know,” I say reluctantly, even though in my heart I do know. I want to see him again. One more time. I know nothing will come of it, but I’ve become addicted to that high I get when I’m around him. I may not be lovestruck, but there is something so…I don’t know, refreshing, about feeling like a schoolgirl again with one hell of a crush. And I think Steph and Nicola know that, too.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll get ready. What time should we be there?”

“I’ll come get you at noon,” Steph says, smiling triumphantly as they both wave and flounce out of my apartment.

I exhale noisily and look over at the pot of coffee, which is finally done. I’ll drink the whole damn thing, then I’ll get ready.

***

When noon rolls around, I have to admit that I’m actually excited. It feels good to have my mind off of things, and even though I know that tomorrow is Monday and full of suckage again, and that this may be the last time I get to feel those butterflies when I look into Lachlan’s compelling eyes and conveniently brush my body against his, I’m committing myself to live in the moment. Today is only about today and nothing else.

Naturally, it also becomes about looking my best. I want to look good, but I also don’t want to become a parody like so many festival chicks. I settle on suede boots because I know how much dust and dirt gets kicked up in Golden Gate Park, leather shorts for the edgy factor, and a long plaid shirt over a low-backed tank top. Today is one of the few days I can get away without wearing a bra (hell, half the girls will be in bikinis), so I take advantage of that. I add a small crossbody bag and I’m ready to go.

Soon, Linden’s Jeep pulls up to the curb with Steph riding shotgun. I climb in the backseat and learn that Bram is driving Nicola, Ava, and Lachlan in a little bit.

“Hey, you guys,” Steph says, eyeing me in the rear-view mirror as we cruise down Geary Boulevard toward the park. “I just wanted to say that I know you guys have had your differences in the past, but you really need to start playing nice to each other.”

Linden and I exchange a glance.

“I am being nice,” I say.

“When am I not nice?” Linden adds at the same time.

Steph scoffs at us. “I’m not stupid. You guys fight like cats and dogs sometimes. Look, I know it’s weird and awkward that you guys slept together back in the day—”

“That’s not why it’s awkward,” I tell her quickly, leaning forward between their two seats. “It’s that he was such an ass to me afterward.” I thump my fist on Linden’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says briefly, rubbing his arm. He glances at me with disgraced eyes before looking back to the road. “How many times do I have to apologize for being a bloody wanker?”

“How many times can you say wanker? Don’t you Scots have any other words?”

“Bollocks,” Linden replies.

“He has apologized a lot, Kayla,” Steph says. “And we all know he was a different guy back then. People make mistakes.”

“You slept with James,” I point out to her. Steph and Linden had a very long and complicated relationship before they finally professed their love for one another. “You know about mistakes, too.”

Linden freezes up and I know it’s still a touchy subject for their marriage.

“Anyway,” Steph says, putting her hand on Linden’s and squeezing it, “for all the messed up things we’ve done, I just want to see you two getting along. Kayla, if you stop giving Linden a hard time, then he in turn will stop being a dick. Right?”

I lean back in my seat, folding my arms. “Why does the pressure fall on me?”

“Because you’re the mature one here,” Steph says, and Linden laughs. She hits him on the shoulder where I just did, and he cries out again.

“What the hell, Steph? Can you girls stop hitting me?”

“I’m serious,” Steph says. “Kayla, do you forgive him?”

I sigh. “Of course I do. Bygones and all that shit.”

“Good. Now cowboy, stop being a dick to her.”

“I’m not.”

“Stop it anyway.”

“Fine.”

She looks at the two of us and then nods, apparently satisfied. “Good,” she says to Linden. “Because I’ve never ever seen Kayla act like a bumbling fool over any guy before, so I want to make sure we do what we can to make the two of them happen.”

“What?” I exclaim.

“The two of them?” Linden asks. “What are you talking about?”

“Lachlan,” Steph explains.

Linden cocks his head and eyes me in the rear-view mirror. “You like Lachlan?”

I bury my face in my hands and groan. “What is this, the fourth grade?” I raise my head and look at him. “I think your cousin is stupidly good-looking. Okay?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Steph whispers. “She’s got it bad.”

I can’t deny that, so I don’t. I say to Linden, “I thought you knew that. I figured that’s why you were talking to Lachlan about hooking up with the half-dressed chicks at the festival.”

He shakes his head, looking confused. “Is that why Bram was kicking me? I didn’t know. I just wanted him to have a little fun. The guy could use a little fun in his life.”

“I agree with that,” I mumble.

We ride in silence for a little while until I see Linden glancing at me with a dumb smirk on his face.

“What now?” I ask.

“I had no idea you liked the silent type.” He wags his brows at me. “I thought you liked the loudmouths more.”

“Oh, like you? Please. And just because I’m a loudmouth doesn’t mean I like loudmouths. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Bram already told me I’m barking up the wrong tree, as if I couldn’t tell already.”

Linden seems to consider that. “I dunno. He’s definitely not a relationship kind of guy, seeing as he’s leaving in like a week. But I don’t think he’d toss you out of bed.”

“Well, he kind of tossed me out of his apartment.”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying. He’s hard to get through to and he’s not easily persuaded, as I am sure you know at this point, but he’s still a dude with a dick. I say, make your moves. Again. Let him really know.”

I sigh. “He knows.”

“Does he? Try telling him.”

“He’ll reject me.”

“And I’m sure you’ll hold it against him for years to come,” he says dryly. “But if he doesn’t reject you...isn’t that worth it?”

Steph grins at Linden and runs her hand through his hair. “Do you see this? Do you see what harmony and unity comes from you guys being nice?”

I try not to think she has a point. And I try not to think that Linden is right.

After driving around the Richmond district for twenty minutes, we finally find a parking spot and join the throngs of festival goers heading into the park. Linden grabs a few beers from a man on the street corner selling them illegally from his cooler and hands them to us.

I don’t drink beer very often, but I down that can in seconds. Maybe it’s the infectious energy in the air and the fact that I’ve been cooped up in my apartment for a week. Maybe it’s because I keep thinking about what Linden said and I need the liquid courage.

We slip in through the crowds, the VIP wristbands working just fine, and head towards the beer and wine tents. In the distance from stages unseen, muted music thumps through the eucalyptus trees, carried by the ever-present mist.

I know I should eat lunch first, but my initial instinct is to get in one of the massive lines to buy local wine in tiny plastic cups. Steph waits with me while Linden gets on his phone and tracks down Bram and the others.

By the time we’re both two-fisting glasses of red and fighting our way out of the growing mass of wine-hungry music fans, we spot Linden with Nicola and Bram, Ava sitting high on his shoulders and looking around in awe.

I don’t want the first words out of my mouth to be, “Where’s Lachlan?” but that’s exactly what I say.

Nicola, looking cute in a sundress and jean jacket, points toward the main gate. “It’s a non-smoking event. He wanted to finish his cigar.”

Cigar, huh? I’ve never been with a guy who smokes cigars. Not that I’ve been with Lachlan either, though I have to admit, Linden’s words are still floating around in my head. Should I really make a move? I mean…that’s nothing new to me. If I want a guy and he’s not coming up to me, then I’ll go up to him. I have no shame.

But with Lachlan…yeah, I do have shame. And I don’t want to do my same old song and dance (again) because he’s worth so much more than that. But what else can I say, other than, “Hey, so I think you’re really hot. Wanna screw?” That just wouldn’t cut it. It’s not enough.

“I’m hungry,” Ava complains, while I sip my wine and think it all over.

Bram pats her legs as they rest on his shoulders. “You just ate, you little munchkin. Where are you putting all that food?”

“I want tacos,” she says, pointing to a pair of dancing hippies holding tacos and beer.

I can tell Nicola is trying to stay strong, but she caves in because she wants tacos too. I mean, tacos. Who doesn’t? While everyone turns to make their way to one of the fifty million taco stands lined up around the fence, Steph nudges me gently and nods her head to the gate.

I turn around and see Lachlan sauntering toward us. Even the way he walks is distinctive and one hundred percent man, almost like a guy in a Western, all shoulders and swagger, someone who’s ready to fight at a moment’s notice. It’s intimidating and intense, and it makes me freeze right where I am. I want to play it cool and look away, but I can’t.

He’s dressed in hiking boots, green cargo pants, and a grey, long-sleeved Henley shirt that clings to his every muscle. I haven’t seen him for a week and his beard has grown in more, the same deep brown as his hair. Combined with those ever present lines on his forehead, darting eyes, and permafrown, he looks like a mountain man about to wrestle some bears.

Yeah. Whatever plan of attack I had just got thrown out the window. I’ll be lucky if I can talk to him in anything other than gibberish.

“Hey,” he says when he approaches. He says this to both of us, though when he looks at me, that crease between his eyes deepens.

“Hey,” Steph says. “Glad you came! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure Linden orders me extra guacamole.” She takes off running toward the taco stands, leaving the two of us alone. Real smooth, Stephanie.

But Lachlan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring intently at me, hands shoved in his pockets. He smells like cigar and musk.

“I saw the article,” he says.

I bite my lip for a moment and nod. “Yeah. Did you like it?”

He seems confused by that. “Of course I did,” he says in his thick brogue. “But why did it say someone else wrote it?”

I sigh and give him an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. My editor thought it would be better if a real writer was accredited.”

“And that’s who Neil is?” His voice is oh so coarse, like he’s about to find Neil and punch his lights out.

“I work with him,” I explain, trying not to seem affected by it all. “He edited it. And I guess my name on the byline would have lowered credibility or something. I don’t know. But if that’s the case, it’s better that it happened this way. I don’t want to take away from what you guys are doing.”

He makes a noise of agreement, nodding his head quickly, though his expression doesn’t relax and his body is still tense. “I think it would have been better if it were truthful. I didn’t do the interview with some cunt named Neil.” His voice lowers. “I did it with you. You should have gotten all the credit.”

My heart is fluttering. I don’t know if it’s because he’s getting mad that I wasn’t rightfully attributed or it’s that his eyes won’t quite look away from mine. I can feel his anger, his frustration. For me.

“I know,” I say slowly. “But there’s not much I can do.”

“I could talk to your editor. He sounds like a real fuckhead. I could put some sense into him.”

Put some sense into him or knock some sense into him? His jaw is clenched, looking volatile. Against my better judgement, I reach out and touch his arm, just briefly, my fingertips resting on his wrist. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I’m the ad girl. That’s my job. And it will stay my job.”

He takes a step closer, his face suddenly in mine, and he squints at me for a moment. “But I can tell,” he says, “that you’re not okay with that. Are you?”

We stare at each other for a moment, and I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…fought for in my whole life.

I blink at him and he pulls back. “It is what it is,” he says, finally looking away. “And what it is, is what you make it.”

My mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “You sound like my mom.”

“Then your mother is very wise,” he says, seeming calmer now. His eyes brighten. “Want a taco?”

I beam at him. “Yes, please.”

We walk up and join the gang who are still in line for the street food. Lachlan and Linden greet each other with a quick hug and a pat on the back, while Steph takes me aside for a second.

“What were you talking about?” she whispers excitedly.

“Just the article,” I tell her, watching Lachlan. “Why?”

She tugs at my arm and grins at me. “Because, he was totally in your face. I thought he was going to kiss you.”

I give her a look. “Again, how old are we?”

“Right,” she says, leaning back and crossing her arms with her “don’t even” face. “How come Carrie and Samantha could giggle over men on Sex and the City, and we can’t? We’re the same age. Same problems.”

“And I’m still Samantha,” I say with a sigh, remembering years ago when Steph, Nicola, and I would binge watch the show for days on end. Fictional or not, the girls were who we aspired to be. Pretty, fun, carefree, and living the life in a big city. The single life always seemed a lot more fun when someone else was living it.

After Lachlan buys me my taco and I gracefully refrain from any pink taco or fish taco jokes, we head toward the main stage where the VIP area is.

It’s like a whole other world in those white tents. Not only are there cushy seats and a range of bartenders serving up whatever drinks you could want (not free though, which is kind of a rip-off), but you’re constantly looking around in hopes of spotting a celebrity.

Of course, most of the people in here with us are splurging or people who have been gifted the passes, so any hopes of seeing someone like Sam Smith or Elton John are dashed. We grab more drinks—Lachlan opting for a bottle of water—and head down to the bleachers beneath the tents that overlook the field and the main stage. From this vantage point, we have an excellent view of the current band, some hipster shit that has everyone waving their hands and glow sticks.

I’m at the end, sitting next to Lachlan, no accident on my part. I kick him playfully with my foot, and when he turns his head to look at me, I’m momentarily stunned by how close his face is to mine. His beautiful, gorgeous face. It makes my blood run with mercury.

I smile before I can speak, trying not to focus on his lips. “So you said you’re a music fan,” I say, my mouth moving carefully. “What kind of music do you like?”

His brows lift, and it’s then that I notice part of the reason he looks so intense all the time. His pupils always seem to be enlarged, dark and huge. It gives his eyes another layer of intensity.

“Oh, all sorts,” he says in his rough voice. At this proximity I can feel it in my bones. “I like people with a lot of soul. The performers. The ones with stories to tell, even if they aren’t their own.” He pauses and looks out at the crowds, passing his hand over his beard. “Tom Waits, for one. Nick Cave. Jack White, even. A lot of the classics, too, the good old soul singers with the voices that hit you right here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. “What about you?”