Part 20 (2/2)
”Remember the Dominion Gate concert I mentioned?”
”Yes.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. ”Why?”
”I forgot that the tickets were by lottery. I found out today that I scored four. I thought it would be a fun way to escape reality for a bit.”
”I guess it would.” I frown. ”Wait. You're saying the concert is tonight?”
”At The Rafters,” he says, naming a relatively new club in Burbank.
”All the way in the Valley?”
”That's where the music's happening. You want to go?”
”Of course,” I lie. ”I've been wearing the T-s.h.i.+rt. I ought to see the band.”
He starts to push away from the wall to stand up straight, but doesn't. Instead, he remains still, his attention on my face.
”What?” I finally demand.
”You really don't want to go.” It's not a question.
I hesitate, but then concede. ”I really don't. But you do, and I really love you. And I know I'll have fun once we get there.”
”You're sure?”
I stand up and go to him, then hook my arms around his waist. ”I'd do a lot more than that for you. Yes, I'm sure.” I brush a kiss over his lips. ”And you're rightescaping reality sounds like a d.a.m.n good plan.”
He cups my chin, holding my head in place as he looks into my eyes, his irises moving slightly as he studies me. ”Do you have any idea how much I love you?”
Pleasure sweeps through and around me, as soft and warm as a blanket, and I realize that I'm grinning so widely it hurts. ”Yes,” I say simply. ”I do.”
I press my head to his chest, breathing deep as he strokes my back, and in that moment, I think I know what heaven must be like. Safe and warm and wonderful.
I sigh with pleasure, then lean back after a moment. ”Did you say you have four tickets?”
”I'd originally thought we could invite Nikki and Damien.”
My brows rise. ”Really?”
”Hey, I'm all about the brotherly bonding. But Damien's in Palm Springs tonight, and Nikki's already got plans.”
”Spa weekend with Jamie,” I say.
”You're very well informed.”
”It's my job. Plus Nikki invited me. I told her I'd rather stay here with you.” I rise up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. ”I'm hoping you'll give me a very thorough ma.s.sage. Since I'm not getting my spa visit, I mean.”
”You can count on it,” he says as his hand slides around to cup my a.s.s. He squeezes, and I squeal, then laugh. ”You're going to need one after standing for a few hours.”
I take a step back, eyeing him dubiously. ”Standing?”
”No seats at The Rafters,” he says. ”But lots of good beer and definitely a lot of good music.”
He looks so excited that I can hardly deny him, especially considering the h.e.l.l he's been living through. ”All right,” I say. ”It's a date.”
”Then we'll do it up right. I'll pick you up at seven. The show starts at ten. We'll have dinner and get there by nine-thirty. Sound good?”
”Sounds perfect.”
”Should I invite Ca.s.s and Siobhan? I've got the two extra tickets.”
The questionasked so simply and with complete sinceritysends an unexpected wave of pleasure was.h.i.+ng over me.
”Yeah,” I say. ”That would be great.” And then I ease back into his arms and kiss him softly. ”As a matter of fact, you're great, too.”
nineteen.
When we'd first arrived at The Raftersa nondescript building near the North Hollywood/Burbank borderI'd a.s.sumed that Edward had pulled up at the wrong location. It had the appearance of a shack that someone had put up in their backyard and then painted black. Albeit a very large shack.
Jackson a.s.sured us that this was the place, though, and when I took a closer look, that was clear enough. Not only was there a sandwich board sign in the parking lot announcing Dominion Gate, but there was also a line of concertgoers that snaked around the building.
I'd glanced at Jackson, dubious, but he'd only laughed and told me it would be fun.
Honestly, he was right.
Now that we're inside, I'm not certain how the place managed to pa.s.s all the various required inspections because I am absolutely certain that the reverb from the band's ba.s.s is going to make all the walls collapse on us. Even the concrete floor is moving, though that may be an illusion. Or it may be the result of hundreds of people dancing madly to the earsplitting music.
But despite all that, I am having a great timeand considering we are jammed in like sardines in an under-air-conditioned building and standing way too close to the speakers, that says a lot. About the music, maybe. But it's more about Jackson. He's clearly having a great timeworry free, loose. h.e.l.l, almost boyish.
And I'll put up with a lot to see him happy.
The crowd is thick, and I'm smushed in between him and Ca.s.s, who leans over to say something to me. I have no idea what, though, because I can't hear a d.a.m.n thing. I hold up my hands in question, and she rolls her eyes, then points to a girl who's dancing a few people away. At first I think Ca.s.s is checking out the girlwhich seems very un-Ca.s.sidy-like considering Siobhan is jamming to the music at her opposite side.
Then I realize that the girl is taking pictures with her camera phone. Not of the band, but of Jackson.
I'd like to think that's because he looks so incredibly hot in faded, threadbare jeans and a short-sleeved Henley s.h.i.+rt that sticks to his sweat-slicked body in a way that makes me sigh.
Unfortunately, I know otherwise. Someone had recognized him as we were coming inand I'd heard the rumble of gossip about ”that architect who offed the producer” as it rolled through the crowd before the opening band took the stage.
No one has actually approached us, though, and so Jackson is taking it in stride.
I look back at Ca.s.s and shrug, silently letting her know we're not going to worry about it. Tonight is about the four of us having fun, and so long as n.o.body gets right in his face, they can take all the snaps they want.
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