Page 23 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

Libby rises onto her tiptoes. “Maybe you could show me around backstage,” she whispers in my ear, then leans back with a wink.

The straining in my jeans urges me on, to take this girl into the back and do unspeakable things to her. So why, then, are my feet stuck to the floor, like a mouse caught in a glue trap?

The keychain burns a hole in my pocket. I’ve always fantasized about hooking up with a hot chick backstage. I mean, what musician hasn’t? And here is this gorgeous woman, practically begging for me to fuck her in the wings. I grab her by the hips and she giggles while I inhale the feminine scent of her, hoping it’ll erase all memory of Isabella from my mind, and whisper against her ear, “I’ll give you the full tour.”

Taking her by the hand, we head through the black door, past the bar. As it shuts behind us, the noise is muffled, and I can hear the clattering of the employees scurrying around.

“Oh! I’ve never been backstage anywhere before,” Libby admits, and I find myself wondering how long this tour has to be before I can push her up against a wall.

“Afraid it’s kind of boring,” I say. “Not really much to see except curtains and pulleys, sometimes some speakers and a long hallway.”

Theclick-clackof her heels on the floor are muted in the dense space. Muffled by the velvet curtains and narrow walls. “Well, maybe you could make things a little more interesting then,” she says coyly.

I stop and turn, eyes on the flirty smile gracing her face. “I could think of a few ways to spice things up.” Stepping toward her, I cage her in between my arms against the nearest wall. While she makes a tiny squeak of surprise, it’s impossible to ignore the way her chest starts to rise and fall, the way her eyes darken. She wets her lips as I begin to lean toward her and inhale the scent of her flowery perfume.

But it’s wrong, somehow. I search her face, my gaze latching on to her sparkling blue eyes and, however beautiful they are, they’re wrong too. Everything is wrong. This woman isn’ther. She isn’t Izzy, with her fluffy hair and chocolate brown eyes. Her soft, delicate smell and adorable clumsiness.

“Something wrong?” Libby asks.

I realize then that I’m frozen, standing over her with a glazed look. “I . . . uh, sorry. I—” I clear my throat and step back. “You know, I actually forgot, I was supposed to meet with my manager immediately after the show.”

She frowns. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”What is wrong with me?“I wish I could give you a more thorough tour, but duty calls, you know?”

“I—”

“You can find your way back out to the bar, right?”

Her mouth drops open, but I don’t linger. I turn to the right and head down a corridor toward the back exit. Air . . . that’s what I need. Fresh air so I can kick myself in the ass. What am I doing? Never have I shot down a willing woman before. Well, except Izzy, I guess.

I burst out through the back where mine and James’s vehicles are parked. It’s deserted back here. Everyone is partying inside,and it’s quiet though my brain is spinning. I don’t know what this feeling is . . . this lack of desire I have for that woman inside. The disinterest to go back in and pick up any other girl. It’s all gone. Shit, what if this is what death is like? But then I think of Izzy’s hips, and her freckled shoulders, and how she moves as she talks.

Okay, so the rush of blood to my groin indicates I’mnotdead. Just . . . infatuated? Is that what this is? Perhaps denying myself of her company makes me compelled not to want anyone else. Well, fuck, that might not be a treat. I lean back against the brick exterior and sigh. This is stupid. Izzy’s just one woman . . . she’s not all that different from every other woman.

That’s not true though. She listened when I shared myself with her, like she understood me.

I might not want to admit it, but Izzyisdifferent. She’s rare. And wanting her is complete pandemonium.

There areone thousand three hundred and forty-eight plaster daisies on the ceiling of our living room. I know because I just finished counting them from my spot on the shag carpeting. James and Joel are sitting on the couch, working on some new song, while Key is playing Trivial Pursuit against himself. He asked us to join him an hour ago but I didn’t think I could push my brain today. Besides, no one can beat Key at Trivial Pursuit. Apparently he can’t even beat himself. Instead, my half-empty brain decided to lie on the floor and as I stared up at the ceiling, I noticed for the first time the plaster pattern of flowers.

I imagine the person who was tasked with it. I think about it for so long, because it’s very easily a job I could’ve ended up doing. I didn’t have the brains like Key or James. I didn’t even graduate high school. But one thing’s for sure, ifI hadn’t ended up here, my dad would’ve made sure I worked my ass off at some manual labor job everyday of my life.

Probably still wouldn’t have been proud of me then either.

Ring ring.

I lift my head off the floor toward where the phone is hanging on the wall in the kitchen. The others look up as well, but no one seems remotely motivated to move. Spirits have been low this week even after a great show, and I think it’s finally starting to get to us.

“I’ll get it,” I say with a groan as I roll over onto my knees. My back cracks as I stand, causing a slight wobble to my walk before I pick up the phone. “Hello?”

“Who is this?”

It’s Al’s voice, and he sounds crazed. “Al, it’s Dave. What is it?”

“You’re not going to believe the news I have for you boys.”

My pulse beats in my neck as I clench my fist around the phone cord. “What?”

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