Page 12 of Take Me to Church
Simon’s moodiness is one of the reasons he’s such a great songwriter, but it’s hell to deal with on a regular basis.
Tate puts his arm across my chest, stopping me from following Simon out. His gaze is serious as he levels it on me. “We’re not going after her sister, Christian.”
I scoff, a little surprised he thinks I’m the one who would try to bend the rule I’m responsible for creating. “No, we’re not.”
As much as I know it has to be that way, I still hate myself for saying it. Because I know Lydia doesn’t understand why we can’t just go drag Myra away. And I hope she never finds out.
I hope she never has to live with the knowledge that she’s responsible for something horrific happening to someone she loves.
I protected her before and I’ll do it again. Even if it means she hates me, I will make sure Lydia doesn’t have to bear the same kind of burden my brothers and I do.
5
LYDIA
“HE HASN’T STOPPED staring at you all night.” Piper smirks at me as she pours out the drink order for a group of women clustered around the bar. The glares they’re shooting my way make it clear my best friend isn’t the only one who’s noticed the focus of Christian’s attention.
I grab my loaded tray from the bar and balance it on one upturned palm. “You can’t even see the stage from here.”
“Don’t need to.” She winks at me. “You haven’t stopped blushing since the show started.”
“I’m not blushing.” I try to will the heat from my face. “I’m hot. There’s too many damn people in here and they’re all freaking sweating.” It’s not a lie. The place is shoulder-to-shoulder and I’ve nearly spilled my tray more times than I can count. The entire night has been a mess of people bumping into me, completely blind to anything but the three men on the stage.
And I get it. They are pretty darn nice to look at.
The bass player is the clichéd tall, dark, and handsome, with the bluest eyes I think I’ve ever seen. The drummer is just as attractive, with long hair and a wild edge that I’m guessing most women lose their minds over.
But neither one of them has anything on Christian.
He stands at the front of the stage, commanding the crowd from behind his microphone. His voice is freaking amazing, but the way he sings is about more than how he sounds.
With every word—every line of lyrics—I feel like I’m drawn deeper into his soul. As if he’s claimed the power to control my emotions. My perceptions.
My wants and my desires.
It’s a little unnerving.
Not that the crowd of women clogging the bar seem to care. They appear to be more than happy to give Christian any amount of power he wants. Over their minds. Over their thoughts. And definitely over their bodies. I’m pretty sure there’s at least three pairs of panties lying at his feet right now.
Not that I care. It doesn’t bother me at all that any number of gorgeous women are throwing themselves at him. He’ll probably even take one or two of them home tonight.
I ignore the ridiculous stab of jealousy poking at my insides. The man standing on that stage is not the one within my head. The one in my head is purely fictional. A complete fabrication I conjured up during my lonely nights to help me hold onto hope that one day I would have a different life. Sure, the man in my head might look like Christian, might sound like him, might even smell like him.
But it’s not really him.
Because the fictional man in my mind would have absolutely done whatever it took to save Myra. He would have understood what I’m dealing with. He wouldn’t have turned me down, forcing me to take desperate measures and spend every penny in my bank account to give my sister what I have.
Freedom. The ability to make her own choices. To live her own life. To get out from under the smothering blanket of control she’s been saddled with.
I weave my way through the crowd, carefully avoiding drunk dancers and sloppy singers, delivering my drinks to their intended table. Once they’re in place, I turn, accidentally stealing a glance at the stage as I go. Christian’s eyes meet mine and my face prickles with heat, the flush I attempted to will away flaring back to life instantly.
I grit my teeth, embarrassed and frustrated at the same time.
Male attention doesn’t usually affect me anymore. Not the way it did when I first moved to Memphis. Working at The Cellar offered me a crash course in how men and women interact in regular society. So even though I grew up in a situation where I wasn’t allowed around boys my age without supervision, I’ve certainly more than made up for lost time. Rarely do I make it through a shift without being propositioned. Usually more than once. It’s an expected occurrence that’s easy to blow off and ignore.
But for some reason Christian’s attention flusters me. Maybe it’s because I spent so many years dreaming of what it would be like if our paths crossed again as adults. Wondering if he would still look at me like a little girl. A kid.
I guess now I have my answer, and that’s probably what’s got me so messed up. Because Christian absolutely does not look at me like I’m his friend’s baby sister.
