Page 31 of Of Heartbreak and Harmony
“You look so hot, Cal.” Becket puts his hands on my hips and tugs me into his body once we’ve found a suitable spot to watch the show.
I smile up at him and will myself to absorb the compliment in the way I would have yesterday, but my heart doesn’t sputter, and my cheeks don’t flush.
“Thanks, Beck.”
I glance toward the stage while taking a subtle step out of his hold. I take a bite of my now cold pizza and sway my body to the music. The band is good. I’m familiar with them, but not well enough to know many of their lyrics. That doesn’t stop me from enjoying the experience, though. I let the excitement of the crowd energize me. I jump when they jump, clap when they clap. At one point, Ezra grabs my hand and pulls me into a dance, spinning me quickly before dipping my body so low to the ground that I let out a shriek of laughter. He doesn’t drop me, thankfully.
I’m able to sing along on a few choruses, and by the time the band’s set is over, I’m determined to buy their album as soon as the festival is over and we’re back to reality. That’s the power of a good live show. A good live show can turn even the toughest critic into a fan.
I’m laughing along with the guys, sipping on my third drink, when something like ice licks up the base of my spine, causing the sticky sweat on the back of my neck to turn cold. I glance at the people on either side of me, all in various states of intoxication, but no one seems to be paying attention to me. I do a slow spin, careful not to irritate myown mild high, and just as I’m completing the circle, my eyes find him through the sea of bodies.
His are on me.
Torren is still wearing those aviator sunglasses even though it’s dark now, but I know he’s looking at me. When I furrow my brow in question, those full lips tip into an almost imperceptible smirk, and he nods. I nod back, and his smirk grows. He jerks his head to the side, giving me what I think is acome heregesture, and I purse my lips.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a silver cigarette case, then plucks out one and puts it between his lips. My eyes fixate on the silver rings adorning his long, tattooed fingers as he strikes a match and lights the cigarette. He takes a drag, puts the case back in his pocket, and raises his hand in my direction.
Then, in a gesture that I swear I can feel caressing my skin, he crooks his finger at me, and like I’m under a spell, my feet carry me toward him.
10
CALLIE
PAST, ArtFusion Day One
“Where you goin’?”
I don’t take my eyes off Torren as I throw an answer at Becket over my shoulder.
“Getting another drink. Be right back.”
One of them shouts a drink order at me, but I don’t hear it. All my senses have zeroed in on Torren King as I push my way through the crowd of people. I don’t want to lose the eye contact I know I have. I don’t want him to disappear in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
When I’m ten feet from him, he turns on his heel and starts walking away. I follow. I follow him all the way to the edge of the park until we’re in an empty pavilion of picnic tables. There’s no one here. Everyone is either on the lawn for the headlining band or in one of the various arts and culture tents. When he turns back to face me, I stop in my tracks, leaving some space between us so I have room to breathe.
“Your friends?” he asks, and I nod.
“Yeah.”
“Who was the drink for?”
“The blond in the shorts.”
Torren lets out a low laugh, and it serves as a sever to the weird hold he’d had on me.
“Is that funny to you?”
He shrugs. “Didn’t strike me as your type.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “You don’t know me. You don’t know my type.”
“Don’t I?” he says with a grin, and I scoff.
“What do you want, Torren King?”
“Nothing. Just to talk.”
“I’m not a Heartless groupie.”
