Page 38 of Darcy
Whatever else you can say about the band, they’re professionals. The dedication it takes to learn to play an instrument like that while bouncing around the stage is incredible.
Dodger’s head is banging along to the music, waiting for his cue. Then it comes, and he’s there, stepping up beside Slate and crooning into the mic like it’s a lover.
The beat picks up, Prophet’s drumbeat carrying the melody higher and higher. Dodger’s velvety voice—sure and steady with each screamed question—breaks on the final line, and he falls to his knees on the stage. The fans are eating it up, screaming as the bass takes over. Then Dodger rips his shirt off. A full-on battle ensues when he chucks the fabric into the crowd, but I don’t even notice.
The moves his body makes are nothing short of sinful, almost more suited to a strip club than a metal concert, but it works. All of a sudden, I feel like an interloper, peering at the show from the side lines.
Watching them like this, lost in their element, sends a tiny twang ricocheting through my rib cage. Not for the first time, I wonder if sticking to my guns is the wisest idea.
For all their faults, they’re my friends. I’m not one of those idiots who thinks sex messes up friendships: some of the best relationships I’ve seen evolved out of really close friendships.
Yet, are they even offering a relationship?
I don’t even know where we stand. Dodger was happy to continue our casual arrangement, and maybe he’d have been okay with adding some boundaries if I’d just asked nicely. Slate was preaching “soul mates,” but outside of his determination to have me, I’m unsure what he really wants. Arlo… I melt a little at the memory of our breakfast and how easy it felt to be in his presence, then just as quickly freeze over when I recall how Prophet ended it so prematurely.
At least the drummer hasn’t left any room for confusion about his feelings on the subject.
Fourteen
Darcy
It’s just past three in the morning by the time I get back to the hotel. I’m bone tired, so I don’t even notice my phone ringing the first time. I wouldn’t have noticed the second either, if not for the weird looks I’m getting from the other techs who walked back with me.
“You going to answer that?” Ricky—the guitar tech—asks as we file into the lift.
“Shit,” I grab for my phone, swiping to answer before I’ve even processed who’s calling.
“Morning,cariño.”
My shoulders slump. “It’s too early for this,” I protest as the elevator dings onto my floor and I step out, waving farewell to my fellow roadies. “Let me sleep.”
Thank god my room isn’t far.
His dark chuckle echoes across the line. “You’d sleep better in one of the presidential suite beds. I swear the thread count on these sheets is—”
“Slate, I'm not having this argument,” I retort, slamming my key card over the lock. “It simply wouldn’t—”
My words cut off, and I blink at the utter devastation in front of me.
“Darcy?” Slate’s voice echoes from the phone in my hand.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I scramble for my suitcase, trying to ignore the acrid stench coming from my bed as I search. It’s been chucked across the room—into the mirror, if the spiderweb cracks are anything to go by—and has landed upside down on the desk.
Still locked.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
My laptop and a few of my clothes are in there. I may be messy, but on missions, I’m always careful to keep my equipment locked away. Someone has obviously taken a knife to the hard outer shell, but I paid a good deal of money to make sure my luggage is impenetrable, and it’s paid off.
All of my tech and most of my clothes will be fine.
My new purchases, however…
I hadn’t gotten around to taking all of my new clothes out of their bags yet, and now they’re scattered all across the room.
Along with blood.
