Page 108 of Reverb
“Yes?” The word lodged in his throat and he had to cough it out like an old bone. He met her gaze.
“Can you keep me safe enough for this?”
A simple question, spoken into the now dead-silent room. Not a single other person moved. Hell, David could barely breathe.I’m still in love with this woman. I’ll always be in love with his woman.
He cleared his throat. “I think so.” His response was careful, even as his mind whirled through the logistics. “We’re indoors. We can control the flow. If you don’t mind being on the end of the table with me standing next to you.”
Her gaze didn’t waver, and that ripped him to shreds. “I don’t mind,” she said.
He swallowed and nodded.
Ray shifted and exhaled. “Then I guess we’re doing this?”
Murmurs of agreement.
They trooped out, sat, and signed, with David hovering close to Mish and watching each fan as they passed by. Fans gushed. Mish started out somber but was soon laughing and smiling as she greeted people and listened to their stories and signed their items.
Every laugh, every smile, the way her cheeks rose and her eyes glittered—they were tiny bullets to David’s soul. Mish was every inch a beautiful person. One that deserved all the hope and happiness in the world.
It took all his energy not to watch her. Instead, he scanned the lines and focused on people interacting with Ray, Zavier, and Domino. Not a damn thing was wrong. No one sparked his nerves or worried him. In fact—nothing at all happened except that Twisted Wishes made memories for a bunch of fans.
In the end, they headed backstage, cleaned up, and then—since it was New York City and their last show for a while—Marcella had a car service drive everyone home.
Before Mish left, she laid a hand on David’s shoulder—briefly—but it had him swaying on his feet. “Thank you.”
Her eyes were that beautiful green he remembered from nights in bed. “You’re welcome. I’m glad nothing happened tonight.”
“Me, too.” Her smile was sad. “See you tomorrow, David.” Then she was gone.
Tomorrow. Night show taping. His last gig with the band. He should have taken the train home, but he was too weary to argue with Marcella, so he took the ride she’d booked for him, closing his eyes as the car worked its way uptown. By the time he got to his apartment, his throat hurt—not from illness or overuse, but from corking up all the pain and sorrow building and building inside him. His lungs hurt. So did the scars from deployment. He took a hot shower, then collapsed into bed.
He was doing the right thing. Absolutely doing the correct and proper thing. Anything else would only bring Mish pain. He told himself that over and over, even if every part of his soul rebelled at the thought.
The night show studio was frigid—nearly cold enough that if David exhaled hard, he’d see his own breath. He was glad for the sweatshirts Marcella had thrown into a bag for the band members when they got there.
“I was warned,” she said.
Apparently the audience had been as well, because a number of them sported coats even though it was in the mid-nineties outside and so humid the entire city smelled like old socks that had been left in rotting pizza.
In some ways, the cold-ass studio was a blessing.
Under the bright lights, though, the band quickly stripped off the sweatshirts, even during their warmup session. After that, they were whisked back for makeup and wardrobe, then the whole show taping happened.
Given the security of the studio, David was superfluous. He was in the way and not part of the group. His job was done, had been since the night before.
The taping itself was uneventful—the show ran through the monologue, the main guests, and then Twisted Wishes played an abbreviated version of “Finding Light” with both Ray and Mish singing. Then the band ended up on the couches, with the host bantering back and forth with snappy questions that the members answered with witty comebacks. That bit hurt to watch. This would be the last time he’d see Twisted Wishes—see Ray, Zavier, Dominic, and Mish—up close, in person, their personalities shining through.
“You could change your mind,” Adrian said, standing at his right shoulder like a freaking guardian angel or his own damn subconscious.
“It’s not that simple.” Staying with the band and not with Mish would kill both of them in the long run.
Adrian didn’t say anything, just gave a little shrug.
David kinda wanted to punch the guy. He wondered if that was what it felt like to have a brother—that mix of utter frustration, warmth, and understanding. God, he was gonna miss all of them so damn much.
After the segment with the host and the band, they taped a bit more, then the whole show wrapped up, with the studio band playing the audience out. Twisted Wishes hopped off the stage to mingle a bit with some fans, and that’s when David perked up. This part—this was when he needed to be alert.
He kept an eye on the fans and the rest of the audience, moving to position himself near Mish. No idea why, but his hackles went up—the same way they had that concert where Mish’s ring had been stolen. Or that night long ago in the bar.
