Page 22 of Whirlwind

“Right. I’ve sold concert photos to a couple of online music blogs and to a few band managers for their promo materials, and once to a tour sponsor for a group that had performed at the rally in Sturgis one year. Sturgis is another colorful source of experience and material.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I’ve done a lot of basic commercial shoots—promo pics of land and buildings for my dad’s company, and the odd jobs for stores here in town. Once, I did a cousin’s engagement photos, which led to more of that sort of work, but it isn’t my favorite and it’s not what I want to do, so I don’t do it anymore, but it was for family. And again, experience.” My face heated again. “All this wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you.”

“All I did was encourage you.”

“I needed it, that push. You understood that, and you gave it to me.” My chest constricted, and no more words came forth. They were locked in the broken runaway elevator that was my brain.

I was discussingmy work. I never got to discuss my work in this way with anyone. It was extremely personal for me, and I kept it low key anyhow. But here I was, discussing it with Beck Fucking Lanier, experienced musician, composer, and rock and roll performer who, once upon a time, light years ago, had encouraged me to do what made me happy, to do what I dreamed of doing.

And I had.

That night, I’d resolved to pursue my passion, no matter what, in secret if I had to. And I’d promised myself that, one day, I’d achieve the sort of creative freedom Beck enjoyed.

Now Beck was the superstar I knew he’d become. And I…

Not quite that wind and roar I had talked about with him once upon a time. Maybe one day.

A devilish grin flared over his lips as he gestured at my photo. “I think music and photography express the same raw all-consuming emotions. Live music is loud and fast, intense. And you captured all that in this photo. Forever. I like your language, Violet.”

My heart swelled in my chest. “Did you always know music was your language?”

He returned to the table, to me, his body loose. “Always. I can still remember touching my dad’s guitar strings when he’d play for me when I was really little. Feeling the vibrations on the strings, in the wood, the different sounds he was able to create along with his voice. He’d balance me on his lap while he played the piano. It was fun and magical to me, all of it working together to create something new. Something that could touch your heart and lift your soul.”

“You lifted my soul that night.” I bit down on my lower lip. That bourbon martini combo was doing me and my emotions in.Why should I stop?“That song…”

“Waterfall.” He returned his electric gaze to mine, his voice soft.

“Yes,Waterfall.”

A current crackled between us, the same way it had years ago in that back hallway at Pete’s. Now we were older, more experienced with the ways of the world, and yet he still made my knees weak and my heart beat faster. But it was way more than just an attraction or chemistry.

Beck still made my soul thirst for more. Still. More.

My thumb rubbed at the smooth edge of the butcher block counter. “I’ve always loved going to concerts, but it wasn’t until I saw you perform that night at Pete’s that it made sense on a bigger, deeper level. When I started going to live shows to shoot, I plunged myself into that raw excitement, that freedom. At each and every show no matter how small or big, I got high on it. It was liberating, and I needed that. It felt like—”

“Deliverance.” He slanted his head.

My breath stalled, my pulse jagged. “Yes, deliverance,” I breathed. That current flowed between us.

I stood up quickly, steadying my stool. “How about we get out of here?”

He dumped the bag of melting ice in the stainless steel sink, his lips twitching. “Where to?”

“Do you always need to know?”

He chuckled, the lines of his face relaxing. “Not tonight.”

9

Violet

The occasional roadlight glowed over us as Beck’s bike ascended through the Hills, twisted, descended once more. The air was cool, pounding over us as we flew on the smooth asphalt. I leaned with Beck on the curves like Wes had always taught me. We were one on this amazing chrome machine zooming us through the wind, with the wind, the engine roaring underneath us. Nothing else mattered.

“I remember,” he’d said firmly. He remembered that night he talked frankly with me about his mom, his feelings, got me to talk about my hopes. We’d shared important things, personal things. And then we’d kissed.

That night I knew that kiss didn’t mean “oh he likes me!” Just like now I knew that him remembering didn’t mean “he’s liked me all these years!” No, I wasn’t naive, nor was I a hopeful romantic. What it signified to me was that our conversation, our connection that night had been memorable to him. Maybe even significant. And then, sure, throw in one impulsive steamy sensual kiss in the dark to cap it off. Most luscious frosting ever.

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