whirl at that, ready to lash out at him for the cruel words. But the look on his face condemns me... he’s absolutely right.
“Until you fully grasp that, there’s not much more to say to one another.” He rubs his hand absently over the tattoo that I coaxed the meaning of out of him earlier, and I’m reminded of the fact that I’m not the only one with skeletons in my closet.
And then he’s gone, leaving me to battle it out with demons that he has shown me quite plainly are mine, and not his. He knows exactly what he wants—me.
I just have to take control of my own life with the same fervor that he has his.
The trouble? I never have—life has always led me around by the reins, rather than vice versa.
And after all these years... I just don’t know if I can. But if I want this man who has turned my world upside down, I’d better figure it out.
And I’d better figure it out soon, because there are a million people, both men and women, who would be more than happy to take my place.
Chapter Seven
I’ve been backstage at a show once before, when I was in high school and a friend of a friend who had a garage band landed a gig at a shitty bar that a group of us snuck into. It had smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, stale beer and marijuana, was small and crowded, and my strongest memory of the night was of punching the fifty something bar owner in the nuts when he followed me into the women’s bathroom and tried to cop a feel.
Backstage at an Adam Kincaid show? It’s luxury and chaos thrown into one.
The venue is huge, an arena that’s home to a national hockey team. There are nearly a hundred people running around, all serious and intent on their jobs, which include everything from taping down cords and running sound checks to conducting safety inspections on pyrotechnics and fetching pizza and beer for one of the opening acts.
Adam and the other artist headlining the show both have their own dressing rooms, but I don’t know where. Instead I’m sitting cross legged on a lipstick red leather couch that threatens to swallow me whole, it’s so soft. There’s a whole living room set done in that buttery soft leather set up at the side of the stage, where VIPs are allowed to relax and watch the show.
And though I haven’t seen Adam since he issued that ultimatum, I’m apparently considered one of these very important people. And honestly, it’s a bit of a relief to have him elsewhere, focused on something else, because when he’s around I can’t think, can’t breathe... can’t focus on anything but him.
I don’t love the way we parted, though. And that’s what has made me send Amy to get me something to do with my hands.
“Do you need anything else right now?” Amy approaches the end of the coach with an expression of absolute loathing on her face. I smile sweetly back up at her.
“I think this about covers it.” Before leaving the hotel for the concert venue—without me—Adam gave Amy instructions to make sure I got to the venue safely and that I had everything I wanted or needed. It was bitchy of me, but I’d taken great pleasure in sending her to get me jeans, a T-shirt and yarn when she was so clearly appalled to have been saddled with responsibility for me.
True, she’d gotten her revenge—the jeans she’d brought were sk in-tight and so low cut that my oh-so-classy crotchless thong hung out the back. And the T-shirt was super low cut and had the word Maneater emblazoned across the breasts in cheap looking rhinestones. Still, it was way better than trying to get comfortable in a pleather miniskirt.
But in my hands is something she clearly didn’t know enough about to sabotage— four small, double pointed knitting needles on which are balanced the beginnings of a home knit sock. I learned the craft when I was just a kid, from an elderly lady in the trailer next to ours. And it’s always been my go-to activity for calming my nerves, of which I have plenty right now.
I
“Until you fully grasp that, there’s not much more to say to one another.” He rubs his hand absently over the tattoo that I coaxed the meaning of out of him earlier, and I’m reminded of the fact that I’m not the only one with skeletons in my closet.
And then he’s gone, leaving me to battle it out with demons that he has shown me quite plainly are mine, and not his. He knows exactly what he wants—me.
I just have to take control of my own life with the same fervor that he has his.
The trouble? I never have—life has always led me around by the reins, rather than vice versa.
And after all these years... I just don’t know if I can. But if I want this man who has turned my world upside down, I’d better figure it out.
And I’d better figure it out soon, because there are a million people, both men and women, who would be more than happy to take my place.
Chapter Seven
I’ve been backstage at a show once before, when I was in high school and a friend of a friend who had a garage band landed a gig at a shitty bar that a group of us snuck into. It had smelled overwhelmingly of sweat, stale beer and marijuana, was small and crowded, and my strongest memory of the night was of punching the fifty something bar owner in the nuts when he followed me into the women’s bathroom and tried to cop a feel.
Backstage at an Adam Kincaid show? It’s luxury and chaos thrown into one.
The venue is huge, an arena that’s home to a national hockey team. There are nearly a hundred people running around, all serious and intent on their jobs, which include everything from taping down cords and running sound checks to conducting safety inspections on pyrotechnics and fetching pizza and beer for one of the opening acts.
Adam and the other artist headlining the show both have their own dressing rooms, but I don’t know where. Instead I’m sitting cross legged on a lipstick red leather couch that threatens to swallow me whole, it’s so soft. There’s a whole living room set done in that buttery soft leather set up at the side of the stage, where VIPs are allowed to relax and watch the show.
And though I haven’t seen Adam since he issued that ultimatum, I’m apparently considered one of these very important people. And honestly, it’s a bit of a relief to have him elsewhere, focused on something else, because when he’s around I can’t think, can’t breathe... can’t focus on anything but him.
I don’t love the way we parted, though. And that’s what has made me send Amy to get me something to do with my hands.
“Do you need anything else right now?” Amy approaches the end of the coach with an expression of absolute loathing on her face. I smile sweetly back up at her.
“I think this about covers it.” Before leaving the hotel for the concert venue—without me—Adam gave Amy instructions to make sure I got to the venue safely and that I had everything I wanted or needed. It was bitchy of me, but I’d taken great pleasure in sending her to get me jeans, a T-shirt and yarn when she was so clearly appalled to have been saddled with responsibility for me.
True, she’d gotten her revenge—the jeans she’d brought were sk in-tight and so low cut that my oh-so-classy crotchless thong hung out the back. And the T-shirt was super low cut and had the word Maneater emblazoned across the breasts in cheap looking rhinestones. Still, it was way better than trying to get comfortable in a pleather miniskirt.
But in my hands is something she clearly didn’t know enough about to sabotage— four small, double pointed knitting needles on which are balanced the beginnings of a home knit sock. I learned the craft when I was just a kid, from an elderly lady in the trailer next to ours. And it’s always been my go-to activity for calming my nerves, of which I have plenty right now.
I
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