Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(34)

DAMN, THESE GUYS ARE GOOD. THE band, Kilimanjaro, lives up to all of Marlon’s hype. And then some. I especially like the bass player. That’s one instrument I consider myself only adequate on, so I envy guys who can make it speak the way this one does. The bass has a soul, a musical undercurrent that, though subtle, anchors everything else. And the bass player is the soul of this band.

“What do you think?” I turn to study Kai, whose eyes haven’t left the stage since Kilimanjaro came on.

“They’re fantastic.” She turns to me, her eyes wide and a huge grin on her face. “The bass player’s sick, right?”

I nod, distracted by the peculiar and entrancing picture she makes. Sarita bought her some boy jeans, which fit okay, but I still can’t stop staring at her ass. The bulky, hooded sweatshirt does a good job of disguising her breasts, but that face . . . The delicate bones and striking lines, even under the baseball cap, with all her hair hidden, would still stop me in my tracks. Those full, pouty lips look completely kissable under the thin moustache I finally convinced her to wear.

I can’t believe she did this—came out in public like this with me. If I wasn’t convinced there is only one girl in the world for me before, this did it.

“Rhys?” She frowns and pokes my chest. “I said they’re fantastic. Are you listening?”

“Oh, yeah.” I force my attention back to the subject at hand. “Think I should sign ‘em?”

“Like yesterday.” She returns her eyes to the stage. “Before someone else snatches them up.”

“Yeah. I was feeling that, too.”

“They’re almost done with the set. Should we try to see them? Like get backstage?”

“Nah.” I grab her fingers, locking them with mine. It feels so good to hold her hand in public again, even if everyone does assume we’re just two gay guys in love, taking in the show. “I’ll have my people call their people.”

“You think they have people?”

“They’re booked for a festival this size. Believe me, they have people. They may be unsigned, but they’re not unorganized. Somebody’s running things.”

“So I guess now you have Prodigy’s second act.”

I push down my irritation. She should have been Prodigy’s second act. She would have been if John Malcolm hadn’t interfered.

“What exactly is your deal with Malcolm? And for how long?” I try to look harmless. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“I do mind you asking because we said we wouldn’t talk about any of that today.” She steps close enough for me to smell her mother’s soap. “If you’re not talking to the band, you have to feed me.”

I keep thinking about all the weight she’s lost.

“Gladly.” I place my hand at the curve of her waist beneath the sweatshirt, my fingers brushing the velvety skin of her back. “What do you want?”

She looks up at me, and I know what she wants because I want it, too. To be as physically close as possible every moment we have together. Since last night’s infamous piano encounter, we’ve been insatiable. It’s not just our bodies that can’t get enough. I’ve missed every part of her equally. Her laugh. Her kisses. The silences we fill up with all the things we don’t ever have to say aloud. And when I can’t find the words to tell her the world is less bright when she’s not around, my body speaks for me. Sometimes there’s no other way to say it.

And I love that everything I’m feeling, I see reflected back every time she looks at me. She can’t hide it.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Suspicion tinges her voice, even though she’s smiling just the tiniest bit.

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Tell me what you were thinking.”

“I’ll sound like a dick.”

“Won’t be the first time.”

Oh, she’s got jokes.

“Okay. You asked for it.” I heave a longsuffering sigh, preparing myself for a ball busting. “I was thinking that I like seeing the effect I have on you.”

Pink crawls over her cheeks, immediately making my case.

“How you . . . what?” Her eyes slide down and to the side. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your cheeks, for one thing.” I brush a knuckle over the high slant of one cheekbone. “You blush.”

“I do not blush, Rhys,” she says unconvincingly.

“Yeah, okay.” I laugh because her cheeks just get pinker by the second. “And your breathing changes. Kind of catches.”

As if on cue, her breath hitches in her throat. It’s incredibly arousing knowing I’m doing this to her in a crowd, like my words are stroking her under her clothes.

“And then,” I say, leaning down so my words land right in her ears. “It’s like you don’t know what to do with your hands. You touch your throat. Put your hands in your pockets. You fidget. After months together, I love seeing that you still respond that way to me.”

She lowers her eyes to the sand under our feet, a wry smile crooking her mouth.

“You were right. You do sound like a dick.”

I recapture her hands, pulling her into me.