A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,38

to win. Fresh pine and grass wrap around the wind, shooting up my nose like a street drug.

The dashing speed presses me into Orion’s back. Partway in, I squeeze harder and rest my cheek on battered leather. I’m warm in his sweater, my arms full of his solid frame. I close my eyes and just feel until the bike slows and Orion turns into a packed parking lot. “Already?”

Did I just say that?

Apparently I did because Orion’s laughing as he parks. He helps me off the bike. My body still thinks we’re in the middle of turns and dizzying bends, the growling throttle echoing in my ears.

“Got you here in one piece and you even managed to enjoy it.”

“I… yeah,” I say as my legs recall how to work.

“Then you might want to release a guy’s poor, innocent jacket before we head inside?”

I look down; my hand had instinctively clamped like a vise around his forearm. “Oh—sorry. I didn’t even realize.”

“Millie does have that effect.” Another laugh, his features both warm and smug. “You did like it, then.”

14

My legs manage to adjust from post-motorbike to normal by the time we reach the white, pitched roof building with black trim. The sign over the entrance reads Heaven’s Gate, but locals just call this club the Gate.

Inside the venue, filtered light casts a ghostly hue. Sweat, hoppy beer, and a bouquet of a hundred perfumes follow our elbow-pushing through the crowd. Orion plants his palm on my back and guides us dead center. Remy and crew have been saving us seats, and good thing—there aren’t any left.

Our group has snagged two bistro tables and pushed them together. I spy Flora with a couple of girls and guys at the far end. We squeeze into our chairs.

Gordon waves, and Remy salutes from my left, saying, “You survived Millie, then? You’ve got guts behind your apron, Lila. Ri’s a beast on that thing. Usually ends up swiping his Dad’s ride when he’s toting companions.”

Orion juts forward. “Enough out of you.”

I turn, slanting my gaze at my chauffeur. “A car? You have access to a car and—”

“Goldline’s up next.” Orion’s left eyeball strays my way. His mouth purses infuriatingly.

“We are not done discussing this,” I say.

“Time for music, Lila.”

The truth saves him and the crowd cheers Goldline onto the stage. Remy takes roll call for me. Leah, the drummer appears first, then Tristan and Jack—one on keyboard, the other on bass. Lastly, Carly, a petite brunette with an acoustic guitar steps up to a boom mic. She introduces Jules. The lead singer appears in a burgundy maxi dress topped with a black leather biker jacket, hair blown straight and tinted like pink lemonade.

Gone is the goofy girl who belches over hard cider and can’t sit right in a chair. Mic in her hand and a capable band at her back, she’s a professional temptress of smooth and polish. Jules eats the stage.

After a few songs, I learn their particular brand of music. Pilar would describe it better, but even I know Goldline borrows its eclectic vibe from many sounds and decades of musical references. Part alternative, part folk, they sprinkle in enough edge to keep the polyphonic array of synth and guitar from being too precious.

Orion catches my sidelong glance. “You like?” he asks, as low and misty as the light, and I know he means the music. A breath still trips across my tongue.

“She’s made for songs.” Her airy but controlled voice snares my heart on a fishhook.

Orion shifts, leather brushing against my arm. “She writes most of the music. That purple book she always has.” He dashes a long arm toward the stage. “This is why we indulge her.”

I lose time between an acoustic ballad and a dark, alternative jam. My eyes blink me back to the present when the house lights raise for a quick band break. Five songs felt like nothing.

Remy strains his neck to scan the venue before leaning toward Orion and me. “Christ. Jason Briggs is here. Six o’clock.”

Orion points out a tall redhead with a two-week scruff. “He’s a production assistant with Four Points Records. Jules has Remy stalking London scouts’ and managers’ Twitter feeds to see what shows they’re hitting up. Always a chance of this happening.”

“You think he’s here for Jules?” I ask, which perks Gordon’s ears.

“More bands on later, but we hope,” Remy says. “I don’t know when he got here.” He swivels, side to side. “He bloody needs to hear her, but there are