A Cuban Girl's Guide to Tea and Tomorrow - Laura Taylor Namey Page 0,39

no more seats, and management won’t let anyone loiter on the side for long.”

Musical Chairs happens after less than ten seconds of deliberation between us. Gordon flags Briggs into his now-empty seat next to Flora, then slides into Remy’s chair. Remy slips into my chair. And me? I end up in the most logical place: Orion Maxwell’s lap. I don’t make a habit of sitting on guys’ laps, especially after knowing them less than two weeks, but Jules is worth the awkwardness. The lap owner is full of smiles, too, motioning me closer like it’s really not a big deal.

Still… “Is this? Are you sure? I’m not too heavy or anything?” I stress the anything with everything beating through me with moth wings.

“No anythings to worry about.” Orion shifts me sideways, my legs draping over his right thigh.

Houselights drop and the crowd calls the band back to the stage. Jason Briggs settles into Gordon’s former chair, texting, but we’ll take it. I’m more concerned with trying to balance myself on Orion’s lap without completely invading his personal space. Jules sings the first bars of a haunting unplugged cover of Aerosmith’s “Dream On” and I’m twitching with drunk Cuban ants in my pants.

Not helping: Orion’s thick sigh, warm against my neck. He closes his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. “Relax,” he says as Jules launches her death leap soprano into the chorus. “It’s just like us on the motorbike.”

He’s right. It stills me. We ride out the rest of the set together, leaning into phrases and turns, shifting into melodic bends. I lose myself to feel and sound again, but it’s more than just one thrilling motorcycle ride and a set of brilliant songs. It’s everything new around me and it’s happening more and more. Happening right now—a Miami girl in an English club listening to an English band, sitting on an English boy’s lap, his sweater warm around me. And I can’t help but enjoy it for real. My pulse and breathing score a steady rhythm, playing against chewy brown leather and the minty-citrus scent of Orion’s soap.

* * *

Backstage feels like being stuck in the middle of a Mardi Gras parade. Orion and I stick together but lose the others. I almost get trampled by a girl group wearing sequined leather miniskirts and ice-pick-heeled patent boots. Jules finally appears, scooting ahead of the crew rushing through the narrow hall with cables and tuned guitars.

After Orion and I barrel into a gush fest over her set, Jules grabs my shoulders. “Tell me Remy wasn’t jiving and it’s real. Jason Briggs was actually at your table? I couldn’t make out shit the way the lighting was up there.”

I clear my throat and decide to leave out the part about our seating situation. “True. And he saw the second half of your set for sure. He was still there when we left.”

“Naturally, that means I have to Twitter stalk him now. He always does a weekend wrap-up and teases what he likes,” Jules tells me then casts her gaze to the rafters. “Why do I torture myself?” She points to the band lineup printed on the wall. “You didn’t want to stay? GLYTTR’s on in a few.”

GLYTTR? Wow. But I think back to stilettos and sequins in the hall. Fitting.

Orion says, “We were here for you. Besides I’ve heard them before and their sound is like this cosmic mash-up of EDM, Adderall-infused K-pop, and a circus act.”

Cringing, I’m about to comment, but Gordon sneaks up between us. “You guys seen Flora? She was with us when Remy and I went to fetch drinks then… vanished. Everyone wants to bail, but we don’t want to leave her. She’s not answering texts.”

Orion shifts from relaxed concertgoer to protective guardian in less than a half second. He frowns at Gordon. “We’ll find her. Get the others and wait by the ticket window.”

I follow in step as we make a couple of passes across the main floor, finding our previous seats snapped up and Jason Briggs still watching. But no Flora. “Is it like her to disappear and ignore her phone?” I ask.

“No… yes. Yes, it’s bloody like her.” Orion shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “Six months ago, you’d have gotten a different answer.”

We split up. I check the ladies’ room while Orion pokes around the service entrance. On my way back, Flora-less, I find concertgoers coming and going from a narrow staircase in the lobby. The stairs lead me to