“I’m not trying to downplay it…I just don’t want it to touch us too much, not yet.”
“Well, the only thing touching me right now is you, you dirty, old bastard.”
“Cute,” he says, slowing his fingers.
I lift my shot, and he does the same. “Let’s make it simple then, to Gladys and Sean.”
“Gladys and Sean.” We toss them back, the burn of the liquid coating my throat. We drink two more before sipping our beers, and I’m feeling dizzy from the buzz and the workings of his hands. When his fingers dip lower, I begin to pant.
“Please stop that unless you plan on doing something about it. And even then, I don’t know if I can handle the visual just yet. I’ll need like twenty, thirty years.”
He chuckles and leans into my good ear. “Trust me, Dame, the minute I push inside you tonight, you’re going to know exactly who’s fucking you.”
I give him a coy smile. “Not that you aren’t a handsome older man, but…” I trail my fingers along his neck, and I’m cut off by a chorus of applause when the club goes dark. Emerging from a small black curtain, a group of guys take the stage.
“Oh, awesome,” I say, sure Lucas can’t hear me. It takes me a second to realize we’re surrounded by a ton of warm bodies.
I lean over and see Lucas jump when I raise my voice to make sure he hears me. I laugh through my question. “When did it get so crowded?”
“When we were locked in our bubble, baby,” he whispers warmly. He pulls me up to stand on the edge of the couch so I have a clear view of the stage past the people lining up.
“I wonder if they’re local,” I yell down at him and he shrugs.
Seconds later, I hear the familiar opening guitar riff of “Mr. Jones” and the club goes apeshit just as the spotlights hit.
“Oh my God, it’s the Counting Crows!” I scream like the sixty-year-old southerner I am. I glance down at Lucas whose laugh I can’t hear but can clearly see.
“Did you know this?” He lifts his finger to his temple. The man with a plan.
“Of course, you did,” I say, rolling my eyes giving him my best smile. “God, I love—”
Of all the times he could have missed my words, he didn’t. Even surrounded by a screaming hundred, he caught every syllable. I move in for quick recovery. “This is awesome, thank you,” I say, leaning down to kiss him and grabbing my beer from his hand. He lets me off the hook and we jam out as they play a list of classics. Whisked off the couch after a few songs, I’m on the floor with the rest of the mob and Lucas stands behind me in his protective hold. It’s unnecessary, but I bask in it anyway.
When we’re drenched in sweat and heavily buzzed, a man takes the piano, and Adam Duritz grabs the mic from the stand. “Thank you, thank you. We’re going to slow it down a little.” Lucas tightens his hold when the man at the piano plays the opening chords of “Colorblind.” Instantly I have a lump in my throat.
Lucas bends in just as I lean back to whisper, “This is my favorite.”
“Mine too,” he says softly as we sway, half drunk and dizzy with affection. The song, the words, hit me and send me reeling as he pulls me tighter to him, seemingly just as affected. I’m madly in love with this man and have been for months, and I’m losing the battle in holding it in any longer. He makes me insanely happy, he makes life exciting, his presence is all-consuming, his kiss a whirlwind and he says he’s mine. I was wrong to assume we didn’t fit, but it was him who made me see how perfectly we do.
Overcome with what I feel, tears surface and slide down my cheeks. It didn’t sneak up on me, I’ve known for a while how I felt, but the fear of having something so perfect does. This, this feeling is what I’ve been holding out for, it’s mine, and he gave it to me, we built it together. It’s one of the best and most terrifying moments of my life. Cursing my hormones, I’m busted when one of his fingers lifts a tear from my cheek, and he turns me to face him. Unable to hold it any longer, the tears multiply rapidly but