name for what Hans and I had—fatal attraction. It’s a phenomenon where the very qualities that attract you to someone, in turn, cause the death of the relationship. I adored how kind and gentle and romantic Hans was, especially considering that my parents had taken a life insurance policy out on me when I broke up with Knight.
“Just in case,” they said.
No, Hans was a real honest-to-goodness dyed-in-the-wool sensitive artist type. Whenever he wrapped those bulging tattooed arms around me, I felt as though I’d just shrugged on a fur coat made from live puppies that could sing “Lovesong” by The Cure a cappella. The only problem was, Hans made everybody feel that way. And this Cruella de Vil was not down with sharing her puppy trench.
“Let me go, Hans. Your fans await.”
As angry as I was, the look of consternation and despair on his face after that statement made me want to rent a time machine, wishing I could take back everything I’d just said. This man was a unicorn. A myth. A fairy tale. I’d somehow managed to score a tatted up bad boy with a heart of gold and a cock of lead, and what was I doing? Guilt-tripping him while he knelt in a bed of rusty screws and asbestos shards at my feet?
He should be the one leaving me. I opened my mouth to retract my words, but the only sound that came out was a surprised gasp as Hans wrapped his arms all the way around my waist and buried his face in my belly.
He turned his head sideways, just enough to speak, but kept a death grip around my midsection, “You can’t leave, Bumblebee. Please, please stay. You want to know why I don’t realize when women are hitting on me? It’s because all I can think about is you. I don’t see girls or groupies or fans out there—I just see people who aren’t you, and you. That’s it, Bee. As far as I’m concerned, everyone else is just a walking, talking hunk of flesh that I need to get around to get to you.”
He shook me a little out of frustration, then looked up at me with glistening kohl-rimmed eyes—the V of pain between them only deepening. “You’re like this pretty little Tinker Bell with your pixie hair and big green eyes, but then you’re smart as shit and full of fire and sass and all I want to do is put you in my pocket and never fucking share you with anyone.”
His grip tightened fractionally, but his voice grew significantly louder and more frantic as he continued, “Haven’t you noticed that I don’t look at you anymore when I’m on stage? It’s because I can’t, Bee. I can’t fucking look anywhere near the audience anymore because whenever I do there always seems to be some meathead trying to buy you a drink at the bar or knock you down in the pit or press his dick into your ass when you’re in the front row. Every five seconds, I see some shit that makes me want to leap into the crowd and smash some motherfucker’s teeth down his throat. It throws me off my game so bad that I can’t even watch. I just grit my teeth and try to focus on the music and pray that you’ll come find me backstage, still in one piece, when it’s over. All I want to do is protect you and I’m fucking helpless up there.”
Tears and mascara and relief poured out of me as the implications of Hans’s words sank in. I grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him up to meet my salty wet mouth. I kissed him with everything I had and realized in that moment that the real problem was never Hans. Clearly, he was even more perfect than I’d feared. It was that I’d never truly felt worthy of him.
I saw the women who hung around these bands, and I didn’t exactly fit in with my flat chest, narrow hips, and freckled skin. My wardrobe didn’t help either. These girls either wore skintight miniskirts and tank tops with their giant tits spilling out, or they looked like dudes, swimming in oversized Slipknot T-shirts and thrashing their long black hair to the beat.
I, on the other hand, looked like something that crawled out of the movie Tank Girl. I’d even tried to tone down the punk that night by wearing a little black dress, but it still