feet, and the dance floor is packed with sweaty bodies. The energy is palpable, and the connection between Crew and me is indescribable. Sometimes it’s like we’re making love to each other with our words, our actions, our eyes. It’s hard not to be turned on by it, especially after knowing what his lips feel like on mine.
I’ve had more than one fantasy about Crew since our kiss. Despite his insistence that it won’t happen again, I’ve seen the way he looks at me. He’s fighting it, just like I am.
But he doesn’t fight it when we’re singing together. That’s when he feeds on it. He feeds on it like a starving man at a buffet.
When our set is over, people storm the stage. They want a piece of us. They want to touch us, get our autograph, say they know us. It’s scary and exhilarating at the same time.
I break away, needing to pee badly from my nervousness. I hurry to the bathroom, hoping I can get there without being accosted. Thankfully nobody is inside, but I hear someone enter the room while I’m in the stall. I wonder if it’s a fan who followed me in, or just some random girl who has to pee. I flush and then open the metal door to see it’s not a fan. It’s not even a girl. It’s Crew.
He locks the bathroom door. Then he looks at me. His gaze slides casually down my body before rising to meet mine again. He lunges toward me and pins me to the wall. He kisses me. He kisses me like he sang to me, with passion and fire. It almost feels like we’re still singing to each other, because this is what it’s like. And even though I know how wrong it is, it makes what’s happening between us kind of make sense.
Sensations I’ve never felt before run through me as his tongue strokes my lips with strong, sensual licks. He cups my face and then runs his hands through my hair. I pull him closer. His erection presses into me, and a ball of need forms in the pit of my stomach. His hands are unruly and untamed as they work their way over my body. I’m drowning in him—his taste, his feel, his scent. Then suddenly, I hear lyrics in my head. I’m afraid that if I don’t write them down, they’ll be lost.
I don’t want to push him away, but the songwriter in me does it anyway. He backs off, breathing heavily. He shakes his head to clear it, like maybe what just happened wasn’t really what he wanted. His forehead creases, and he turns to unlock the door.
“Crew,” I say, wanting to tell him it was nothing he did, but when inspiration strikes, you need to go with it.
He looks at me, but it’s like he’s looking through me. Before I can explain, he’s out the door without uttering a single word.
A girl walks in with a friend. “Oh my God, that was him!” She notices me. “And you’re her. You guys are so good. Are you dating? Of course you’re dating. You were practically humping each other on the stage. Is he good? Stupid question, right? I mean look at him. Are you playing here again? Are any of the other guys in the band single?”
I ignore her ramblings because I have so much going on in my head right now. “Do either of you have a pen?”
One of them checks her purse and hands me a ballpoint. I pump the paper towel dispenser until I have a good length and then I put it on the counter and write. By the time I leave the bathroom, I think I’ve written Reckless Alibi’s newest song.
I walk toward my bandmates. Things have died down, but there’s still a crowd around them. Crew’s easy smile drops when he spots me. He scratches an eyebrow repeatedly as he eyes me, like he’s sorry about what happened. I weave my way through the crowd and shove the paper towel at him. He looks at me wondering why I’m giving him a paper towel. I nod at it. He notices my scribbling and the corner of his mouth turns up. Before he reads it, he locks eyes with me as if he now understands why I pushed him away.
He walks away, reading my deepest innermost thoughts. I wrote about wanting him but not being able to have him. About not letting history repeat