Page 10 of Dedicated
So I didn’t know how he was going to handle this incredibly obvious overture, but I expected an immediate shutdown and prompt retreat.
Imagine the jolt of sheer, electrifying surprise that zipped through me when he reached out, took her hand, and let her reel him into our little enclave by the fridge.
“One shot.”
Name one thing you can’t stand.
Evan:Losing a sock. It drives me crazy.
Les:Really? That’s it? Out of the multitude of options of shitty occurrences, a lost sock is the first thing you thought of?
Evan:What can I say? Why do you think I’m wearing flip-flops right now? It’s on my mind.
Les:I know where that sock is.
Evan:No… No you fucking didn’t. I shouldn’t even be surprised by that. You know what? You can keep it. I’ll even give you the other so you’ll have a matched set. That’s so wrong.
Chapter 9
Present Day
If I had to give props to Blink for his mad-scientist chemistry, so be it, because the show was amazing. Les was tuned into the audience, feeling their energy, which in turn rubbed off on me. We had a reciprocal relationship onstage, a constant psychic feedback loop between us. I could hear it in his voice and in the way he was playing. Lately I’d been worried it was gone, and was so relieved to feel the connection again, that when he broke with our reordered set list during the last quarter of our show, I went with it without question, my faith in him restored. At least where music was concerned. We spent eight months out of the year with each other, almost twenty-four seven. Trust had always been de facto. Lately it’d felt like a spotty internet connection, but at least tonight proved it still existed.
I picked up my bottle of water and took a swig on a song break, checking out the set list at my feet. We always set the stage with two stools next to each other and two mics in front, but we usually ended up wandering all over the place.
Les stood at the edge of stage left playing to the crowd, teasing them. Leave it to Les to successfully flirt with five hundred people at once. He glanced over his shoulder at me and grinned as I recapped my water bottle.
The audience loved this part. I parked my ass on the edge of my stool, then stretched my legs out and waited with my hands dangling over the top of my guitar.
Les roamed back to the mic stands, hitching his jeans and letting his guitar droop to one side as he paused to grab a drink of water before prowling back to the edge of the stage, where he paced.
“We’ve got a set list back there,” he said, hiking his thumb over his shoulder in my direction, “but I’m kinda curious what y’all want to hear.”
His back was to me, but I knew exactly what he was doing: his eyes were narrowing to a laser intensity of green as he skimmed faces in the crowd. He’d be catching his lip in his teeth, squinting one eye slightly, like the decision was a tough one and then,boom, he’d single someone out.
He pointed to someone about three rows back. Heads turned to look as he nodded at what appeared to be a petite redhead bobbing up and down excitedly. She quickly glanced behind her, then to either side, then pointed to herself to make sure, her lips poised in a little “o” of delighted surprise.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you.” Les let out a low, velvety chuckle. “What do you want to hear, sweetheart? Doesn’t even have to be one of our songs. Name it and we’ll do it.”
This bit of interaction always made me nervous. I liked things planned out well in advance, and Les’s favorite crowd-pleaser had bitten us in the ass a few times.
Les stood at the edge of the stage now, leaning over, one hand cupped to his ear as she shouted, then aimed a rakish grin over his shoulder at me. His eyes smoldered with mischief. “Did you hear that, Porter? She says I’m smoking hot.” The audience whooped and catcalled.
“Stop encouraging him,” I said drily. “We share a bus, and his ego already takes up all the cargo space.”
“Are you sure that’s not his dick?” someone in the front row shouted. Les’s grin broadened, his eyes gleaming.
I smirked, sliding fully on the stool, idly twisting the tuning knobs on my guitar. “Nah, his dick would fit in the ashtray.”
The audience roared, and Les twisted around to flip me off. I gave him a syrupy smile.
“Evan’s just jealous. It’s all hearsay, but I believe in hard proof. Y’all want to see some hard proof?”
He turned his back to me again, but I could tell by the bend of his elbow that he was thumbing at the button of his jeans. He’d do it, too, I had no doubt. Les would flash his dick to a pigeon if he thought he’d get a reaction.
Screams of encouragement replaced good-natured laughter. The front row especially was working itself up into a hot lather, and I could only assume by the fresh wave of cheers that followed that he’d unbuttoned the top of his pants. I had no desire to bail him out of jail for public indecency.
“Rein it in, Morrison,” I told him, leaning in so it came clear through the microphone. “No one needs to ride that storm right now. We’ve still got a concert to finish.”