Page 6
RYDER
B eing alone in a small space with Vivian is a test of patience and self-control. Too many times I’ve entertained the idea of stopping to the side and letting her ride me. Too many times, I wanted to offer to buy all the records so we could go back home and enjoy each other.
Vivian’s in the passenger seat, in her clothes from yesterday, her legs tucked under her. Her slender neck is on display, and I remember how her fingers tightened around my biceps each time I kissed a particularly sensitive spot.
The thing is, every time she smiles or glances my way, my brain short-circuits.
I think about everything except the feel of her pussy around my cock, her breathy little sounds, her tight walls pulsing after she came.
Get a grip on yourself, Ryder. Think about the concept for your next album. Or the taxes for the new property you’re planning to buy. Or your next dental appointment. Or the new couch for delivery in five weeks. That couch is so big and spacious, you can lay Vivian down and ? —
Shit. Abort, abort, abort. My mind should not go there.
“Vi,” I say, adjusting in my seat to accommodate my growing cock and trying not to glance at her legs again. “Tell me about your store.”
She gives me a sideways smile. “It’s called ‘The Book Was Better.’”
I burst out laughing. “No way. Seriously?”
She nods. “Seriously. I said it at a movie once, and while I was trying to come up with names, that popped up.”
“Clever and funny. Tell me about it.”
“It’s small, messy, probably a fire hazard with the way they’re piled on top of each other.
We’ve got secondhand books, some rare finds like signed copies and first editions, and a house cat that acts like the owner.
Last month, I added a couple of comfy recliners and bean bags for when buyers want to immediately dive into the book they bought. It’s basically a trap for readers.”
I grin. “You lure them in and never let them leave?”
“Exactly. You should meet our cat. He’s an orange tabby I rescued who occasionally pushes off the books from the shelves just because.”
“I’m afraid to ask its name.”
“Edgar Allan Purr.”
“Jesus. You shouldn’t be allowed to name things or pets.” I laugh again, something I’ve been doing so often from the moment we met. “What else do you sell?”
“Book-themed T-shirts, mugs, candles. You know, the usual.”
“Damn. You weren’t kidding about the fire hazard thing. What kind of candles?”
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “We’ve got Mr. Darcy’s Sweat, Vampire Lestat In A Wet Shirt. Like I said, the usual.”
“Oh-kay. What else don’t I know?”
Vivian hums, tapping her chin. “I can recite entire scenes from Serendipity , make a really good pesto, and I once punched a guy for telling me romance novels were a waste of shelf space and that romance readers aren’t really readers.”
“Okay, that last part? Sexy. Love me a girl who can throw a punch. Remind me to never talk trash about romance novels.”
“Good plan.”
“And for the record, they both cheated in Serendipity .”
“I’m going to pretend you did not just say that.”
“But they did.”
“I can’t hear a word you said.”
She smiles at me again, and it hits me like a slow burn. It creeps in without warning, wrapping around my ribs until it’s all I can feel. It’s unfamiliar but not totally unwelcome.
I clear my throat. “And here I thought you were just some sarcastic drifter with a hot mouth.”
“I mean, I am that too.”
God help me. I’m unraveling, the feeling I’ve been trying to deny unspooling within me.
I’m falling for Vivian, and I don’t know if I can live a life without her. Not anymore. It hasn’t been twenty-four hours, but I feel like I’ve never felt as happy as I am with her. I haven’t felt this light, this genuinely happy.
A few hours later, the car rumbles into the outskirts of the festival grounds, tires crunching on gravel as the scent of grilled meat, grass, and sweat hits me like a nostalgic slap. Music thrums in the distance as my fingers twitch on the steering wheel.
I park near the vendors’ section and kill the engine.
“This is it?” I ask, peeking out the tinted window.
People bustle around with crates of merch and folding chairs, and someone in a glittering unitard just roller-skated by, holding a ukulele and what looks like a dead ferret on his hair.
My kind of place. I always thought I would have fit right in back in the 1969 Woodstock Festival.
Vivian’s already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Yep. Welcome to Mooncrest Music Fest.” She sounds proud.
I pull my hoodie up, tug my ball cap low, then slip on a mask. Not because I’m paranoid—okay, maybe a little—but because I don’t want to ruin this for her. Festivals like this were always a dream. My label never let me do them.
“You’re too big for that,” they said. “You don’t do tents, you do stadiums. Besides, festival isn’t where the money is.”
They never understood. I don’t want pyrotechnics.
I want to see someone’s face change when I hit the first chorus.
I want to see them jumping, headbanging, screaming at the top of their lungs.
It’s the kind of high I’ve always wanted to get in every performance.
But it’s hard to see one face when the lights are in my eyes, and I can’t see shit.
A young woman, who I assume is Valerie because she has the same hair color as Vivian, is at the tent, helping arrange vinyls on a makeshift table. She freezes when she sees me. “Who's that?”
Vivian smirks. “My assistant. Don’t worry, he doesn’t like to talk much, but he’s helpful.”
Valerie’s eyes narrow. “Weirdly broad for an assistant, even through that thick hoodie. I mean, I have astigmatism, and I can see the pecs and broad shoulders and biceps.”
Vivian shrugs. “Good for carrying boxes. Not much else.”
I swallow back the retort I know Vivian is expecting. I’ll wait until we’re alone and show her all the ways I mean to punish her by talking about me like this.
They bicker, and I get the sudden impression their poor parents must have had migraines since they were born.
If you don’t look at them, you’d think five people were talking all at once.
Even I can’t keep track of their topic. They just went from the headliners to the girl with the rainbow hair, then their mom bumping into her ex-boyfriend while their dad was away.
I carry the records silently, biting back a smile.
God, I missed this. The crowds, the laughter, the unfiltered reactions. The music that doesn’t need polish. When I was starting out, Knox and I used to come to these. I always imagined my name with the biggest font on the posters—the headliner.
It never happened.
The mask suddenly feels suffocating, and I tug it down but keep my head low, assuming people are too distracted to notice me.
After all, Ryder Cross was reportedly somewhere in the Bahamas or frolicking with a model and her best friend in London or at The Ritz Paris, throwing a party.
Even I can’t keep up with the places I’m supposed to be at.
I only take a second to breathe when someone stands in front of me.
“Ryder?”
My instinct is to shake my head and bolt, but something about the voice tugs at my memory. I know this guy.
I look up, and a smile splits my face. “Jensen?”
Jensen grins, and we do that handshake and back smack guys love to do. He’s wearing a festival shirt and a tie-dye bandana on his neck. “I didn’t know you’d be here!”
“Oh, just passing through. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in LA?”
He rolls his eyes and runs his fingers through his shoulder-length blonde hair. I’ve known him for years, and he has always kept his hair only this long. “Yeah, well. I organized this thing. Pretty rad, right? Takes you back to the older music festivals.”
“I noticed. Fewer press, too. Impressive.”
Jensen nods absently and rubs his bearded chin. “Hey, man. I know you’re on vacation or something, but what do you think about playing a couple of songs? Maybe two? It’s the first day, and the headliner’s running late.”
If I had my manager with me, he would have immediately said no. But as I look around, I realize it’s no Coachella or Lollapalooza or Glastonbury. It’s pretty chill, and people are mostly hanging out, lounging by their blankets, and enjoying the music.
Yeah, it’s my scene all right. But I also came here with Vivian, and I need to know she’s okay with this. I don’t know why I even need to ask, but I don’t want her getting uncomfortable. It’s gonna be a reminder that I’m no regular guy, despite how hard I tried to be.
“Give me a sec,” I tell Jensen, running to Valerie’s tent. Good thing there are still a few people milling about. I take off my mask, and Valerie’s gasp is so loud, I feel like she sucked my soul. “Viv, one of the organizers asked me to play a couple of songs.”
Vivian’s eyes are wide. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah, and I needed to ask for your permission.”
“My permission? Why?”
“Because I came here with you, and I don’t want you getting awkward around me.”
Vivian gives me an amused smile. “Ryder, if you want to play, go ahead. I won’t stop you. Besides, I wouldn’t mind watching you perform live.”
“Ryder Cross? Ryder Cross drove you all the way here and carried my records?” Valerie’s voice is full of disbelief, and I feel weird that she’s looking at me like she’s not sure I’m real.
I take her hand in mine for a quick handshake, and her gaze zeroes in on my hand.“Hi, Valerie. I’m so sorry, but Vivian will explain later.” I turn to Vivian. I half-expect her to frown or maybe show any sign of displeasure, but she’s grinning. “See you after my set? I need you close to the stage.”
“Okay. Break a leg!”
I can’t help but pull her close to me for a quick but deep kiss. My body responds easily, so I let her go and plant another kiss on her forehead. As I jog back to the car, where my guitar is, I hear Valerie demand the full story from Vivian.