Page 29 of Electric Touch

“I’ll try to make a bit more effort next time.” She plucks at her Brown sweatshirt.

“No need,” I say. “It suits you.”

“Now I know you’re messing with me.”

I spot a cab coming and ask if she wants it, but she is taking the subway. I’m not overly comfortable about leaving her to take the subway alone. She makes a pointed face that says don’t argue. I hail the cab and open the door. Turning back, I look her over again.

“There is nothing sexier than a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, no matter what she wears,” I say. Her lips pop open again. Then she smiles, a little tilt of those plush lips.

On that note, and before I say something even more stupid, I get in the cab. I try not to let her get inside my head too much as I get home. It is a terrible idea to get involved with someone like her. Adrestia is a woman who is nervous about kissing a stranger, despite her confidence.

Jack and Dylan want me to go wild without strings. A lot of strings will come with her.

It’s not that easy to move on. Not when your end game breaks your fucking heart and throws your life in a direction you never imagined it taking. And things are even more tense now. A virtual muzzle has been put on us all. We’re trying to move on and work together without acknowledging the tension. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep that up. Ciro is not putting any effort into pretending with Riley or me. Alessa assures me it’s nothing personal where I am concerned.

After everything she did to me, I still feel the need to protect her. Which is where I am going wrong. I have to remember it’s not my place anymore. In fact, I should be feeling the way Ciro does.

Moving on is the only way forward. That doesn’t mean I have to move on to someone else.

Which is why I’m surprised as shit the following day, when I do something insane. I text Adrestia and invite her and a friend to come to our gig on Friday. It’s an intimate show in a Midtown theatre that holds two hundred people. It sold out within two hours of the tickets going on sale.

Inspiration strikes me and I spend most of the night writing a new song. When it’s done, I know it’s something I want to play at the gig. I just need to get Dylan to help me polish it up. And convince the rest of the band to get on board.

Chapter Ten

Sasha is bouncing on her feet as we wait in line to get into the theatre. I’d thought about asking Apollo, but got the feeling Nash doesn’t like him, or how he keeps pushing me.

There is no way I can tell Nash the real reason. Apollo is doing the best thing for me. He’s not paying me fifty dollars every time. I had kept the money he gave me after his stunt at the Vista Kicks gig.

I allow Sasha to dress me up a little, but not too much. She points out this is an exclusive gig, not a mosh pit or college gig we’re going to. I draw the line at the slinky dress I wore to the audition. Not that I don’t want to impress anyone, I don’t feel comfortable in it. Instead, I allow her to put me in a pair of leather pants and a black halter top. I pair it with heeled boots and long silver earrings.

I sweep my hair up because I know it will get hot. I have my usual cat eye liner and a touch of dusky pink matte lipstick. Sasha dusted my cheek bones with some shimmery highlighter, I admit doesn’t look as clown-like as I’d imagined.

When we show our tickets at the door, they ask why we waited in line, which confuses me. He points at the ticket.

“VIP, it means you don’t have to queue. You have reserved seats at the front.”

“Oh.” I look to Sasha and back to him, then take the ticket to read it myself. That is what it says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

The man points us out to someone else who will show us to our seats. As we follow her, Sasha nudges me in the side.

“I can’t believe he gave you VIP tickets, and you didn’t even realise,” she laughs. “Only you, Tia.”

“Well, why would I think he would do that?” I answer. Just because someone gives me a ticket to something doesn’t mean I know I’m getting special treatment. I frown. Why is he giving us special treatment?

“Don’t be asking yourself why he’s giving you special treatment,” Sasha reads my mind. “You’ve kissed him.”

“Shh,” I nudge her and the woman leading us to our seat glances over her shoulder.

“And he’s giving you guitar lessons. He sent you these tickets without you asking. It makes sense.”

“Of course it does,” I reply, not knowing how that makes sense at all.

Our seats are in the front row. Most on this row are empty, but the rest of the theatre is filling up. I take off my jacket and lay it over the back of the chair. The seats are plush, and with no seat in front, leg room isn’t an issue. Quiet rock music plays in the background. It doesn’t disguise the noise coming from the roadies or theatre workers setting up behind the curtain.

I’ve never been to this theatre before. The stage is not high from our seats. They will be right there when they come out, with only five feet between our seat and the stage. I get a little thrill. All these people are here to see Red Alert and he asked me to come. He sent me tickets. All I did was send him a text thanking him. I never acknowledged the prestige of what he gave us.

He must think I’m so rude. I cringe. Another theatre worker appears and asks us for our drinks order. Sasha almost dies and orders two glasses of champagne. I reach for my purse, but the lady shakes her head.

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