Page 4 of The Sound of Us

“I’ll take your pathetic and unsophisticated apology playlist and raise you Madonna’s ‘Sorry’ and OneRepublic’s ‘Apologize.’” My heart pounded, and I felt a rush of adrenaline like it was Christmas and my birthday and the day I’d been accepted toHavencrest’s prestigious journalism program on a full-ride basketball scholarship all at once.

He staggered back in mock horror. “You reject my apology?”

I smiled. He smiled. Where had he come from? This man who spoke my language in a world I no longer understood.

We spent the next five minutes trying to outdo each other with obscure songs or silly lyrics. He knew more classic rock. I knew pop. He beat me in hardcore but couldn’t match my love of jazz. I was vaguely aware of his bandmates behind me, climbing in and out of the van to unload their gear.

“Where does Angerfist feature?” Amusement laced his voice as his smoldering eyes danced over me. “Dutch hardcore or hardstyle beats don’t really seem to be your vibe.”

“It doesn’t feature. I was trying to put out a ‘I’m not into you’ vibe for a guy who…” I glanced over again at Isla and Scott, lowering my voice so they couldn’t overhear us. “Wasn’t really my type.”

“What is your type?”

“Someone who doesn’t have Hudson Mohawke’s ‘Cbat’ on repeat as their number one song on theirBonerplaylist.”

Dante threw back his head and laughed. “That doesn’t really tell me anything except that you like a little variety with your sex.”

Burn, cheeks, burn.“A track full of disjointed beats and a repeated sample of squawking is not particularly romantic.”

“So, it’s romance you want.” His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss those soft lips. “Is that the theme of tonight’s playlist?”

“I don’t want anything,” I said, turning away. Music, I could handle, but not the direction of the conversation. “My theme was about escape. I haven’t been to a bar for a long time, and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

“First song?”

I could have just walked away in that moment instead of giving this stranger a glimpse into my soul, but he had me under somekind of spell. Not everyone understood the rules of creating the perfect playlist. Nothing is more important than the first song. It establishes the mood or theme and gives a hint of what’s coming next.

“Rusted Root’s ‘Send Me on My Way,’” I blurted out, and then, since I’d broken my own rule about sharing, I let it all go. “Then I was playing around with G Flip’s ‘GET ME OUTTA HERE,’ Dobie Gray’s ‘Drift Away’—the original and not a cover—The Lost Patrol Band’s ‘Going Going Going Gone,’ and Kanye West’s ‘Runaway.’ Sometimes you just need that literal meaning when you’re feeling something big. I try to capture the mood in the moment before it’s gone.”

“That’s what I like about Paul Simon,” Dante said. “He’s one of my favorite songwriters of all time. You always know what he’s talking about. When he says, ‘A man walks down the street,’ he’s just telling a story, and you don’t have to get into heated debates or analyze the meaning of each word. It’s the kind of music that really resonates with me.”

“Like Cat Stevens and Harry Nilsson,” I offered.

“Exactly.”

We stared at each other in a comfortable shared silence, the sense of being separate together almost as seductive as his sexy smile. I’d never been so attracted to someone’s mind that I wanted to give it space. I’d never connected with someone in a way language could not express.

When he finally spoke, my heart skipped a little beat. “What song are you listening to right now?”

I pressed my lips together to stop myself from smiling. I always had a song. My mind wrote my soundtrack as I lived my life.

“Is that your equivalent of a pickup line?”

“Do you want it to be?” His words shimmered in the air between us, sending a rush of white-hot heat through my veins.

Yes. No. I don’t know.On the surface, Dante was the kind of guy I fantasized about but could only watch from a distance. Too cool.Too hip. Too unpredictable for someone like me who had spent their whole life trying to avoid rejection. But underneath…

“Coming through,” a man said behind me.

I startled, moving a second too late. Something hard and heavy hit me from behind and I stumbled forward. Dante moved unbelievably fast, catching me and pulling me into his chest.

Our eyes met. Locked. Gold flecks glittered in the midnight depths of his gaze, and he palmed the dip in my waist, drawing me closer. We’d barely acknowledged the hum of electricity between us, the sexual tension that had kept us in the alley when we both had other places to be.

“I should get going,” I said. “You’re on stage soon.”

“I’ve got time.” Neither of us moved. After twenty minutes of easy conversation, we’d run out of things to say. But I knew what I felt. Desire. Raw and soul deep.

I don’t know what came over me in that moment. Maybe part of me feared I wouldn’t make the roster and I’d never see him again. Or maybe for a brief time he’d made me feel alive. I’d never been the kind of woman who made the first move. But then I’d never met anyone like Dante before.

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