Page 110 of Severance

I feel the blood draining from my face and a flash of panic burns my stomach. I’m not sure I’m ready to hear this, but I stand in my spot, motionless, waiting for the music to hit me, and when it finally does, my defenses crumble. The tears sliding down my cheeks are hot and unstoppable. My heart hammers so loudly that Mikah’s words become muffled and I try to make out the lyrics, but the music cuts me raw, tearing my heart out. Every nerve ending in my body throbs with the torment of loss, and every inch of me burns with the need to hold Mikah close.

When the song ends and people begin to clap, he sets his guitar aside and shakes a few hands that are thrust at him from the front row. His expression is twisted with pain and there’s a sheen of sweat covering his forehead. I’ve never seen him this nervous before.

I don’t know if he realizes it’s me when our gazes collide above the crowd, but my stupid heart jolts into a sprint and I bolt for the exit. The air outside is hot and misty, and a fine drizzle has already covered the asphalt. I have to stop in the middle of the buzzing sidewalk to calm my breathing. That’s when Mikah’s voice catches up with me.

“Alana?” he calls over the clamor of the city.

I turn around and see him hurrying in my direction, his gaze narrowing in on me as he pushes past a group of people near the club entrance.

“What are you doing here?” His face shows a mix of emotions, including shock, disbelief, and confusion.

A loud sigh rushes out of my mouth and the words bounce between us through the June mist. “I just wanted to see you.”

Mikah slowly shakes his head, his eyes locking on mine. “You have this ridiculous habit of showing up without an invitation.”

“I’m sorry.” I smile meekly. The sound of my heartbeat booms in my ears. “I had to see you. I didn’t like the way we parted. I was drunk and high… And we said a lot of really hurtful things to each other.” I pause to get some more air in my lungs and realize people are looking at us. “I needed to see you.”

“And you drove all the way here?” He stops right in front of me and raises an eyebrow in question.

“Yes.” I nod staring up at him. The hazy glow of the streetlights dances across his stubbled cheeks. “I drove my dad’s car.” Although that detail probably isn’t important.

“You drove your dad’s car?” Mikah repeats after me, his Marlboro breath tickling my nostrils. His hand reaches for my cheek and the pads of his fingers brush across the wet trail.

“Uh huh.” More tears fall from my eyes. Fear jams my throat, and I fling my arms around him, burying my face in the crook of his neck before people see me crying. “I’m sorry.” My apology comes out in the form of a startled gasp. The taste of his skin on my lips and the thuds of his heartbeat against my chest make me feel as if I’m losing my mind. “I’m sorry.” My fingers tangle in his satin hair.

“Why are you sorry, Alana?” Mikah rasps, his voice hoarse and shaky. His large palm slides to the back of my head to cup it.

“For slapping you.”

“I deserved it,” he says in my ear, pulling me closer.

We’re a ball of emotions as we stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and I can hear whispering when people start swarming around us.

“Get a room, you two!” someone shouts, and a few scattered laughs come from out in the street, which brings Mikah and me back to our senses.

“I need to go inside to finish up a few things.” Mikah’s lips touch the tip of my ear and he pulls his hands away from me. “You want to wait backstage?”

“Yes,” I tell him, pushing my hair away from my teary eyes.

I’ll wait all night if I have to. I’ve done it before. Only, this time, you aren’t standing me up.

* * *

As I sit in the corner of his small, stuffy dressing room, I watch Mikah being a rockstar. There’s a cold can of Dr. Pepper in my hand and my pulse won’t stop racing, but I force myself to stay collected. I don’t want anyone to see me cry. People around me are dressed to impress in suits, jackets, ties, and dresses. Everyone’s happy and colorful. It’s nothing like the sea of leather and black found backstage at the Midnight Rust shows. I can’t say who’s here from the label and who’s a fan, because Mikah takes the time to shake every single hand thrust at him and talk to every single person in the dressing room. It’s exciting to witness.

One man in particular who I was briefly introduced to earlier is all over Mikah, and something tells me he’s the one who calls the shots.

The band downstairs is rocking the house and the roar of the crowd makes Mikah’s set look like it was just a soundcheck, but people seem to be interested in talking to him. I know why. He’s got that mysterious vibe, dark and alluring, that pulls you right in.

We leave the club at around half past ten. By this time, the drizzle has stopped and the air is musty and thick with humidity. In the alley, Mikah hoists his guitar case over his shoulder and draws a pack of Marlboros from his pocket. He smokes with his eyes closed, his long dark lashes resting against his olive skin, and I watch him with fascination, wondering what he’s thinking and relishing the precious high of my own cigarette.

“You were great,” I say, masking my anxiety with a smile. I actually think he was phenomenal, but the words are stuck in my throat like a rock. I want to ask him things, but I don’t know where to start. I wonder if he’s aware Moonchild is what Dakota used to call me.

“Thanks.” Mikah opens his eyes and looks at me. His penetrating gaze sends my heart into overdrive. “Where did you park?”

“I walked. I have a room at the hotel down the street.”

“You really are nuts, Cupcake Queen.” He sticks his cigarette between his lips and inhales sharply. “Hotels here are expensive as fuck.”

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