Page 62 of Deliverance

“Every fucking day.”

“I’m sorry he went the way he did.”

I realize I’m stepping into dangerous territory when I notice the tick of Zander’s jaw. Silence falls between us. Prince’s singing in the background softens the tension.

“It’s none of my business.” I withdraw the brush from his stomach. “I apologize.”

“Hey, it’s cool.” Zander lifts his hand from the paper and grabs at my wrist. “Don’t worry. It is what it is. The tabloids made a dick and a junkie out of Chance. If people want to talk about him face-to-face, at least I get to tell them who he really was.”

“That’s one way to look at it.” I agree. “But for the record, I never thought he was a dick. I thought he was spectacular on stage. All my high school girlfriends had a crush on him after you guys released ‘The Temple of Love’ video.”

Zander releases my wrist. “He had a really great sense of humor. He was the prank master of the band.”

“Sounds like he was a real troublemaker too.”

“That he was. Girls loved him.”

“Girls love guys in bands. Period. You can be bald and five foot six, but as long as you play an instrument, you’re golden.”

“Is that so?” A smirk twists the corner of his mouth.

“Did I just reveal some kind of a secret? I always thought that was the main reason so many teenage boys wanted to be in a band in the first place.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

I return to the tray and pick out a few more colors, then squeeze them onto the palette. My legs are starting to fall asleep as I mix the paint. Numbness prickles my calves. Setting the tools aside, I stand up and walk around. “Sorry. I have to stretch my feet.” My poor excuse of a dress keeps riding up my thighs and I keep wondering why I didn’t notice how short it was back in the club. Must have been all the cocktails.

“Speaking of bands.” Zander’s gaze follows me like a predator would follow its prey, eyes hooded and smoky. “I listened to the Zero Ecstasy album you gave me the other day.”

“What did you think?” I stop pacing and hold my breath. I don’t know why. I just do. Perhaps because hearing someone talk about music Cash created feels like validation. A proof that he existed, that his art touched someone’s heart.

“It’s great stuff.” Zander’s eyes light up and my pulse skitters through my veins. “There were a couple of tracks that stood out the most, but really, the entire thing is very well done. Very powerful. Did they not get any radio play at all?”

I shake my head.

“What about his sister? You said she’s the copyright holder.”

“It’s not that easy to get radio play these days. I’m sure you know. Without the backing of a label, it’s nearly impossible. Besides—” Words fail me. The things I want to say suddenly seem too personal and I’m not sure if what we’re doing right now qualifies as a point in our weird relationship where I’m ready to share intimate details from my past.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

I change the subject. “Are you sure you’re not cold?”

“I’m fine.”

“Alrighty then.” I walk over to the edge of the paper and settle near his shoulder. “Which tracks stood out the most?”

We spend the next hour discussing Zero Ecstasy music. Cash’s technique actually impressed Zander and the fact that someone so well-respected in this business takes notice of an album recorded by an obscure unsigned band gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Pride.

“I really didn’t think that’s what you meant by wanting to paint me,” Zander says later as I cover the only clean patch of his chest with a layer of cobalt violet.

“Are you good?”

“I’m a little terrified of what you’re going to do next.”

“Oh, you definitely should be.” I put the brush aside and stare at my work for a long moment, evaluating the colors. My gaze slowly moves across the canvas of Zander’s upper body—from the wide span of his shoulders to the V disappearing into the waistband of his jeans below his navel. Heat pools between my legs.

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