Page 76 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“I always want to be with you,” you say, honestly.

“Do you want to go downstairs and dance?” he asks.

That makes you smile, despite yourself. “Not really. I’m a terrible dancer.”

“I bet you aren’t.”

“There’s a reason I’ve never given you the chance to find out.”

Sterling takes a lazy sip of his champagne. “I’m a terrible dancer, too.”

You scoff. “Myself and eighty thousand audience members per tour stop know that’s a damn fib. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

He shakes his head. “Not a lie. I’m good at choreo, and my team makes sure that my choreo showcases my strengths. When it comes to spontaneously dancing, though? Like, at weddings? Or whatever? Terrible.”

You can feel the skeptical look spread across your face.

“If this is a trick to make me take you downstairs and prove you wrong, it’s working,” you joke.

“Not a trick.” He puts his flute down. “Don’t actually wanna dance, though. Come with me to find a bathroom?”

“What are we, a bunch of girls?” you grumble, but you let him pull you to your feet and lead you by the hand, just like he’s been doing all night. Down the stairs to the ground floor and through the crowd on the couches, all of whom want to hug and squeeze and coo at Sterling. It takes several minutes. You thought that you saw restrooms in the foyer, but Sterling leads you through a side door tucked in an alcove to the far right of the stage, barely illuminated.

It’s a hallway leading backstage, the corridor more brightly lit than the moody gels in the theater. Further up and in the general direction of the left, you can hear the DJ’s music, muted by the concrete walls. It’s a remix of a popular song, one that comes up on autoplay a lot. Sterling is humming under his breath as he tests doors, jiggling handles.

“I didn’t havebreaking inon my Birthday Party Bingo card,” you comment.

“Frish rented the whole facility,” Sterling replies. “One of these has to be the green room.”

“How do you know that?”

The look he shoots over his shoulder was probably intended to be withering, but is actually cute as fuck. “Ask me again how I instinctively know the way most performance facilities are laid out.”

There must be something to Sterling’s alleged performer-mojo, because one of the doors gives, and he pokes his head in shamelessly. Lets out ana-ha!that sounds ridiculous until you remember that he’s kind of drunk. And then you’re right back atadorable.

Sterling flicks a light switch, and closes the door behind you two. Turns the lock. It is, indeed, a green room.Thegreen room? You don’t know how many there are. It looks familiar, though; a rudimentary version of the spacious and well-lit dens that Sterling occupies backstage at stadiums all over the world. There’s a triple-wide vanity mirror studded with light bulbs and a long counter at which to get ready. The walls are covered in black-and-white pictures of the Troxy back in its heyday as a cinema; beneath them are three leather couches and some empty shelving. And, against the opposite wall, another door.

“Must be your bathroom,” you comment. But Sterling is still holding your hand and dragging you across the room.

“Help me with my pants,” he complains. The bathroom is small, just black tile with a whitesink and toilet. Basic lighting. Nothing fancy. But it’s undeniably private, which you guess was the appeal. Even at his own birthday party, Sterling seeks privacy like a moth that will never find a flame.

“The hell is wrong with your pants?” you ask, amused.

Sterling leans against the wall, his lower lip sulky.

“There’ssomany buttons,” he tells you.

This is ludicrous, but it’s his birthday. So you humor him, taking a knee on the tile to examine the crotch of his green pants. They are high-waisted, with a long button fly of decorative silver buttons. Seems impractical to you, but that’s fashion in a nutshell. There are seven buttons, which is a lot for men’s trousers, but nothing insurmountable. Gazing up at Sterling, you pop the topmost button, the one on the waistband.

“Poor baby,” you croon. “Did your mean ol’ stylist put you in the bad pants?”

Sterling gazes down at you. His blue eyes are ever-so-slightly bloodshot, and his smile is crooked. You realize that he’s a little drunker than you originally estimated. Maybe he was still metabolizing the alcohol on your journey from the mezzanine to the green room. In any case, he’s nice and tipsy. You’ve never seen him like this before. You silently add this expression to your mentalcatalog ofThe Many Faces of Sterling Grayson.

“You’re being condescending,” he says, pouting a little bit.

The second button gives way. “Yeah, baby. I am.” The endearment burbles from your lips before you can help it. Your view from the floor allows you to see the way the muscles in his thighs tighten at your words.Interesting.Your fingers play over the third button. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“Kai.” The way he says your name is petulant, drawing out the vowel sound. “I need to pee. Don’t be mean to me.”

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