Page 26 of Bewitched By the Phantom
We launch back into the bridge and the chorus, building it all, and our harmonies join together, rising in the great acoustics of the power plant. Just like before, it feels different to sing with Erik. Euphoric and important, as if this means something while we sing.
The song ends and we’re both panting by now, our foreheads pressed together for the final note as the drums wind down. Those in the crowd cheer and whoop, but I can only focus on the man in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say into the mic and pull away, knowing we’re in front of everyone but the temptation to kiss him is so strong, I have to forcibly pull myself away from him. The other bands are waiting.
We leave the stage and the moment we get off, Claudia pumps her fist in the air. “That was fucking epic! We killed that!”
“We did,” Erik’s drummer nods. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it goes viral.”
“You think it will?” Claudia gushes.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “It has to. You heard the way those two sounded together. Regular old souls, them two.”
I flush. “Whatever.” But then I look at Erik’s hands when I realize they’re stained with dark red. “Oh, fuck. You’re hands.”
“I’m fine,” he says, smiling.
“No, you’re not.” I grab his sleeve and pull him after me. “I’m gonna go bandage him up. You guys behave and let me know if they tell us anything.”
Erik lets me tug him behind me in amusement to our apartment, where I carefully set down his guitar on my stand before taking mine and setting it in the corner. I’ll have to address those strings later. I don’t know who thought they could sabotage our fucking set, but I’m going to find out.
“Can you take your coat off?” I ask him, gesturing to the very cool old timey jacket he wears on stage. He shrugs out of it immediately and sets it on the bed. “Sit.”
He does so without complaint, seemingly enjoying me bossing him around.
I search around until I find the first aid kit that every apartment has before coming back in and plopping a chair in front of him. Pulling the alcohol wipes out, I lift his hand up and inspect his fingers.
“Fuck. They cut you up real bad,” I murmur. I shake my head. “Why do that? We could have borrowed a guitar.”
He meets my eyes. “Some things were made to be played in pain, angel.”
Frowning, I start to wipe the dark blood from his fingers so I can get a good look. The blood is darker than I’ve seen, almost black, and it gives me pause that I try not to linger on. Mostly because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Despite using a pick, his fingertips are all pricked with small holes from the burrs. I reach for the antiseptic and carefully dab a little on each wound. Then I wrap each fingertip with a band aid.
“There. As good as rain,” I say, leaning back.
He flexes his fingers curiously, as if he’s never had a band aid on him before. “Do these help the healing?”
I furrow my brows. “Well, yes. They keep dirt and stuff from getting in the wounds.” I tilt my head. “You’ve never used a band aid before?”
He blinks. “Oh, of course I’ve used bandages before.”
I raise my brow and point at him. “See, that’s weird. You do a lot of weird things.”
He smirks. “Do I?”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” I chastise. “We both know you do them. Now, is it because you’re actually weird or because it’s part of your persona?”
He shrugs. “Who knows?”
I reach up and touch his mask and he curls his fingers around my wrist, as if to stop me from removing it. “Who are you behind this mask?” I ask.
His eyes search mine. “Maybe I don’t exist at all behind it.”
“You do,” I reassure him. “I see you.”
“Do you?” he asks. He presses his lips to the palm of my hand.
I sigh. “You know we’re supposed to be enemies, right? Like, we’re rivals and all that?”
