Page 38 of Crave

He tugged a handful of her hair. “Dinner. And talk. I want to listen to you, Mia. Not just read your words on paper or a screen.”

For a second, she was too happy to speak.

“All right,” she said finally, hugging him tight. “I think we have a lot to say to each other.”

BREATH OF ANGELS

“Thisis our new opening act?” I stare at the man who’s setting up his gear onstage.

“Kate, you know I had two hours to make this happen.” Jules picks up her bass. “Pink Stink pulled out at the last minute.”

“Did they come?” Mikki does a rimshot in the air.

Jules ignores her. “Don’t blow a gasket, Kate.”

“Oh, I’m totally okay. But him? He is not okay. Out of all the musicians in L.A., you picked this guy?”

“C’mon. He’s like a sweet, non-threatening puppy.”

“Exactly. Either our fans will eat him alive, or people will think they came to the wrong show and leave.”

I scope out this man, who’s obviously preparing for an intimate solo act. It’s just him, his acoustic guitar, some type of vintage amp, and a mic. He has brown ringlets, a beard to match, and stunningly intense green eyes. But you don’t get to see much of them, because they’re trained on the stage as he shuffles his shoes. If it weren’t for the beard, he’d look like a teenager.

“Who is he?” I demand.

“My ex-boyfriend’s roommate’s cousin,” Jules says smugly.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Kid you not.”

“We’re the motherfucking Aftershocks! He is not on-brand for us.”

“Katie!” Jules squeals. She knows I hate being called that. “Since when do you talk aboutbrand?”

Amanda makes a gagging noise behind us, her guitar over her shoulder. “That is so not what we’re here for.”

“It’s not punk,” Mikki puts in.

“Comeon,”Jules says. “It’ll be hilarious. So maybe he’ll flop. So what? He’s getting exposure and we’re giving our fans an ironic experience. If it comes off as a huge joke, even better.”

I study him as he goes through his sound check with the house engineers. He looks earnest. Excited. Nervous. His hands shake slightly.

He’s fucking beautiful. Like a poem made of flesh and nerves and hope.

I remember feeling that way before my first show at seventeen. Butterflies zooming like crazy in my belly. Fingers sweaty on the neck of my guitar, throat dry when I opened my mouth to sing.

Now I’m thirty, touring half the year with the girls.

I poke Jules. “How old is he?”

“My sources say he’s twenty-three.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ben.”

“Jules, this isn’t fair to Ben. Throwing him out there to the dogs? He probably sees this as his big opportunity.”

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