There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(26)
Author: M. Leighton

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his eyes dropping to my mouth. Once again, my lungs just seize right up. “You know, I’ve never thought violet was a color that had much light in it. But now, I’ll probably never look at it the same way again.” He reaches up to trace a single fingertip from the corner of my eye all the way to the tip of my chin. “Could be that I’ll never look at a lot of things the same way again.”

I can’t tell if he sways toward me or if I sway toward him. Either way, his lips get close enough for me to feel the warmth of them. Just for a second. And then he pulls away and whispers, “Good night, Violet.”

As much as I want to stand in the doorway and watch him go, I don’t. I’m chilly and I need to close the door. The strange thing is, I don’t feel any warmer once I close it. And if I’m being honest, I know exactly why. Jet left and took his warmth with him.

And I don’t want to be honest about it.

TWENTY: Jet

In a way I hope Violet doesn’t show up.

What the hell are you doing, man?

The more I learn about her, the more I know she deserves better than me. Than what I can give her. Than what I’m already giving her. As I listen to the guys warming up on stage, I think to myself that they’ll be happy to know that they were right about me. I do have my limits. There are some things I feel like shit about doing.

Violet Wilson is one of them.

I resist the urge to throw my guitar at the wall. Why now? Why her? Why couldn’t I have met her under different circumstances?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, calming myself before I go out.

Maybe I wouldn’t have batted an eye.

Nah, I definitely would’ve noticed her. But maybe I wouldn’t have persisted beyond her cool demeanor. Or maybe that would’ve intrigued me, just like it did. Who knows?

I hear the familiar notes of our first cover song begin and I put all the futile questions out of my mind. The facts are that it is what it is, and I am where I am. And I’m not going back now. Violet is in the unfortunate position of being something that I want. Something I want bad. And I’m a selfish dickhole. What’s new?

I take the stage. Within seconds of stepping out, I feel all other thought drift away. All I see, hear, and feel is adoration. Like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Like I’m someone else, for just a little while. It’s the best drug known to man.

I walk to the mic and stop. All the house lights shut off. The crowd gets quiet. My fingers hover eagerly over the strings of my guitar. The tap tap tap of the drum is the only sound that penetrates the silent scream of anticipation in the room. I close my eyes and soak it all in, not even trying to deny the pleasure of this. All this.

Eight beats later, with my pulse humming and the energy rising, the lights come back on with the bang of the music. Without even giving it thought, my fingers float over the strings of my instrument as I let the tide of screams wash over me.

But then I see her. And everything changes.

In the rush of the moment, I’d forgotten Violet would be here. In the blink of an eye, I was someone else, someone who doesn’t know her. But here in the next blink, I see her, and I don’t want to be him anymore.

When I begin to sing, There she stood . . . I’ve never felt the words more. It feels like I’m singing to Violet. Whether she knows it or not.

TWENTY-ONE: Violet

Watching Jet this time is totally different than stumbling upon him last night. Not only is this a much bigger venue, but this time I’m prepared for what I’m about to see. This time, I get to enjoy it. I get to enjoy him.

His voice is incredible. It’s deep and smooth, and it brings chills out more times than I can count. And the way he plays his guitar is so natural, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

But more than all that, I can see that Jet is a true performer. This may not be what he wants to do with his life, but he’s good at it. And I can see why he likes it.

The women just go wild over him. And he works them like a magician works a wand. He makes eye contact with them as he sings. He smiles and gestures. He drives them wild.

How do I know this? Because every time he does it to me, I feel like melting. A couple of times he has met my eyes and winked at me during certain lyrics. I’m trying not to read too much into it, but it’s hard not to. And he looks at me often, more often than he does anyone else. Of course, he should. I’m like his focal point in Lamaze.

But still, I feel it. I feel his charisma, his magnetism and I’m drawn. As much as I don’t want to be, I’m definitely drawn.

A couple of times women have gotten onstage, much like the one I saw last night. But tonight, Jet kindly hands them off to Security, a fact that pleases me more than I’d like to admit.

It’s when the lights dim and Jet exchanges his bass for an acoustic guitar and sits on the edge of the stage that I realize I’m not as strong as I thought I was.

After he gets situated, a spotlight clicks on and focuses its radiance on Jet. With his head bent as he adjusts the strings on his guitar, his hair looks like an ink spill in the light. Everyone around me is quiet as we wait, mesmerized by nothing more than his presence.

He closes his eyes with the first strum of his guitar. The simple sound vibrates through me, pulling me into its rhythm, into the song. Into Jet.

He tips his head back, turning his face into the light as he picks out notes. When he opens his eyes, staring out into the brightness, they glisten like pale blue diamonds. He turns them onto the crowd for a few seconds, until he begins to sing.

That’s when they find me. And I forget that we’re in a room full of people and that I shouldn’t be feeling this way about him. I’m simply lost. Lost to the moment, lost to the feeling. Lost to Jet.

Smoothly, he begins to sing the words to “Through Glass.” The lyrics float around me. His voice slides through me. But it’s Jet . . . It’s whatever makes Jet Jet that weaves a spell around me, a spell like silk ribbon that holds me right here. Right now. Right where he wants me, and right where I want to be.

His eyes never leave mine as he sings. Not once. He doesn’t glance down or around, doesn’t look at anyone else. Not for a single second. And no one steps between us. It’s like the ocean of people parted in reverence of what’s happening, and that no one would dare to interrupt it.

When he strums the last chord, no one moves. Not Jet, not me, not the people in the crowd. We all stay perfectly still, watching him watch me.