Let’s just say Flynn gets plenty of action.
Which is why I can’t decide whether to be thrilled he’s taken an interest in me or just write it off because the guy takes an interest in every female in our age range with a pulse.
The band strikes up their second set, and I jiggle my toes to the rhythm and hum along. I know all their songs by heart. I sometimes go down to listen to them practice in the studio in our building. That’s where I first met Flynn. I was standing in the hallway waiting to go in and clean the place after they finished. He asked if I was coming to see their show Saturday night.
I’d shocked myself by saying yes.
The first time I tried, I made it to the door and had to leave. The next time, I made it a little longer. I’d come in and sit down with Oleg, Story’s boyfriend, the mute bratva enforcer. Once people started coming in, I’d leave. Over the last few months, I’ve worked my way up to staying for longer and longer periods of time with larger and larger crowds of people.
I think I’m doing so well until something like tonight happens.
I’m not even sure what set me off. There was nothing particularly different about tonight, but when I got up to go to the bathroom, I got jostled by several people, and it set off a full-on panic attack.
It’s funny how Flynn didn’t seem weirded out to find me crying in the alleyway. I think he was just playing it cool, and I absolutely adore him for that. It was sweet the way he covered for me with Adrian–not that Adrian wouldn’t know the truth.
I pull out my phone to text Adrian that I’m backstage, and he can go home without me. It feels wild and daring. Almost as crazy as jumping off a cliff.
He texts back to say he’s staying. Obviously, he doesn’t believe I’ll go through with it.
Am I really going to a party?
The idea both thrills and terrifies me. I’ve been working myself up to this for weeks now. I asked my therapist to prescribe me the anti-anxiety meds she had suggested months ago. I cut and colored my hair. I let my brother’s new girlfriend, Kat, do my makeup.
Tonight, when we left the Kremlin, the building that houses Chicago’s bratva, I felt on top of the world. Well, not on top of the world–that’s going way too far. But I felt strong and bold, like a different person.
The girl in the mirror looked like she could be in a punk rock band like Story. She looked like the kind of girl who could hold her own. The kind no one would mess with.
I may be low-level obsessed with Story. The front person of her own band. The punk rock star with a giant Russian bodyguard for a boyfriend. But maybe that’s just because I’m fascinated by everything to do with Flynn. And Story is Flynn’s older sister.
I watch him now from the side of the stage. My position lets me be a fly on the wall, and I prefer it so much to being out with the rest of the fans. Back here, I feel safe. I feel like an insider. Especially because Flynn deposited me here.
He made me promise to remain! That thought has my heart racing again.
I take in his tall, lanky form as he performs. He is the epitome of cool–everything a rising star should be. Neatly trimmed beard, a skull cap on his head. His clever fingers dance over the bass guitar strings. He smiles and scowls and performs like a dream.
I watch his shoulders and biceps flex under a faded Radiohead t-shirt as he plays. He’s masculine without being threatening. He has that laid-back demeanor that makes it possible for me to breathe when he’s around. He makes me forget who I am–which is a good thing.
Because I absolutely hate the skin I live in.
As I watch, a slow pulse starts up between my legs. My breasts get achy. I want him.
I want Flynn Taylor.
I watch the entire set from my vantage point. They play through all their songs, mixing in covers from other bands, as usual. They keep the show fresh for their fans–there’s always something new every week.
This week Story pulls out a kick-ass version of Nena’s “99 Luftballons.” Yes–the German version–and her accent isn’t half bad.
When it’s over, the band exits the stage, and Oleg, Story’s bratva boyfriend who doubles as a bodyguard and sound engineer, comes onstage to pack up the equipment.
The bar hasn’t closed yet–they always end a solid thirty minutes before closing time, or else the bouncers can’t get people out the door. Tonight they ended even earlier, but no one seems inclined to leave.
In fact, the girls start up a giggled chant, “Flynn! Flynn! Flynn!”
Heat flushes down my neck and arms. I’m not jealous. I’m not. I mean, I have no expectations of Flynn. I’m definitely not reading anything into the fact that he invited me to a party. He probably invited six other girls to go party with him tonight, too.
That thought makes my stomach turn.
Okay, fine. I’m totally jealous. I want Flynn’s attention.
All of it.
I’m not foolish enough to think I’ll get it. I’m shocked he’s even noticed I’m alive. I honestly don’t know how I even got this far with him. I know I am no threat to any of the girls out there. I’m far too damaged. Barely functioning.
It’s been a year since Adrian freed me from the basement of Leon Poval’s sofa factory, and the PTSD still has me firmly in its jaws. Some days, I still can’t even get out of the apartment.