Saying Yes

Kelly

I catch Tommy's eye. He's got a weird look on his face--half wary, half hopeful. "It's up to you," he says. "I'd love to play them again. But if you need to go, you can."

I hesitate.

"I'm sure we could do it another time, if Kelly needs to leave," Amber says, one brow quirked.

The challenge and pure smugness she's still holding in that look make me want to slap her face. And there's my answer. No more hanging back for me. I'll show her.

"No, it's fine," I say, and smile sweetly. "We can play."

Amber's smile freezes, which makes me want to be super-mature and stick my tongue out at her. But, as if he's afraid I'll change my mind, Crash doesn't let any of us have time. He grabs the guitar I had been using before and hands it to me again, our fingers brushing on the neck of the instrument in a way that makes my skin prickle. Then he puts a hand to the small of my back, ushering me back to my seat.

Heart pounding at his touch, I force myself to lean away from him until he goes back to his own seat.

"This will be good!" Amber's an impeccable liar. Which is scary.

Shoving down my tension and sudden sense that I'm going to make a fool of myself, I strum the guitar once. "Let's do Road to Nowhere first," I say.

Crash grins. "Good idea."

"Great!" Amber declares again and pulls out a seat next to Tommy, slinging her arm on the back of his chair.

Tommy ignores her. I wish I could.

As he launches the song, I pretend I'm sitting in my living room with nothing but the camera on my phone.

Amber's watching me with that knife-edge gaze. When she first signed the boys and I complained about the way she made me feel—small and insignificant, an irritant—right before she died, Mom told me she thought Amber was threatened by me. Said Amber probably didn't like how the boys asked me what I thought of Amber's advice. But I always told them to listen to her—what do I know about making someone a rock star? Yet, there's always been this tension between us. When she showed up in the door just now (she must have a key and a clicker to have gotten in without Crash opening the gate, right?) my heart sank to the floor.

She's beautiful, successful, and personally responsible for the meteoric rise of Crash Happy. For the boys' sake, I can't thank her enough. But it doesn't mean I like her.

She reminds me of a rat: Always sneaking through the background, leaving little shitbombs behind like breadcrumbs in a fairytale.

But she made promises to Crash and Tommy, and she kept them.

Without her, they'd have just graduated and now be trying to figure out how to balance working and doing gigs.

Because of her, they're rich—several times over. They're famous. And they don't just have jobs, they have careers.

So I pat the guitar in my lap a little harder than necessary to set the beat, and strum. I'll show her how amazing Crash's songs are. Then I'll leave.

Strumming, I only let my gaze linger on Crash for the moments when I need to follow his timing. Because watching him singing in that gorgeous rasp, is like cutting my chest open and cracking my ribs so he can take whatever he wants.

This place is too much. My memories are too much. Crash is too much.

But Amber doesn't deserve to have them to herself.

So, I play. And when the memories haunt the back of my closed eyelids, I take the emotion they bring and pour it into the song. And purposefully ignore the look on Crash's face, like I'm water in the desert.

And I remember the last time he looked at me like that…

*****

(The previous summer)

We can't stop kissing.

I'll hand it to Crash, he's trying to keep his hands to himself. But we're in this amazing house alone—with no curfew.

I can't stop staring at him, and every time he catches me, he kisses me. My hands have messed up the jagged spears of his hair. He looks like a little kid who just got out of bed.

Or a really hot guy who just had sex.

Desire and nerves spear from my chest to the apex of my thighs.

Then Crash laughs and tries to break it up again, pushing my hands away when I try to pull him in. I'm delighted to learn he's ticklish on his ribs.

Every time he turns back to the movie, or returns to the couch after grabbing more popcorn, I can't stop myself kissing the tendon that runs down his neck, or tracing his collarbone that's poking out of the neckline of his shirt.

I shiver when he slides his finger into the hair at the nape of my neck.

"Kel—"

I slide my hand up his thigh and against the hard length I can feel in his sweats, my heart thumping faster and faster.

It isn't the first time I've done that, but me touching him isn't something we get a lot of time and space to do. I'm always nervous Dan will catch us.

Crash shudders. His kiss goes deep. I can't get close enough. Screw the movie. Screw dinner. Screw everything.

Screw Crash.

I giggle at my own joke and he pulls away, grinning. "What's funny?"

I plunge both hands into his hair, letting my fingers claw and drag across his scalp until he tips his head back and groans again.

Then he drops his forehead to mine, our quickened breaths mingling. I circle my hips against him and bite my lip, fighting back a nervous giggle.

"Kel. You're killing me. I want to do this right."

"I want to do it right now," I say, then kiss him, wishing I felt a lot braver than I do.