Winter (Four Seasons #1) (28 page)

If Luke wants
to talk, then we’ll talk. It just might not be the conversation
he’s hoping for. I key in the number to my uncle’s house and start
chewing my lip. When Brandon answers, he sounds out of
breath.

“
Tell me you
were exercising and not involved in some kinky sex game with Monica
Simpson.
Please
.”

A mildly
disgusted sound emanates from the phone. “You’re sick, you know
that?” Brandon laughs, rustling around on the other end. “I was
just outside. Had to run for the phone. Monica and I have decided
not to pursue our torrid affair.”

“
Just too hot
to handle, Uncle B?”

“
Exactly.
Truth be told, those boobs were just too—”

“
BRANDON!” I
shake my head, trying to dislodge the mental image. “I’m already
scarred enough. Please don’t damage me further.”

More laughter.
“Okay, kiddo. I hope that unfinished sentence haunts you. What’s
up? Did you and Luke get things ironed out? I told him to call
you.”

“
Yeah. Thanks
for that.”

“
Just doing my
duty as a responsible uncle.”

“
Shouldn’t you
be warning him to stay the hell away from me or something? Where is
he anyway? I have some questions for him.”

“
He left this
morning. He probably wasn’t safe to drive but I couldn’t stop him.
Said he needed to go see an old work colleague about some
evidence.”

“
About Dad?” I
shift nervously in my seat, wondering if it’s something new.
Something that might clear my father’s name. Or condemn
him.

“
No idea,
sweetheart. You’d better call his cell phone.”

“
Brandon?”

“
Yeah?”

“
I’m assuming
you told Luke a whole bunch of stuff about me that I probably
wouldn’t want him to know?”

“
Of
course.”

“
Why am I not
surprised?”

“
Iris?”

I close my
eyes. “Yes, Brandon?”

“
Just call
Luke.”

Twenty Four

D.M.F

I DON’T call
Luke. I wait until Friday, three days later, and then because I’m a
glutton for punishment, I decide to do something far
worse.

I’m going to
the D.M.F gig.

I shouldn’t be
going to the gig. I should be studying. I should be watching The
Price is Right. I should be doing a thousand ab crunches or
listening to Morgan extol the benefits of coffee enemas. Basically,
I should be doing anything but going to see Luke Reid play in his
band. Our history seems insurmountable: he kept information from me
about my father, and I slept with him and then ducked out of his
apartment like some cheap hooker. But the problem with feeling the
way I feel about Luke is a proverbial catch twenty two: The sheer
magnitude of this emotion, this secret feeling I own and refuse to
share, it threatens to destroy me. But then, the prospect of losing
that hidden emotion promises the same violent outcome. This is why,
despite everything, I find myself walking down
8
^th
Ave,
Chuck Taylors ankle deep in snow, with Morgan whittering away into
my ear.

“
Can’t you
text him to let him know we’re coming? He could put us on a list or
something, I bet. There’s probably free booze
backstage.”

“
Dude! You’re
not allowed alcohol. Your body is recovering from an overdose,
remember? Or have you forgotten all about your recent stint in
hospital? I’m not letting you out of my sight. And as for trying to
get on a door list, that kinda ruins the whole
I-don’t-want-him-to-know-I’m-there
vibe. So no, I’m not texting Luke.”

Morgan
grumbles into her scarf, shooting daggers at me. “It’s freezing
cold, Ave. I
am
still recovering from a drug overdose and you’re going to make
me queue on the side of the street in Hells Kitchen to preserve
your weird sense of pride.”

I resist
rolling my eyes (another point to Amanda St. French) and I thread
my arm through hers. “Papa Joe’s is a dive bar. I strongly doubt
there’s ever been a queue to get in. And if there is, you can share
my body heat. It’s either that or we go home.”

“
Fine,” Morgan
pouts. “But I’m not standing at the back of a dingy bar, lurking in
the fricken shadows like the phantom of the opera so you can get
your stalker-gal rocks off without a damn beer in my hand. I still
don’t get why you don’t just fuck this guy and get it over with.
Luke is just so…”

Luke is
just
Luke
. If only
she knew what that really meant. How amazing and beautiful and
fucking hot the guy was in bed. She would die a death. I try not to
think about that as I drag her reluctantly down the street, where
we take the third left and then a neon yellow and blue
sign—
Papa Joe’s! Papa Joe’s! Papa
Joes!
—blinks on and off, lighting up the
street no more than twenty feet away.

No queue. I
pull a face at Morgan. “Told you.”

“
Yeah, yeah,
bitch. Just get me through the door or I’m going to seize up. It’s
like, minus ten out here.”

It really is
about minus ten; she doesn’t need to tell me twice. We head for the
unmanned door, shivering against each other as we hurry. On the
other side of the door, the overwhelming sound of chatter, laughter
and grinding bass music hits us immediately. A long, narrow
stairway descends into shady darkness, momentarily brightened by
stabs of red and green and blue lights. It’s busy down there. A
crackle of static and a high pitch squeal cuts through the hubbub
below as I swallow and take the first step down, assisted by a
pointy elbow in my back.

“
Are you
ready, ladies? Are you ready for the special gift your Papa Joe has
been saving for you?” A deep, gravelly voice calls out. A chorus
of
whoo
-ing
and
omigodomigodomigod!
answers the mystery voice. It sounds like bedlam
down there, and by the time we arrive at the bottom of the stairs,
surveying the packed basement bar, we see it really is. The place
is madness. A sea of people stand between me and Morgan and a
large, raised stage at the far end of the bar. It’s more of a club
actually, with a service bar running the length of the right hand
wall. A portly guy in a fedora—Papa Joe, I’m guessing—stands on the
stage, grinning and sweating as he takes in the hoard of excited
women, all of whom have glasses in their hands. Right now, I’m
seeing a bobbing mass of women, but I’m pretty sure Papa Joe is
seeing dollar signs.

“
Ladies, I
hope you brought a spare pair of panties ‘cause tonight we got some
boys who wanna get you all wild and wet. Papa Joe thinks it’s time
to welcome on stage your favourite rockers…
D…M…F
!” He hollers out the letters,
punching his fist into the air with each one, and the girls go
nuts. It’s kind of pathetic that they’re losing their shit over a
band in a basement, considering most of them look pretty
respectable. Some of them even look sober. Morgan raises her
eyebrows at me.

“
DMF? That
your boy?”

“
Not my boy,”
I snap, wrestling my way out of my jacket, stomping over to the
bored-looking coat check attendant. I slap the jacket down onto the
counter and unwind the scarf from around my neck, ignoring the fact
that Morgan is gawping at me—at the sheer silk green dress I’ve
been hiding under my coat.

“
What the hell
is
that
?” she
demands.

“
It’s called a
dress, Morgan. I know you’ve got one on under that fugly fur thing
you’re wrapped up in too, so you might as well ditch
it.”

She pokes her
tongue out at me. She loses her fake fur coat to reveal a little
black number that clings in all the right places but has edgy rips
and tears everywhere else. She looks like a rock goddess with her
teased out hair and killer outfit. Especially with the leather
biker boots she’s chosen to wear. I mean, yes, my Chucks do kind of
clash with my dress, but whatever. It’s a look I’m comfortable
with.

The cheering
rips higher over the sound of the thumping music, and I know from
the prickling on the back of my neck and the stupefied look on
Morgan’s face that Luke and his band mates have just walked on
stage. I can’t turn around. I just can’t. I’m still mad at him, and
horrified by what happened between us. I’m scared of whatever he
found while he was in Breakwater, too. I lace my fingers through
Morgan’s and pull her backwards through the ever-growing crowd
towards the bar.

“
You can have
one drink, right?
One
. And we have to stay here by the bar, okay?”

“
Whatever,
toots. I’m fine with whatever so long as I can stand and
witness
that
.” She
points at the stage behind me, but again I don’t turn around. She
licks her lips, tracing her fingertips over the base of her neck,
and I feel like slapping her. Instead, I order two beers and slam
her bottle down on the bar next to her, secretly wishing a little
of the foam would explode all over her dress. That would definitely
wipe the sex-starved look off her face.

“
How can you
not be looking at this right now, Ave?” she mumbles, still
oblivious to my murderous gaze.

“
I just came
to hear what they sound like. I can do that without drooling all
over myself like a depraved hussy.”

“
Depraved
hussy?” Morgan chokes back laughter. “Okay, I may be drooling. But
damn, girl! All four of them are smoking hot! That bass player—his
tattoos are just…they’re…they’re
everywhere
. I need to lick
them.”

She must be
talking about Cole. And she would lick his ink, too, given half a
chance. I shake my head and drink my beer, tapping my foot
nervously against the rail at the foot of the bar.

“
Hi, guys!
How’s everyone feelin’ this evening?” My heart leaps into my throat
as the microphone echoes around the club. It’s Luke’s voice. He’s
nowhere near as cheesy an MC as Papa Joe was; he’s just talking to
us, welcoming us, saying hello. The fact that he doesn’t talk about
himself in the third person also really helps. Morgan whoops,
clapping her hands together, already sucked in by the atmosphere. I
feel like I’m standing in a furnace. God, this was such a bad
idea.

It’s okay.
You’re only here to listen, he’s never even going to know you were
here.
And yet, it feels like his eyes are
already travelling across my skin.

“
We’re
grateful to you for coming out on such a cold night. We’d like to
repay your kindness by sharing some of our music with you. How’d
you feel about that?”

A thunderous
roar lights up around us, and Morgan is cheering and screaming
along with everyone else while I pull on my beer, staring straight
at myself in the mirror behind the bar. I can also see a weaving
tangle of bodies reflected in it, but thankfully not the stage.
Luke starts laughing.

“
In that case,
we’ll hit things off with a song that’ll hopefully help warm you
guys up. Don’t be fooled by the title, okay? This one’s called Cold
Hands, Cold Heart.

A light, fast
intro rips out of the speakers, and the audience literally goes
wild. A heavy drumbeat follows and a few bars later and Luke is
singing. It’s nothing like his performance at O’Flanagan’s,
however. This is fire and arrogance all rolled into one. And it’s
pouring straight out of him like liquid sex.

Luke tears
through the song, whipping the audience into a frenzy.

The coolest
girl

thought I’d
ever seen.

Eighteen

And still, a
kid that haunts my dreams.

Hard as
glass, quick to bite

ice
queen

heart as
black as night

but you and
me,

we’ll be
okay

‘
cause when
you’re with me,

you melt
away.

Got cold
hands, got cold heart

woulda never
kissed you

If I’d ‘a’
known from the start,

You’ve frozen
me cold,

You’ve frozen
me dead,

Now I’m
leaving you here,

Unfinished in
my bed.

The lyrics
confuse the crap out of me. The song ends and Morgan’s beer is
untouched. Her hands look red raw from clapping so hard.

“
Holy shit,
Ave, they’re amazing!”

“
Yeah,” I say
quietly. “They are.” I need more beer for this. I signal the
bartender who’s watching the show himself, and I down half my drink
as soon as he hands it over.

D.M.F play
three more songs and I refuse to turn around the whole time. Luke’s
voice sends thrills through my body and turns my blood ice cold in
equal turns, making me wonder if I’m an ice queen, too. I know it’s
not me he sang about in that first song, though, because he sure as
hell didn’t leave me unfinished in his bed. No, that would be
Casey, surely? The woman he refused to sleep with for five whole
years. And yet he gave himself up to me in one evening. All I had
to do was lose my father and have a nervous breakdown.