Black Lilith: Book One (Black Lilith #1) (19 page)

Black Lilith
’s gig at the XOYO draws a crowd of hundreds. Men and women dressed in the band’s T-shirts scream from the seats as Logan weaves magic with his voice and Tommy’s words. Mikayla watches from the wings, enjoying the music in between making sure that the lighting and stage manager has all of his prompts, and the roadies don’t overdo it with the beer in the green room. Jack and Finn maintain their silent vigil beside her.

At intermission, the band and a handful of chosen women, pour themselves into the green room.

“We should open the next set with
Termites in the Toothpaste
,” Tommy says, taking a couple of beers out of the dingy fridge in the corner and handing them around.

The green room is larger than usual but older than anything they’d played in back home. There’s a lingering scent of marijuana and beer which seems to be decades, possibly centuries, old. The couch that Dash and Slate are sitting on looks like it once had a floral design which has since faded with age. Logan leans against a wall which is decorated with lipstick marks, autographs, and finger stains.

“Yeah, it is that type of crowd,” he replies. He rubs his thumb over the tattoos on his wrist. Mikayla finds herself watching the progression of his thumb with some interest. “Slate… Slate, goddammit, pay attention.”

Slate, who was focused almost exclusively on the girl with the short skirt who has squeezed herself onto the couch beside him, looks up.

“What?
Termites in the Toothpaste
, I got it.”

They discuss the set some more. Mikayla tunes out, nervously pulling on the edge of her blouse to make sure that the marks are covered. It’s been three days since their first night together, and the hickeys Logan left on her skin are still as bright and vibrant as ever. She likes to admire them in the mirror every morning before covering them up.

Admiring them is all she has. Logan hasn’t been in a position to give her any new ones. Since that first night, Dash hasn’t brought any more girls back to the hotel, and Logan could never come up with an excuse to spend the night in Mikayla’s room. This is worse, she decides than when she was pining for him before. Now she knows
exactly
what she’s missing, and the thought that she can’t have it because they have to keep their relationship a secret is slowly driving her crazy. The only comfort she has is the longing looks Logan sends her when he knows that nobody else is watching. He’s just as affected by their separation as she is.

“Tomorrow’s our last show in London,” Tommy says, pulling Mikayla out of her reverie. “So we can afford to experiment a little with the set list tonight.”

“Experimenting is one thing,” Slate says irritably. “But we haven’t even rehearsed this song!”

“We don’t need to. It uses the same progression as
Pick Me Up at the Corner
,” Tommy replies. “I’ve written out sheets for Logan. The melody is the only thing that’s different.”

Logan’s frowning at a page full of sheet music, his eyes flickering over the notes as he takes each one in. She had been surprised to hear during one of their interviews that Logan can sing a song after reading the music on the paper—he doesn’t even need to hear it once. As long as the sheet music is accurate, he’ll be able to sing it. That seemed to her to be the sort of skill only taught to classical musicians.

“Yeah, I can sing this,” Logan replies. “Nice lyrics, by the way.”

Tommy ducks his head to cover up his blush, ignoring the punch in the arm that Dash graces him with.

“Let’s give it a try,” Dash says.

Slate, who seems to be the only dissenter at this point, sighs and shakes his head. “Y'all are going to send me to an early grave, I swear.”

The four men head for the stage, leaving the women behind with the beers. The girl who had been sitting with Slate pulls out a baggie filled with white powder and starts cutting lines. So Mikayla leaves the room, following the band out to the stage and waiting as Logan introduces the new song.

When the show is over, the band and their new friends pile into the bus. Dash has two women on his arms, which Mikayla notices with some interest. Maybe Logan will be out of a room tonight. Logan seems to notice it as well because he brushes his fingers lightly along Mikayla’s arm as he passes her on the bus—a promise she recognizes with nothing more than a glance.

At the hotel, she books a new room for Tommy, who has a redhead on his arm babbling about philosophy in a way that makes his eyes light up as he escorts her to the hotel elevator. One of Dash’s new friends, Alisha, seems to have indulged just a little too much in the green room going by how giggly and off-balance she is. Mikayla pulls Dash aside.

“Maybe you should send her home?” she asks.

“I was just thinking that,” Dash replies. “She was into it earlier, at least.”

“Yeah, but still—”

“Believe me, I know,” Dash says. He looks over at the girl regretfully. Her friend, Kristy, seems sober enough, or at least more sober than Alisha. “Maybe her friend can take her home?”

She nods, though she knows she’s just shot down her own night with Logan in flames. “That’s a good idea. I’ll arrange a cab.”

When she walks back to the concierge, she mutters to Logan as she walks past, “I think we’re cursed.”

So Mikayla sends the two girls home disappointed, but high enough to get over it quickly. Dash is still in a pretty good mood as he heads toward the elevator with his brother, grinning and throwing an arm around Logan’s shoulders as he goes. She watches the brothers long enough to catch Logan glancing back at her with regret in his gaze. Mikayla is glad that she sent the girls home, even if it costs her the chance to spend the night with Logan again.

“Looks like I’m flying solo again,” she mutters, running a hand through her hair as she heads for the stairs, unwilling to be trapped in an elevator with Logan’s woody cologne and being unable to do anything about it.

As she arrives at her floor, her phone goes off in her pocket. She glances at the screen and groans. It’s her mother.

“Hey, Mama,” she says, pressing the phone to her ear and letting herself into her room. She tosses her purse onto one of the royal blue chairs under the window and deftly undoes her bra.

“Good evening,” Mikayla’s mother replies. She’s slurring her words a bit, and Mikayla stifles a groan. She’s been drinking again. “How is your
‘tour’?
” she asks.

“It’s going well,” Mikayla replies. She pulls her bra out of her sleeve and tosses it onto the chair. “Thanks for asking.”

“I’m thinking about divorcing Theodore,” her mother says. Mikayla hears the sound of her sipping her drink.

“Are you?” Mikayla asks.

Of all of her mother’s husbands, Theodore is Mikayla’s least favorite. He’s emotional and likes drama, and she thinks her mother needs stability now that she’s heading toward retirement age. Her relationship with Theodore is one of constant stress, and she’s often on the phone with Mikayla telling her about how she’s planning to leave him. She never does. Mikayla wishes she would, but it’s not Mikayla’s place to point that out to her.

“I meannn it,” her mother says. Her voice trails off on the word mean, the alcohol making her tongue looser. “I’m done. He’s too young for me.”

“He’s seventy.”

“He’s too
immature
,” she amends. She takes another sip of whatever it is she’s drinking. “Will you come over?”

“Mama, I’m in London.” Not that it means anything. Mikayla would have been expected to fly over to Vermont if she were stateside.

“They don’t have planes in London?”

“Mama… you know I’m on tour right now,” she answers.

“What? Your band can’t get a different babysitter for the weekend?”

Mikayla takes a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth. “Mama, if you call me tomorrow, and you’re still planning to leave him then I’ll figure something out. But right now… just, maybe have a cup of coffee or something? Get your mind straight?”

“
Ugh
, you’re worse than your father.”

“That’s a compliment, Mama,” she says. She pulls her shoes off and sits on the bed, running a hand through her hair and flattening it down as she listens to the distinctive clink of glass on wood which signals that her mother has finished her drink.

“It’s
not
a compliment. Your father was a terrible husband.”

“You know all about terrible husbands.”

“At least I have one,” her mother replies. There’s acid in her voice. “Where are you going to meet a man traveling around with that band of yours?”

Mikayla considers telling her that she’s met a man, but then her mother will ask her about him. And then she’ll belittle the fact that Mikayla is dating a band member.

“It’s your father’s own fault that he died.”

“
Mama
!”

“Well, it is,” her mother says, speaking over Mikayla’s sputtering. “He worked himself to death. Didn’t matter what else was happening… his parents dying, his wife going into labor, he missed them both because he thought work was more important. It’s a wonder that I stayed with him as long as I did.”

Liquid falling into a glass. She’s pouring another drink.

“Mama, I think you’ve had enough,” she says. She never knew that her father had missed her mother’s labor, but her mother hardly talks about her first husband.

“I’m a grown woman, I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”

There’s an echo in her voice now—she’s put Mikayla on speaker. There’s a scrape as she pulls a chair out and a
whump
as she sits down. Mikayla wonders why she hasn’t hung up yet. Her mother is clearly in an awful mood, and she’s started sharing the sorts of memories which can bring Mikayla down to the pits of anger and sadness in minutes.

“Do you think all that work is going to make you happy?” her mother asks, still slurring. “You know what it’s going to make you? Dead at forty. You know, now that I think about it, I’m glad you haven’t met a man. Better for you to die alone so that no one misses you.”

Mikayla feels tears building up at the corners of her eyes and a lump growing in her throat. Her mother’s words are a low blow, and she feels them settling under her skin despite the mantra she’s repeating to herself that her mother is drunk, that she’s talking shit, and that Mikayla knows better than to listen to her.

“It would be even worse if you had a child,” she said. “One who worships you even if you’re never there, and then gets stuck with your ex when your useless heart finally gives out.”

“Mama, you’re getting close to crossing a line here.”

“If I were your father you’d be hanging off of my every word,” her mother replies. “But you always were blind when it came to him.”

Mikayla feels a tear rolling down her cheek. It falls off of her cheek and lands on her thigh, right next to the spot where Logan had licked her a few days before.

A knock sounds at her door. She wipes the tears away from her cheekbones and sniffs. The lump in her throat is still heavy and painful, but she puts on a falsely cheerful voice as she says, “I gotta go, Mama. Someone’s at the door.”

“Of course, go and do some work. Your family doesn’t matter.”

Mikayla hangs up, clutching the phone to her chest so that she doesn’t fall into the temptation to throw it at the wall across the room. She takes a moment to center herself and then push herself into work mode. She’s on the job right now. She can’t let her mother’s drunken ramblings affect that.

She pushes herself off of the bed. There’s no mirror to check if her face looks splotchy, but she hopes that the person at the door won’t be able to notice.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

Damn
, she thinks. It’s Logan, and he’ll definitely notice that she’s upset. She considers telling him to leave, because she sure as hell isn’t in the mood to fool around now.

She opens the door, ducking her head so that her fringe hides her eyes. Logan pushes his way through the door.

“Dash thinks I’m going to the pool,” he says. Then he looks at Mikayla, and his face instantly freezes. “What’s wrong?”