Relish: A Vicious Feast Book 2 (17 page)

Just to remember to breathe again, I shifted my gaze to Dray, who had his eyes closed as always. Drumming did bring him to a Zen place. Luka once told me pounding the skins drowned out the noise in his head. I believe it, knowing just how cluttered Dray’s thoughts could get sometimes.

Heart sufficiently warmed, my attention ventured toward the right where shirtless Demitri ruled his kingdom. The guy could headbang with the best of them. Those long lustrous locks moved so well, my fingers itched to run through them. I knew the guy was taken, but hot damn. He personified rock god. Phoenix was truly one happy girl, and it showed as she sang her heart out, reaching a hand toward the crowd who reached back even if the nearest line was a couple meters away.

I may never have seen a concert before, but after Vicious, I couldn’t imagine any other band coming close. Again I forgot to take pictures, and only remembered when the first song ended and Phoenix finally greeted the crowd, thanking everyone for coming. The volume of screams ratcheted up so high I wished for earplugs. Damn. I knew Vicious was popular, but this was insane.

The energy of the crowd outside the hotel last night and this morning was a fraction of what the arena held tonight. By the time the band finished the first half of their set, I was about ready to collapse. Only the adrenaline pumping through my veins kept me standing. I gripped the railing so hard my knuckles had gone numb ages ago.  

Vicious opened the second set with Poison. My heart just about exploded out of my chest when the screens featured me in the black feather and leather dress traipsing in the snow-covered grounds of Lunar Manor. Had they been using this visual since the video debuted?

As if knowing where I stood, Luka flicked his gaze to me. My breath hitched and my knees grew weak. I felt nothing from the navel down. I held his gaze for the entire song, no longer listening to the lyrics. Around us, women and men sang along, some even wailed the song, really feeling the emotions behind the intent. Everyone, at some point, had someone in their lives that ultimately became poison in their veins.

When the song ended, the lights cut, drenching the arena in darkness. The sea of people became an ocean of flashing lights. It seemed like the stars came down from the sky. I forced myself to breathe, tears welling in my eye. There may be more than twenty thousand souls in O2 tonight, but during Poison, it felt like Luka sang to me alone. It took me a while to regain my breath. I shuddered with each exhalation, like I’d run a mile at full tilt.

Like at the beginning of the show a spotlight spread over a specific spot on the stage. Luka sat on a stool with an acoustic guitar and the mic stand lowered so he didn’t have to strain to sing into it. A gasp spread through the audience. The setup gave me the impression he didn’t do this often during a concert. This certainly wasn’t done during sound check.

He waited a beat so the crowd settled down some before he leaned into the mic and said, “I decided to give the band a five minute break.”

As if on cue, the second he smiled, people cheered, screamed, cried. My senses were on overdrive, I hardly had the strength to focus. What was he doing? My heart beat in my ears, drowning out the cacophony enveloping me.   

“I have a new song I want to debut here tonight,” he continued in his soft, smooth voice. No accent could compare. The screams grew louder still. “I’ve been working on it for a while now. So hear it goes. I call this one Breathe.”

The instant the first few notes of Luka’s guitar reached my ears, my eye grew wide.
This can’t be
, I kept repeating to myself. Yet, as the crowd hushed to listen to the melancholy notes that reminded me of raindrops on a tin roof, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That song. The one in my dream.

A shiver ran up my spine. My limbs shook. With every lyric Luka sang, with every note he plucked out of his guitar, my gut sank deeper and deeper. Then he reached the chorus:

I can’t breathe outside your air.

I'm so scared when you’re not there.

How can I be a man without you there?

I can’t breathe outside your air.

How can I be a man without you there?

How can I be a man without you there?

My world spun like a wild top. Luka,
my Luka
, sang a song my dream Luka wrote. How was it possible? I willed him to look at me, to confirm the insanity invading my brain. But he wouldn’t glance my way. He kept his focus on the audience, singing his sad, sad song. My stomach twisted violently. I couldn’t listen to another second of it.

Unsure how I did it, I exited the box on wobbly legs. My camera dangled like dead weight around my neck. My blood thickened in my veins, causing my movements to become sluggish. I couldn’t breathe. I panted for every breath yet my lungs still labored. I quickly grew lightheaded as I fought my way out of the arena floor. But no matter how far I got, Luka’s voice still reached me.

I bumped into support staff, marshals, and fans. I felt like a pinball being tossed around in my effort to get away. Wearing the patch added to my struggle. I cried out when someone slammed me against the scaffolding used to hold up the speakers. No one heard me.

Still unable to catch my breath, I continued my blind trek until I finally reached a corner far enough that I could hear myself think. I slid my back down the wall until I sat on my hunches, cradling my head in my hands. I concentrated on nothing else but my breathing. I needed a paper bag. Something.

At some point, I must have begun keening because a hand touched my shoulder and I looked up to meet the dazzling blue eyes of Graham. He frowned down at me.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked in that delicious accent of his.

“I…” My voice shook. I shook. “I…”

“Come on now.” He sat on his hunches too, grabbing at my arms and pulling me to his chest. I went willingly, crumpling fistfuls of his shirt. He rubbed the back of my head while whispering in my ear words in a language I couldn’t understand. They sounded like notes mashed together. Lyrical, yet unintelligible.

I swiped at a stray tear and looked up at him, still trembling. “What did you just say?”

“Oh. It’s Gaelic.” A smile pulled at his lips. “My grand-mother, who’s Irish, used to whisper it to me when I was upset. It means may your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow, and may trouble avoid you wherever you go.”

I laughed. The weight on my chest suddenly lifted when he laughed with me. When we finished and I sighed, he said, “Why are you here crying like someone broke your heart?”

I shook my head. Not like I could say, “Well, you see, stupid Luka started singing a song I thought only existed in my dreams.” It would land me in a hospital for a twenty-four hour psych evaluation. Maybe I was going crazy. It was an impending truth in my life anyway. It didn’t matter that my insanity manifested now.

“Well, whatever it is, I know the best cure for it.” He stood up, taking me with him.

I blinked, bewildered and mesmerized at the same time. God, he was tall. “And what’s that?”

His eyebrows went up a notch. “The guys and I are going on a pub crawl. Want to join us?”

“You want me to go drinking with you?” I asked because my brain hadn’t returned to its optimal functioning capabilities yet.

“Why not? You look like you need a drink or four.”

To be honest, I really did feel like drowning myself in alcohol. A part of me wanted to say no on principle since I knew next to nothing about Graham. He waited patiently for me to make my decision. Gotta give him points for not forcing me into it.

I assessed my situation. What happened with Luka blew my mind. I needed to be alone. I needed a second to think. But was thinking really the best solution? The chanting of the crowd for an encore made my decision for me. I couldn’t take another second of Vicious right now, especially not Luka.

A reckless spirit took over and I said, “First round is on me.”

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN
C
RAWL

Our pub crawl started at a hole-in-the-wall accessible through a back alley somewhere in Canary Warf. It was one of many in a line stretching for several blocks on both sides of the street. Who knew the business district had so many drinking spots? Well, I guess they should since businessmen needed to get drunk too. The band and I started at the bar and ended up at a table after the second round of Guinness. I initially asked for rum and Coke, but Graham and the boys made fun of me for being a tourist.

“When in England, you drink Guinness,” Graham said while shoving a giant glass of the dark, mysterious brew my way.

I stared at it. White foam on top, black as night the rest of the way. “You really expect me to drink this?”

“Only if you want your troubles to disappear,” Billy said, done with his first glass and waving at the bartender for a second.

Knowing my troubles, yes they needed to disappear. So, with a deep breath, I brought the glass to my lips. The creamy, spicy beverage slid down my throat smoothly, filling my stomach with warmth. I licked at the foam on my upper lip and downed the rest of its magic.

“Whoa! Head rush.” I swayed, slamming the glass on the bar. “That’s actually good. Sorta like coffee and chocolate mixed together with Worcestershire sauce. Sounds disgusting, but good.”

“What do you expect?” Graham cocked an eyebrow at me, done with his first glass as well. “We like our alcohol complex. You Yanks don’t know the first thing about real drinking.”

“You better slow down,” Shaun, the redhead, warned. “Graham, being part Irish, drinks everyone here under the table.”

“Consider me warned. Anyway, I think I can handle him,” I said, closing my hand around the curve of my second glass. Shaun, probably content at having been the mouth of caution for the night, merely shrugged, downing his second glass along with me.

We stumbled into the second pub an hour later. This one for the upper crust drinkers who preferred cocktails. But, lucky for me, Raging Pistols liked their midnight brew. Another round served at our table. And, apparently, the owner of the place was a fan, so the first round was free.

I stopped counting glasses by the third pub. Stopped walking straight too. I had to wrap my arm around Graham’s wide and sturdy shoulders to keep from wandering off. We maneuvered in a zigzag pattern that got us where we wanted to go later rather than sooner.

Pretty soon a warm glow surrounded me, pushing away any memory of the concert and whatever good judgment I had going into this crawl. Nothing stopped me from joining Graham and Billy on stage to sing a warbled version of
Don’t Want to Miss a Thing
. At one point, I threw my hands up in the air and belted out the “I don’t want to miss one smile, I don’t want to miss one kiss” bit. Instead of want, I slurred out “wanna” and my Ss had an H attached to them.

In a moment of clarity, I thought back to my initial impression of the Raging Pistols drummer. I’d been right. Graham had a voice. Why he drummed escaped me, and I complained to him about this when we sat down to let Shaun and someone else from the band I couldn’t remember the name of sing, oddly enough,
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
. Oy we were drunk.

Graham chuckled and pushed a basket of fish and chips my way. “You, my lady, are completely bladdered if you think I can sing. Take a chip, let the fat soak up some of the Guinness.”

“I think you mean sauced.” I picked up a French fry and nibbled on the tip. “But seriously, why aren’t you lead vocals?”

He picked up his glass and finished off the rest of its contents and licked his bottom lip. I felt no shame when my gaze followed the movement. “Don’t let Shaun hear you say that. He’s sensitive that one.” Graham tilted his head toward the mini stage when Shaun and the other guy swayed in tandem to the beat of the song.

Not needing further explanation, I let the matter go and finished off my own glass. “Should we order another round?”

Getting tired of karaoke and wanting to get serious with the drinking, as if we weren’t swimming in alcohol yet, Billy announced we should head for the next pub. I hiccupped, plastering myself to Graham’s side so I wouldn’t get lost on the way. The ground felt like foam beneath my feet as the drummer wrapped an arm around my waist, gripping my hip hard. I didn’t mind, too buoyant to complain. This must be what being at sea felt like.

Billy, Shaun, and the rest of the band started singing this English tune. My ears were too stuffed with cotton to understand them. The Guinness sloshed in my gut. Not nauseated yet, so I figured I had two more glasses in me before I puked my guts out.

I thought of nothing but the cool scent of Graham mixing with the spice of the Guinness. I turned my head toward his chest and inhaled deeply. He took this as a come on and guided me into an alley filled with crates, crumpled newspaper, and discarded cans. It faintly smelled of piss and vinegar. Not the most romantic of places, but I was beyond thinking straight. The rest of the guys, too busy singing their drunken song, went on ahead without looking if we followed. Graham pushed me up against a wall. The fabric of my sweater clung to the rough surface. The night wasn’t cold enough for me to grab a jacket when we left the arena. Then again, the heat running over my skin might be because of the Guinness and it was actually freezing out. I looked up at him as he leaned one hand above my head.  

“What’s up?” I asked, floating in his astonishingly blue eyes. A lock of his hair curled down his forehead. My fingers itched to twirl it.

He reached up and ran a fingertip down my patch. I let him. “I never thought an eye patch as sexy, but on you…”

His Irish accent overpowered his English when drunk, I discovered. Its smoothness and refinement gave way to a sing song lilt. To be honest, I couldn’t decide which was better. All I knew was my ears liked what they were hearing. “Not many guys think so.”

“They are fools. You are damn sexy.” He moved his hand to my hip and pulled me forward. I went along with it, content to let the booze haze make my decisions for me.