Chapter 9

He was moody all the next day at the venue. People were constantly around him, wanting things from him and I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, even if Carlisle was on the receiving end of the volcano that had erupted last night.

I had thought about the scene when I got back to the room, even through Jane's blabbering. That look on his face was pure anger. The kind that started deep in your stomach and rolled and rolled until it burst out of you like, well, like a dragon breathing fire.

Quitting the band… To be that angry, that furious… my flesh prickled remembering his face.

Maybe I'd heard wrong. I tried to make sense of what little I'd eavesdropped on. Really wasn't much, but that one word solo kept bouncing around my head.

If that horrible word was true, maybe Carlisle was giving him hell for it. For leaving. Abandoning. Stopping the money train. I'd probably never know the true anguish behind that fight from either side, but I worried anyway, worried about Carlisle and worried about Edward.

I felt a sense of mourning at the idea of them never making music together again.

Not to mention horrible anxiety that I maybe knew something I shouldn't.

I kept busy writing out the VIP passes for that night, some names I recognized, some I didn't. All getting put on lanyards that looked much like mine, without the dopey picture. I rolled my eyes at the one Carlisle had snapped himself, goofy grin firmly in place like I'd just won the lottery.

That singer was coming, the one that went through boyfriends like underwear, with an actor that hadn't had a hit in ages. Some crazy important record guy that Carlisle seemed nervous about was on the list. I wrote his name extra careful, my handwriting not something to be envious of.

Emmett and I sat together during the crew lunch, feasting on the mac 'n cheese the rider demanded at every stop. He could eat more than any human I'd ever seen, and was pretty messy about it. It was nice to spend time with someone that was just normal. Just a guy working a job, even if he did have his own aspirations. He wasn't phony, wasn't full of himself. He just worked hard and made me laugh in our downtime.

He was from a little town in Pennsylvania, described it as the place to go if you had a thing for craft fairs, biggest pumpkin competitions, and Amish-made fireplaces. It sounded nice to me, foreign from the sterile, culture-less, cookie-cutter neighborhood in Arizona that I'd come from.

After two big pieces of chocolate cake, we parted ways. He had to finish rigging the lights and I had the green room ritual. He said he'd see me later on our floor and I thought that didn't sound too bad.

Any flowers or gifts that had been delivered went on a corner table. Dozens of water bottles, champagne and beer on ice handy. Yorkie's Snickers bars on a plate next to Jasper's favorite sea salt potato chips. Jake's, which I found out to actually be Leah's, favorite chickpea hummus.

And of course, Edward's personal bottle of Jack Daniels. One bottle of Coke next to it. I might've lingered a little longer placing them carefully where he usually sat at the long table with the big mirror.

His warm-up guitar was already on the stand next to the chair, waiting for him. It was old, not one he ever had on stage. It had nicks in it, some faded marker, one whole side was missing its trim. It looked coveted, beloved.

I ran a hand carefully down the neck of the thing, leaving a trail with one solitary finger.

A neck for a neck.

"May I ask exactly what it is you think you're doing?"

I froze. It wasn't the dragon, necessarily, but it wasn't happy, either. I knew I was in the wrong, so I turned and apologized quickly.

He was never alone, but there he was, no security, no 'girlfriend' in sight. I desperately wanted to stay and talk. I desperately wanted to leave. Turning to the food table, I still had a job to do, so I arranged everything with shaky hands and double checked my list, wrinkled from being pulled from my back pocket. Behind me I heard him settle into the chair I'd set up, mixed with the din of distant voices in the hallway, coming from the still open door. That made me relax just a hair that maybe he wouldn't say anything about the guitar fondling. Unless he'd planned on yelling at me and wanted an audience. Uncle Carlisle was going to be upset with me for sure.

All background noise ceased to exist as soon as one string was plucked. Then another, then a chord. A sad tune began, the notes lilting and so loud in my ears.

Edward was playing music in front of me. Just with me. All my teenage fantasies were colliding in one mega-overload of stimulation. My skin goose-bumped, my heart raced, adrenaline surged.

"What's your favorite song?" he asked quietly over the strumming of something I didn't recognize.

Turning, I held my breath, hoping some groupie hadn't just come in behind me and I didn't notice.

His eyes were on me. Me. As green as I always imagined they'd be up close. Gone was the red dragon-fire from last night. Gone was the tense stance. His foot was propped up on an opposite chair, the guitar laid casually in his lap. His strumming arm rested on the table. He had on a gray ski hat and I thought my heart was going to explode.

"I don't have just one." That quirked, scarred eyebrow again. "I guess 'Feast of Many'.

"Not one of ours. Something else." His fingers tapped the body of the guitar, strummed. Tapped, strummed. Waiting.

"Probably 'Wild Horses'." He began to play, the soft notes of the Rolling Stones tune coming from him effortlessly. His talent was breathtaking. I wondered if he would be able to play anything I could think of.

"That's way before your time."

"My dad."

"Carlisle's older brother, right?"

"Yes." Not knowing what else to say and a little freaked out Edward Cullen was talking to me, I shuffled the hummus across the table. Moved the crackers a bit. Folded a napkin. I prayed no one else would come in and ruin my moment.

"Another one?" The guitar strummed, waiting.

"How about "Can't Find My Way Home?" He smiled lazy and played it, no problem. Eyes never leaving mine.

"Blind Faith. Good choice." He made me feel like the only human being that mattered.

That, was his talent as well.

I stood in the middle of the room, watching him play. Time stopped, my heart stopped, my breathing stopped. Just me and him and his guitar.

He knew he was lulling me, knew my job was done here and I should shuffle off, but I couldn't move my leaden feet if a crane were pulling me.

"No one touches my guitar but my roadie. " His eyes were still on mine, burning a hole through me. "Especially not bus three people."

My face flamed and I said the first thing I thought when I touched the thing.

"A neck for a neck."

I waited for it, the venom and fire. It was like it didn't even register. Didn't acknowledge that maybe I was right. He kept looking at me, strumming, tapping. Waiting for an apology I didn't want to give.

But I wasn't stupid. This was my job and he was essentially signing my paycheck. "I'm sorry I touched your property. That wasn't right."

He inhaled, sighed. Lit a cigarette. Blew out the smoke. "It's okay. I'll make an exception for Carlisle's little baby niece. Baby baby baby." The way he sing-songed it shamed me. There was an almost sarcastic tinge to it I didn't get.

"I'm not a baby," I snapped back, about as babyish of a comeback as one could have.

He looked at my feet. My calves. My knees and my stomach and my breasts and my face. "Are you having fun?"

That question again.

"I was, until you called me a baby." I spat out that last part, maybe a bit too harshly. Like it was toxic on my tongue. "Four times."

The guitar started another song, one of the famous ones. He looked down at his fingers, and I felt like going back to my hotel room and throwing up. Not out of fear, out of anger. If I were one of the girlfriends, I'd get down on my knees right now, open door be damned, and show him how much of a baby I wasn't.

But that wasn't me. Even if he'd welcome it. "Also, I might be on bus three, but don't lump me in with those… girls. You don't even know me," I challenged, instead.

His eyes slowly lifted to mine, stormy green against my burning brown. They turned forlorn. Sad puppy dog and scolded kitten. Apologetic, sort of. Remorseful, almost.

I waited for it.

But he didn't apologize back, didn't say anything, so I walked out.

I seethed all night long. Through two hours of music, three encores and endless minutes of after-show revelry.

Through laughs and Jack and Cokes with no straws. Through someone named Megan sitting on his lap and playing with that hair.

I didn't look at him as I fetched water and more napkins. Didn't acknowledge him while I took out the used towels. Stayed out of his way when there was nothing left to do but wait for someone to want something as the party wound down.

Carlisle came in, told me I was done for the night, long day tomorrow back on the bus.

Ugh, the fucking bus. I was a bus three person. The lowest of the low, apparently.

But I was a trooper. I didn't grimace or complain or say anything about the close quarters, small bunk, or skanks I'd been subjected to. I didn't say anything about how red-faced a certain someone made me feel all afternoon and night.

"Sounds good," I said to my uncle, smile in place.

Just as my foot was out the door, it came. "Carlisle," the raspy singing and Jack-infused voice called out. Slow and sticky-syrupy. "About Bella."

Fuck me and my curious fingers and sharp tongue and baby feelings. I waited, breath held, for him to call me out.

"Maybe she should ride with us from now on. Makes more sense for your assistant to be on hand to assist you, doesn't it?"