The Stars Will Shine (21 page)

For as drawn-out as Monday seemed, the night of the concert arrives in a flash—so much so that, looking back, I vividly remember flipping through those photographs with Amber but have only faint memories of the rest of the week’s occurrences, as if it all transpired in a dream. My nerves are a jittery mess as we close up shop to prepare for its reopening at 8:00 p.m., and I’m not sure whether to attribute my anxiety to wanting a successful show or to seeing Aiden in the flesh again.

You see, we haven’t laid eyes on each other once since that fiery moment in my bedroom a week ago—a flame I unceremoniously snuffed when I realized what I always guessed—that Aiden isn’t able to do the whole “just sex” thing I’m offering. We exchanged a few polite texts, all very bland, but Aiden spent much of his week rehearsing with Dylan and finalizing their set for tonight, which I only happen to know because, every night for the past week, Dylan noisily transported guitars and amps back and forth between his bedroom and his car.

Surprisingly, even after Dylan came back drunk the other night, there were no vocal complaints from Aunt Miranda, though she did eye him with rather slim eyes anytime he was in her presence, as if she might be able to intimidate it out of him, whatever he was up to in the night. I’m pretty sure she was on the verge of grounding him again at one point, but I happened to be walking by at the moment, dressed in a short skirt, so she found it easier to chew out me and my attire than to chew out Dylan, her one and only son.

Didn’t even receive a thank you from him for that one.

It’s 7:00 p.m. when the first band arrives. They’re a group of teenagers around my age, five males and one female.

“Hey,” their lead says and immediately introduces himself as Tyler. “We’re Outside the Law.”

We exchange pleasantries with Tyler and the rest of the band for the next ten minutes, which is when I find out they’re a folk rock band from Windsor. By the banjo, fiddle, acoustic guitars, fedoras and plaid flannel shirts they’ve got, they’re not kidding around. Apparently, all six of them will be seniors at the same high school this year, and they’ve been playing together for just over two years now.

While the rest of the band starts setting up, the bassist, who introduced himself as Curt, sidles up to me at the checkout counter.

“Are you the girl that was on those photographs around town?” he asks, rolling up the long sleeves of his flannel shirt as he gives me a blatant once-over.

I pretend to be more interested in the rest of his band, ten feet away. “Yup.”

“Nice.” He grins appreciatively and flips his blond hair out of his eyes. “You’re even hotter in person.”

“Go help your band,” I say, shooing him off with a roll of my eyes. Screw Aiden for being right about that.

“Hey, Curt!” the drummer calls, right on cue, pulling Curt’s ready gaze from my face. “Stop ogling the poor chick and get your shit set up.”

The front door closes just as he finishes chiding his bandmate, drawing my attention that way. Aiden and Dylan stand there, guitar cases in hand, amps at their feet. Both are dressed in dark clothing and look intimidating as hell. Immediately, my heart begins to race, especially with the way Aiden’s eyes narrow on Curt, who slowly pulls himself away from me and makes his way back to his band, all under the severity of Aiden’s steady stare. When Aiden levels his eyes on me, they flare with biological heat.

I guess absence makes the hormones stronger?

My blood begins to simmer as I take in his appearance—the casual disorderliness of his dark brown hair; the line of muscle in his chest, visible through the thin material of his charcoal gray tee-shirt; the bare hint of his boxers peeking over the top of his black jeans; the easy way with which he holds his guitar case, the lean muscles in his forearm emphasized by the weight.

God, do I want him.

It’s a want so intrusive, I think it’s branded itself on my bones.

A throat is cleared next to me. I snap out of it just as Amber walks into my view, effectively blocking out Aiden in all his sensual glory.

“You going to be alright?” she asks with a teasing smile. I wonder how many times Trevyn and she have surmised about my relationship with Aiden behind my back. A little embarrassed, I peek at Dylan to make sure he didn’t happen to notice me extensively undressing his best friend with my eyes, then nod swiftly in answer to Amber’s question.

By the time 8:00 p.m. comes around, the place is packed full with definitely a larger crowd than we anticipated, which we attribute to Amber’s fliers working extremely well.

“Not bad,” I say as I nudge her hip with mine and signal the turnout. “Not bad at all.”

“I almost can’t believe it,” she says, taking in all the people with awe. She has her camera looped around her neck, and she lifts it now to snap a photo of the crowd. Immediately after, the lights dim, and feedback from the microphone screams out and causes a few people to cover their ears with groans. Then Trevyn’s voice comes smoothly over the speaker.

“Hello everybody!” he starts. Varied sounds of acknowledgement ensue, from muffled murmurs to good-natured hollers. “Thank you all for coming to our first concert night here at Miles of Vinyls. We have two bands for you tonight, both local and both way beyond talented, believe me. So, without further ado, I present to you a folk rock band from Windsor, California…Put your hands together for Outside the Law!”

Applause erupts, though I’m sure none of the people here have ever heard of the fledgling band. With beaming smiles, Outside the Law takes the stage, and I can see in their eyes the excitement, the rush of seeing all these people here for them and their music. The dim yellow lighting over the staging area, with the backdrop of old-fashioned wood bookcases, lends an intimately rustic ambiance to their presence, befitting the music they start to make. They play with an easy camaraderie, fashioning humble, whimsical tunes that flow with the languidness of summer days and lemonade, and the spontaneity of summer nights and moonshine.

I have to give it to them—they are good. I feel a nervous jolt in my gut when I start to wonder how Dylan and Aiden will measure up. I find Aiden across the way, standing at the other edge of the crowd. His head bobs to the sounds, and he wears a faintly reverent smile as he watches the female violinist draw her bow across the strings and sing sweet harmony to the coarse vocals of the front man. I feel an unexplainable twist in my stomach as I watch him watch her like that, and a weightiness in my chest that seems to sink to my core.

When Outside the Law strikes their final chord, a sort of peacefulness and unity settles over the crowd, shared with strangers in half-smiles and bright eyes.

“Thank you guys so much!” Tyler, the singer, shouts. The band bows to an explosion of applause, three times louder than when they took the stage. I convince myself that I’ve managed to shove my unsettling feelings away when I plaster a smile on my face and clap along.

“We’ll take a fifteen minute break before our next act,” Trevyn says into the mic as the band packs up its equipment. “Feel free to browse the shop in the meantime or purchase a CD copy of Outside the Law’s self-produced album at the register.”

A number of teenagers come ambling over, eager to get their hands on one. As I help them, I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from Aiden, who is now setting up his instruments on stage with proficiency and poise, and sharing easy laughs with Dylan. They appear so laidback, so…made for the stage and the performance. And while Aiden, even in his dark attire, emits charisma and approachability, Dylan has a subtly formidable presence like he’ll pander to no one. They’re an angel and a devil that somehow, against all odds, formed a bond no higher power can break.

“Excuse me,” comes a girl’s voice. I pull my eyes away from the stage and try to focus on the girl now standing in front of me and holding one of Outside the Law’s CDs. “I’d like to get this,” she says and blinks at me with doe-like eyes the color of springtime grass.

The guy standing beside her wraps an arm around her waist to pull her closer to his side, and leans down to nuzzle her neck with his nose. While she giggles, I briefly take him in—his lean body towering over hers, the way the lighting in here turns his longish blond hair a dusty yellow. By the short beard on his chin and his scholarly hipster fashion, he seems to be a few years older than she, maybe a college student. When he releases her, she sighs up at him, while absently sliding a ten dollar bill across the counter to me.

I drop the cash into a large mason jar that’s filling quite rapidly. The couple drifts away with their purchase, hands linked loosely, and it isn’t long before the guy cradles her from behind and swoops in to trail kisses all along the back of her neck. She closes her eyes and tilts her head forward and to the side to give him better access, all the while hanging onto his arms wrapped around her body as if she might suddenly slip to the ground.

A sudden, discordant strum over the speakers makes everyone jump. My attention skips to the staging area, where Dylan stands, the expression on his face stiff but unfathomable. His hand hangs just below the strings of his electric guitar, as if it slipped and sloppily struck them. His eyes are trained on something at the back of the room, and when I follow that line of sight, it lands straight on that couple, still publicly displaying their affection. The college guy pulls back a little at the sound, the remnants of which still resonate dissonantly through the place. The girl manages to straighten her emerald-colored blouse and fix her glossy, auburn curls over both shoulders before lifting her head toward the stage. And when she does look up, straight into Dylan’s dark eyes, she gasps, whips around, and practically drags her companion out the door in a flurry.

Aiden comes up behind Dylan like a shadowed mentor, and his hand lands on Dylan’s shoulder. With a light squeeze, he says something in Dylan’s ear, and with a weak nod Dylan draws his eyes away from the door through which the couple just left and begins quietly tuning his guitar. I stare at him for a long while, trying to discern all those unreadable thoughts passing over his face, but he’s already delved into his warmup riffs, his fingers moving over the strings with practiced ease.

Five minutes later, Aiden is at the microphone. He taps it lightly with the knuckle of his forefinger and clears his throat as he looks out over the crowd. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Is he excited? Nervous? Something on his face almost looks a little sad.

“Are you ready for the best goddamn fifty minutes of your life?” he says, and the crowd goes wild in reply. “I said,” he yells louder, “are you ready for the best goddamn fifty minutes of your life?” The crowd’s volume rises even more, but Aiden’s face turns more serious. “I don’t think you are,” he says quietly as his eyes roam over the people up front. I see a few girls there, dressed in tight-fitting tank tops with low necklines, and my stomach twists again.

A part of me wants to think some bitchy, misplaced thought like
Sluts!
but I’m not going to lie and feign self-righteousness…I’ve dressed much sluttier than they. And to top it off, they don’t look half bad. Believe me, I wish I had cleavage to show off like that. It’s just that Aiden’s right in front of them, and as they lean forward, I know he can see right down their shirts, and even though I have no right to feel this way, something about that irritates the hell out of me.

No exclusiveness.

You said it to him, Delilah, not the other way around.

“We’re Father’s Secret, and we’re here to rattle your soul.” Aiden turns so that his back is to us all, and the crowd goes completely still with bated breath. Suddenly, he strikes the masses with a minor chord and Dylan joins in with an intensely wicked bass line.

Dark and powerful. Urgent and haunting.

Dylan hits a pedal with his foot and the bass line loops. He switches his bass for his electric guitar, shares a significant look with Aiden, and then the two of them are throwing their heads forward and pulling immolating screams from their guitars. Dylan hits another pedal and a deep drum track starts up and pounds relentlessly right through me.

After the intro, Dylan assumes the role of rhythm guitar, while Aiden keeps up a damning melody on lead. And when that boy lifts his face to the mic and begins to sing, I feel like he’s bartering for my soul. A dark and wild energy possesses the crowd as Aiden’s voice, emotive and raspy, slides into our veins. I can do nothing but stare at him as I shake beneath my skin. When he sings, his mouth kisses the microphone, and his eyes stare off beyond the crowd with an intense focus, almost like he’s looking into another dimension.

When that first song comes to an end, Aiden closes his eyes and lets his final words out in a cracked breath:
“And when he comes for my soul in the dead of night, I’ll lock your face deep in my mind.”

“Thank you,” Aiden says, wiping sweat from his forehead as the crowd claps. “That was one of our originals, ‘The Devil in the Dark.’” His voice is low as he plucks a few high ending notes on his guitar, drawing them out. “We’ve got a cover for you next…Funkadelic’s classic rock instrumental ‘Maggot Brain.’”

Dylan has discarded his electric guitar and is now seated at the keyboard, looking at Aiden. With synchronized nods, they segue right into it, this one a much slower, mournful blues song that, from the onset, winds around my heart and pulls it slowly from my chest.

Trevyn wasn’t kidding…They are incredible. It’s almost sinful how good they are. Because the way the play, the music they put out…It makes a person want to do unholy things.