I can’t tell if he sways toward me or if I sway toward him. Either way, his lips get close enough for me to feel the warmth of them. Just for a second. And then he pulls away and whispers, “Good night, Violet.”

As much as I want to stand in the doorway and watch him go, I don’t. I’m chilly and I need to close the door. The strange thing is, I don’t feel any warmer once I close it. And if I’m being honest, I know exactly why. Jet left and took his warmth with him.

And I don’t want to be honest about it.

TWENTY: Jet

In a way I hope Violet doesn’t show up.

What the hell are you doing, man?

The more I learn about her, the more I know she deserves better than me. Than what I can give her. Than what I’m already giving her. As I listen to the guys warming up on stage, I think to myself that they’ll be happy to know that they were right about me. I do have my limits. There are some things I feel like shit about doing.

Violet Wilson is one of them.

I resist the urge to throw my guitar at the wall. Why now? Why her? Why couldn’t I have met her under different circumstances?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, calming myself before I go out.

Maybe I wouldn’t have batted an eye.

Nah, I definitely would’ve noticed her. But maybe I wouldn’t have persisted beyond her cool demeanor. Or maybe that would’ve intrigued me, just like it did. Who knows?

I hear the familiar notes of our first cover song begin and I put all the futile questions out of my mind. The facts are that it is what it is, and I am where I am. And I’m not going back now. Violet is in the unfortunate position of being something that I want. Something I want bad. And I’m a selfish dickhole. What’s new?

I take the stage. Within seconds of stepping out, I feel all other thought drift away. All I see, hear, and feel is adoration. Like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Like I’m someone else, for just a little while. It’s the best drug known to man.

I walk to the mic and stop. All the house lights shut off. The crowd gets quiet. My fingers hover eagerly over the strings of my guitar. The tap tap tap of the drum is the only sound that penetrates the silent scream of anticipation in the room. I close my eyes and soak it all in, not even trying to deny the pleasure of this. All this.

Eight beats later, with my pulse humming and the energy rising, the lights come back on with the bang of the music. Without even giving it thought, my fingers float over the strings of my instrument as I let the tide of screams wash over me.

But then I see her. And everything changes.

In the rush of the moment, I’d forgotten Violet would be here. In the blink of an eye, I was someone else, someone who doesn’t know her. But here in the next blink, I see her, and I don’t want to be him anymore.

When I begin to sing, There she stood . . . I’ve never felt the words more. It feels like I’m singing to Violet. Whether she knows it or not.

TWENTY-ONE: Violet

Watching Jet this time is totally different than stumbling upon him last night. Not only is this a much bigger venue, but this time I’m prepared for what I’m about to see. This time, I get to enjoy it. I get to enjoy him.

His voice is incredible. It’s deep and smooth, and it brings chills out more times than I can count. And the way he plays his guitar is so natural, like he doesn’t even have to think about it.

But more than all that, I can see that Jet is a true performer. This may not be what he wants to do with his life, but he’s good at it. And I can see why he likes it.

The women just go wild over him. And he works them like a magician works a wand. He makes eye contact with them as he sings. He smiles and gestures. He drives them wild.

How do I know this? Because every time he does it to me, I feel like melting. A couple of times he has met my eyes and winked at me during certain lyrics. I’m trying not to read too much into it, but it’s hard not to. And he looks at me often, more often than he does anyone else. Of course, he should. I’m like his focal point in Lamaze.

But still, I feel it. I feel his charisma, his magnetism and I’m drawn. As much as I don’t want to be, I’m definitely drawn.

A couple of times women have gotten onstage, much like the one I saw last night. But tonight, Jet kindly hands them off to Security, a fact that pleases me more than I’d like to admit.

It’s when the lights dim and Jet exchanges his bass for an acoustic guitar and sits on the edge of the stage that I realize I’m not as strong as I thought I was.

After he gets situated, a spotlight clicks on and focuses its radiance on Jet. With his head bent as he adjusts the strings on his guitar, his hair looks like an ink spill in the light. Everyone around me is quiet as we wait, mesmerized by nothing more than his presence.

He closes his eyes with the first strum of his guitar. The simple sound vibrates through me, pulling me into its rhythm, into the song. Into Jet.

He tips his head back, turning his face into the light as he picks out notes. When he opens his eyes, staring out into the brightness, they glisten like pale blue diamonds. He turns them onto the crowd for a few seconds, until he begins to sing.

That’s when they find me. And I forget that we’re in a room full of people and that I shouldn’t be feeling this way about him. I’m simply lost. Lost to the moment, lost to the feeling. Lost to Jet.

Smoothly, he begins to sing the words to “Through Glass.” The lyrics float around me. His voice slides through me. But it’s Jet . . . It’s whatever makes Jet Jet that weaves a spell around me, a spell like silk ribbon that holds me right here. Right now. Right where he wants me, and right where I want to be.

His eyes never leave mine as he sings. Not once. He doesn’t glance down or around, doesn’t look at anyone else. Not for a single second. And no one steps between us. It’s like the ocean of people parted in reverence of what’s happening, and that no one would dare to interrupt it.

When he strums the last chord, no one moves. Not Jet, not me, not the people in the crowd. We all stay perfectly still, watching him watch me.

Jet doesn’t smile or wink or make this moment cute or contrived. He just stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. Or maybe that he’s feeling me for the first time. Like I’m feeling him.

It’s the tap of the drums that bring an end to my thrall. The spotlight shuts off and the dim house lights come back on. Another song is beginning around us, but none will ever compare to the beauty of this one. Of this one song. And how Jet sang it to me.

* * *

I didn’t talk to Jet before the show, and I didn’t think to ask what I was supposed to do after. But since someone was waiting for me when I arrived to bring me close to the stage, I should’ve known someone would be waiting for me afterward as well, to take me away from it.

It turns out it’s the same guy, too. Trent, I think he said his name was. Evidently he works security for the band. And he must also handle Jet’s women, because he’s the one Jet would hand them off to when they’d crawl onstage.

“Violet,” he says when he touches my arm, “come on. Let’s get you backstage.”

I nod and move to follow him, feeling more like a wallflower than ever. I want to shrink away from all the glares and odd looks I get from the women I pass. There’s no doubt every one of them would like to be going where I’m going, and it’s suddenly easy for me to see how a man could get lost in this, lost in this kind of adulation. Especially when so many of the girls are young, beautiful, and scantily clad.

Trent leads me through a series of doors to one that says AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. There’s a uniformed guard standing to the left. Trent flashes his pass at the stone-faced man, gets a curt nod, and then we walk right in.

Beyond the door is yet another world I’m totally unfamiliar with. There are girls everywhere, but back here, it doesn’t seem like they are the problem. It’s the guys.

I see the various band members scattered throughout the room. One of the other guitar players has a girl bent over his arm, kissing her and feeling her up like they’re in private. I glance quickly away, feeling the blush sting my cheeks.

I scan the rest of the room, taking it in with equal embarrassment. The guy who plays guitar and the keyboard is having his picture taken by a delirious girl who can’t be a day over twenty. He has a female under each arm. One is licking his nipple, the other is kissing his neck and has her hand on his crotch. Just beyond them is a couch where a beautiful blonde is sitting, head thrown back, chest puffed out, letting the drummer pour champagne all over her breasts. It’s plain to see that she’s wearing nothing but hard ni**les under her tight, white T-shirt.

My heart is pounding as I keep searching for Jet, fearing that I won’t find him, yet terrified I will. But when I do, it’s to see him coming out of what looks to be a bathroom, rubbing a towel over his bare chest. His hair is wet, like he just stuck his head in the sink, which he might have.

He steps out and glances around the room, his eyes not stopping on any particular vignette. He doesn’t seem to be surprised by what’s going on, which is very telling.

Finally, his eyes find me. They light up, which makes my stomach roll over, and then a smile spreads across his face and he makes his way across the room toward me.

I can’t help but admire him as he walks. Aside from his stunning face, Jet is absolute physical perfection. His shoulders are impossibly wide and muscular, making his narrow waist look even trimmer. His chest is smooth and broad, and both ni**les are pierced. His stomach is flat and rippling with muscles that draw my eye even farther down.

At the bottom of his abdomen is a tattoo that I didn’t see through the holes in his tank top last night. It runs across his belly, disappearing below the low-hanging band of his black pants. It’s only when my eyes drift farther down that I notice Jet has stopped walking.

In shock and horrified dismay, I jerk my eyes up to his. They aren’t laughing or playful, teasing or light. They’re serious. And intense. And as hot as the flames that are inked up his ribs.

My mouth gets dry and I remind myself over and over again why I’m here and why I absolutely cannot get involved. Some part of me is crying out that it’s too late, it’s too late, but I ignore that voice. I ignore that cry. I’m still in control. I don’t have to walk away.

Finally Jet starts to move again. Air gets trapped inside my lungs when he stops in front of me, looking down into my face yet not saying a word. I wet my dry lips with the tip of my tongue, and I see Jet’s brilliant blue eyes drop to watch me, making my whole mouth tingle in awareness.

“You were phenomenal,” I offer when the silence is just too much, too intense to bear.

His gaze rises back to mine and I see his expression soften. “Thank you. The only thing that could’ve made tonight better is if I’d been singing my own songs.”

“I thought you got to perform some of your original music?”

“Most of the time I do, but this venue wanted all cover songs.”

“I’m sorry.”

With a wry smile, Jet reaches out to brush my bangs out of my eyes. “Don’t be. Tonight was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”

My heart thunders inside my chest. “And why is that?”

He steps closer still, his thighs just barely brushing mine. I know I should retreat. I know I should keep this more . . . clinical and less emotional, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to find the will to make my legs move. I don’t think I even really want to.

“Seeing you out there made it—”

“Who’s this?” the band’s drummer asks loudly, coming up behind Jet to lean in over his shoulder, beer bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other.

I feel as much as hear Jet’s sigh. His warm breath dances over my lips and brings chills to my arms.

So close . . .

“This is Violet. Violet, this is Grady, the drummer.”

Grady sticks his cigarette back in his mouth long enough to offer me his sticky right hand. “Pleasure, Violet. You don’t look like the . . . usual kinds of girls we see back here. Are you from the Red Cross or something? Because I would happily donate any of my . . . fluids to your cause,” he leers.

My mouth drops open a fraction of an inch. Jet shakes Grady off him and pushes him back with an elbow to his gut. “Man, go the hell away! What’s the matter with you?”

“What?” Grady asks, an innocuous expression settling on his face. “I was just kidding. I thought she was . . . she was . . .”

Although Grady is very obviously well on his way to being drunk, I can see that he genuinely thought his proposition would be accepted.

“It’s all right, Grady. I can only imagine what goes on in these rooms. No harm, no foul. I know Jet from . . . we met at a . . . group activity.”

Grady’s brows shoot up, and I blush. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I was going to say “meeting,” but realized that might sound suspicious if Jet didn’t want anyone to know.

“A ‘group activity’? Holy shit, I’m the best team player you’ve ever met!”

I can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. “Not that kind of group activity.”

“Oh. Damn,” he mutters, deflated. “Well, whatever kind of group thing it is, if everyone else looks like you, count me in.” He pauses as if to reconsider. “Unless it has anything to do with ogling danglers. I don’t swing that way.”

“Neither do I, dumbass, and that’s not what she means anyway. We met at a . . . meeting.”

Jet looks meaningfully at Grady, and, after a few seconds, Grady finally seems to get it.