The Play Page 11

  But with Lachlan…yeah, I do have shame. And I don’t want to do my same old song and dance (again) because he’s worth so much more than that. But what else can I say, other than, “Hey, so I think you’re really hot. Wanna screw?” That just wouldn’t cut it. It’s not enough.

  “I’m hungry,” Ava complains, while I sip my wine and think it all over.

  Bram pats her legs as they rest on his shoulders. “You just ate, you little munchkin. Where are you putting all that food?”

  “I want tacos,” she says, pointing to a pair of dancing hippies holding tacos and beer.

  I can tell Nicola is trying to stay strong, but she caves in because she wants tacos too. I mean, tacos. Who doesn’t? While everyone turns to make their way to one of the fifty million taco stands lined up around the fence, Steph nudges me gently and nods her head to the gate.

  I turn around and see Lachlan sauntering toward us. Even the way he walks is distinctive and one hundred percent man, almost like a guy in a Western, all shoulders and swagger, someone who’s ready to fight at a moment’s notice. It’s intimidating and intense, and it makes me freeze right where I am. I want to play it cool and look away, but I can’t.

  He’s dressed in hiking boots, green cargo pants, and a grey, long-sleeved Henley shirt that clings to his every muscle. I haven’t seen him for a week and his beard has grown in more, the same deep brown as his hair. Combined with those ever present lines on his forehead, darting eyes, and permafrown, he looks like a mountain man about to wrestle some bears.

  Yeah. Whatever plan of attack I had just got thrown out the window. I’ll be lucky if I can talk to him in anything other than gibberish.

  “Hey,” he says when he approaches. He says this to both of us, though when he looks at me, that crease between his eyes deepens.

  “Hey,” Steph says. “Glad you came! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make sure Linden orders me extra guacamole.” She takes off running toward the taco stands, leaving the two of us alone. Real smooth, Stephanie.

  But Lachlan doesn’t seem to notice. He’s staring intently at me, hands shoved in his pockets. He smells like cigar and musk.

  “I saw the article,” he says.

  I bite my lip for a moment and nod. “Yeah. Did you like it?”

  He seems confused by that. “Of course I did,” he says in his thick brogue. “But why did it say someone else wrote it?”

  I sigh and give him an exaggerated shrug. “I don’t know. My editor thought it would be better if a real writer was accredited.”

  “And that’s who Neil is?” His voice is oh so coarse, like he’s about to find Neil and punch his lights out.

  “I work with him,” I explain, trying not to seem affected by it all. “He edited it. And I guess my name on the byline would have lowered credibility or something. I don’t know. But if that’s the case, it’s better that it happened this way. I don’t want to take away from what you guys are doing.”

  He makes a noise of agreement, nodding his head quickly, though his expression doesn’t relax and his body is still tense. “I think it would have been better if it were truthful. I didn’t do the interview with some cunt named Neil.” His voice lowers. “I did it with you. You should have gotten all the credit.”

  My heart is fluttering. I don’t know if it’s because he’s getting mad that I wasn’t rightfully attributed or it’s that his eyes won’t quite look away from mine. I can feel his anger, his frustration. For me.

  “I know,” I say slowly. “But there’s not much I can do.”

  “I could talk to your editor. He sounds like a real fuckhead. I could put some sense into him.”

  Put some sense into him or knock some sense into him? His jaw is clenched, looking volatile. Against my better judgement, I reach out and touch his arm, just briefly, my fingertips resting on his wrist. “It’s okay. I shouldn’t have expected anything different. I’m the ad girl. That’s my job. And it will stay my job.”

  He takes a step closer, his face suddenly in mine, and he squints at me for a moment. “But I can tell,” he says, “that you’re not okay with that. Are you?”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…fought for in my whole life.

  I blink at him and he pulls back. “It is what it is,” he says, finally looking away. “And what it is, is what you make it.”

  My mouth quirks up in a wry smile. “You sound like my mom.”

  “Then your mother is very wise,” he says, seeming calmer now. His eyes brighten. “Want a taco?”

  I beam at him. “Yes, please.”

  We walk up and join the gang who are still in line for the street food. Lachlan and Linden greet each other with a quick hug and a pat on the back, while Steph takes me aside for a second.

  “What were you talking about?” she whispers excitedly.

  “Just the article,” I tell her, watching Lachlan. “Why?”

  She tugs at my arm and grins at me. “Because, he was totally in your face. I thought he was going to kiss you.”

  I give her a look. “Again, how old are we?”

  “Right,” she says, leaning back and crossing her arms with her “don’t even” face. “How come Carrie and Samantha could giggle over men on Sex and the City, and we can’t? We’re the same age. Same problems.”

  “And I’m still Samantha,” I say with a sigh, remembering years ago when Steph, Nicola, and I would binge watch the show for days on end. Fictional or not, the girls were who we aspired to be. Pretty, fun, carefree, and living the life in a big city. The single life always seemed a lot more fun when someone else was living it.

  After Lachlan buys me my taco and I gracefully refrain from any pink taco or fish taco jokes, we head toward the main stage where the VIP area is.

  It’s like a whole other world in those white tents. Not only are there cushy seats and a range of bartenders serving up whatever drinks you could want (not free though, which is kind of a rip-off), but you’re constantly looking around in hopes of spotting a celebrity.

  Of course, most of the people in here with us are splurging or people who have been gifted the passes, so any hopes of seeing someone like Sam Smith or Elton John are dashed. We grab more drinks—Lachlan opting for a bottle of water—and head down to the bleachers beneath the tents that overlook the field and the main stage. From this vantage point, we have an excellent view of the current band, some hipster shit that has everyone waving their hands and glow sticks.

  I’m at the end, sitting next to Lachlan, no accident on my part. I kick him playfully with my foot, and when he turns his head to look at me, I’m momentarily stunned by how close his face is to mine. His beautiful, gorgeous face. It makes my blood run with mercury.

  I smile before I can speak, trying not to focus on his lips. “So you said you’re a music fan,” I say, my mouth moving carefully. “What kind of music do you like?”

  His brows lift, and it’s then that I notice part of the reason he looks so intense all the time. His pupils always seem to be enlarged, dark and huge. It gives his eyes another layer of intensity.

  “Oh, all sorts,” he says in his rough voice. At this proximity I can feel it in my bones. “I like people with a lot of soul. The performers. The ones with stories to tell, even if they aren’t their own.” He pauses and looks out at the crowds, passing his hand over his beard. “Tom Waits, for one. Nick Cave. Jack White, even. A lot of the classics, too, the good old soul singers with the voices that hit you right here.” He thumps his fist against his chest. “What about you?”

  “I’m kind of a nerd,” I say.

  He frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m not so big on rock or pop or anything like that. I just love classical. Composers. Anything with strings and a piano, really.”

  “That’s not nerdy,” he says, shaking his head.

  “No? Well, I for sure can’t tell you what’s on the radio,” I admit. “But I
know what kind of music makes me feel.”

  He tilts his body closer to mine, his elbows resting on his knees, bottle of water in his hands. His thigh taps mine. “Do you know who Ryuichi Sakamoto is?”

  “Oh, come on,” I tell him. “My mother is Japanese. Of course I know who he is. And even if she wasn’t, and she didn’t play the soundtrack to The Last Emperor over and over again while growing up, I would still know who he is.”

  He nods appreciatively. “I saw him in Edinburgh a few years ago. Small theatre. Amazing show.”

  “Quit bragging,” I tease.

  He flashes me a smile and we go back to watching the set.

  Time flies by and the festival grows to epic proportions. During Sam Smith I’m feeling buzzed from another glass of wine and I find myself swaying back and forth against Lachlan’s shoulders to the music. He’s so damn solid and he doesn’t shy away.

  It’s dark out when Sir Elton John comes on, opening with “Benny and the Jets.” The crowd goes nuts. I go nuts. It’s impossible not to sing along to every single song, and it’s like every person around us is singing along too, hugging each other, drunk and happy and united by Elton.

  It’s probably the wine bolstering my courage, but when “Your Song” comes on, I lean into Lachlan and put my head on his shoulder. He tenses for a moment and I hear him suck in his breath. I pray he doesn’t move, doesn’t shrug me off.

  Then he exhales and relaxes. I can feel his beard brush against my hair as he turns his head to look down at me. I close my eyes, thinking I can fall asleep right here. With this song, with my head on his shoulder.

  It feels beyond right. It feels like an answer to a question I never knew I asked.

  He shifts ever so slightly and puts his arm around my waist, holding me to him.

  My heart leaps, my whole body fizzing like champagne. Never has such a simple gesture turned me inside out like this. I can’t help but smile with pure unfiltered joy, still mouthing the words to the song. I don’t want anything to change. I want the song to go on forever, the concert to never end. I want to stay in this spot until the end of time, his large, strong arm around me, holding me to him like I’m being sheltered against the world.

  And, for some reason, time does seem to still. In the dark, with the colorful lights from the stage flashing, with this tune, with this man, time stretches on. Whatever worries and cares I had before, they’re gone in this moment.

  I’m the opposite of alone.

  Somehow we stay like this through “Daniel” as well, even though the song makes me tear up a little bit, thinking of my brothers. I feel Lachlan’s thumb rub against my side, back and forth along my shirt, a slow, teasing motion that introduces some fire to the soft peace inside me.

  Look up at him, I tell myself. Kiss him now. You may never get the chance again.

  But I’m too afraid to do anything more than snuggle into him further. It’s funny how prepared I was to make my move, but now that I have this, I’ve realized how perfect it is. And to imagine kissing him, well that has turned into a scary prospect. I’m not sure I can handle it.

  The song ends and “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” comes on.

  Something in the air changes. Lachlan tenses, slowly, as if he is just waking up. I hear his breath deepen and he swallows hard.

  Abruptly, he takes his arm away and gets to his feet, hulking over me.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him, moving back and out of his way as he steps around me and walks off down the bleachers. People raise their feet and move their bags to get out of his way, but he doesn’t even look at them, doesn’t even slow his heavy pace.

  I turn and look at Bram who is sitting on the other side of me. He’s frowning, watching him go.

  “What the hell was that?” I ask Bram.

  He just shakes his head. “I don’t know. He has moods.”

  “No shit,” I say, and I crane my neck to see if I can still see him. He’s barely visible, heading toward the gates that lead out of the VIP area. “I’ll go see.” I get to my feet.

  “Oy.” Bram reaches out and grabs my arm. “Just let him be. When he gets this way with me, I just ignore it.”

  Well maybe he needs someone to say something, I think to myself.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say, picking up my purse and heading across the bleachers, apologizing to the people who just had to clear a path for Lachlan. I quickly walk through the crowds lining up at the bars for last call, cursing my short legs for holding me back.

  I burst out of the VIP gates and into the rest of the crowd. A lot of people are already leaving the festival, trying to beat the mass exodus that will occur once Elton is done, and I’m panicking, not seeing him anywhere. It doesn’t help that it’s dark and few lights are on.

  Then I spot him, near the fence, heading with the crowd out the main gates. I fumble through people until I’m out on the main road and can see him heading down it. He’s going toward the ocean side, away from where most of the crowd is heading, and I remember that he doesn’t know this area at all.

  “Lachlan!” I call out, jogging after him.

  He doesn’t stop, just keeps walking, shoulders raised like he’s about to go on a rampage, and my mind is racing, trying to figure out what could be wrong.

  “Lachlan,” I say again, coming up behind him. “Hey.” I reach out and grab his arm. He comes to a dead stop and turns to face me, a weird raging darkness in his eyes that makes me let go.

  He takes a deep breath through his nose but doesn’t say anything. The wildness in his eyes says enough. From here, the sounds of the concert are muted and deep, and only a few people are walking past in drunken, weaving lines.

  “What happened?” I ask carefully.

  He shakes his head and looks away, shoulders back, chest out. “Nothing.”

  Feeling brave, I grab his hand and squeeze it. He stares down at it—his warm, large hand in my small, cold one—but doesn’t pull away.

  He swallows thickly. “Sorry,” he eventually says, his voice like sandpaper. “I…have moments.”

  “Don’t we all?” I say gently, staring up at him and wishing I could just crawl inside his brain and have a look around.

  He cocks his head, lips pursed together. “Not like mine.”

  I offer him a timid smile. I feel like a princess trying to calm a beast, every action made with care. “Try me.”

  He seems to think that over. Finally he says, “It was the song.”

  I blink at him. “Someone Saved My Life Tonight?”

  He scratches at his beard and looks away. “Yeah.”

  I squeeze his hand again and take a step toward him, feeling the heat of his personal space. “Did you save someone’s life?” I ask quietly.

  His eyes flit to mine, shining like green glass. A soft shake of his head. “No,” he says. He gives me a sour smile. “I didn’t.”

  I breathe in deeply and know better than to ask any more.

  There’s movement in the bushes behind us, and Lachlan twists around to look. I look around, expecting to see some drunk person emerge. But the bushes just shake and suddenly two dogs pop out.

  Both of them look skinny and mangy. One looks like a pit bull, which I admit makes me a bit scared, and the other is a scruffy mutt with long, matted hair. They look at us with frightened eyes and run off down the road and into the trees, the pit bull limping as he goes.

  Lachlan looks back at me. “I have to go,” he says.

  “Where?”

  He nods to where the dogs had gone. “There. The one dog is hurt.” He pulls out of my grasp and starts jogging down the road.

  I don’t know what to say. I watch him go and realize I have two choices—I can go back to the gang and finish the rest of the concert, even though it will probably be over by the time I get back.

  Or I can go after Lachlan, who not only seems to be going through something at the moment, but just ran off after two stray dogs.

  I take the more exciting option.


  CHAPTER NINE

  Kayla

  I run after Lachlan, my boots slapping the concrete with each step. Thankfully he looks over his shoulder and spots me. He comes to a stop, frowning.

  “I’m coming with you,” I tell him.

  “Really?” he asks, studying me. “I’m going after them. Through there.” He points into the woods at the tall eucalyptus and pine that stick up like blackened spears into the city-lit sky.

  “Then let’s go,” I tell him.

  He rubs his lips together, still watching me close. Then he shrugs, his eyes lighting up. “All right.”

  “All right.”

  He turns and starts jogging into the woods of Golden Gate Park and I’m hot on his trail. I pull out my phone, and even though the battery is low, I turn on the flashlight so I don’t eat shit. I know it doesn’t really help Lachlan see, and from the way he’s thundering forward over leaves and brush, I don’t think he needs it. If he’s a true beast, he can see in the dark.

  “I didn’t know you were such a dog lover,” I tell him, leaping over a fallen log. Then again, I don’t know a lot of things about him.

  “It’s what I do,” he says over his shoulder.

  “Like a hobby?” I ask, ducking under a branch.

  “Like a job,” he answers.

  I will my legs to lengthen their strides and try to keep up. “I thought you played rugby.”

  “A man should always do more than one thing,” he says, and suddenly we’re bolting out of the bushes and onto one of the many paths that crisscross the park. He stops and looks around, eyes scanning the darkness. The only light comes from the faded night sky and my flashlight, and I try not to shine it in his face.

  He exhales hard and looks at me. “I run an organization back in Edinburgh,” he explains. “I rescue dogs, pit bulls and other bully breeds, but I won’t turn down a stray, no matter the breed or the temperament.”

  I’m completely taken aback by this information. “You run a charity?”

  “Aye.” He nods, looking around him. “Been running it for a few years now, ever since I had the means and the money to do so.”