Page 68 of Filthy Rock Stars
Somehow, I know he’s peeking out the windows while he talks. “All clear. Why?”
“Maybe we should hide out there.”
He laughs like it’s a joke but quickly catches himself. “Really?”
“Unless you’re keeping another secret identity from me.”
“I always store my superhero costume somewhere secure. You won’t find it.”
I grin. “Good. I’ll be over soon. I want to hear about the climate rally.”
“I already told you.”
“You told me on the phone. I want to hear about it in person.”
“Sweet-talker,” he teases. “See you soon.”
There will probably be some superfans and over-eager reporters converging on the lobby soon, so I don’t waste any time. I grab a few essentials, sneak out the freight elevator with my helmet on, and cruise into the warm day.
We’re still in limbo with the bands. Kissing Dirt didn’t immediately kick Nico out, so that’s something. But now we’re stuck in this familiar but weird place, everything fraught.
Even when it’s just us, the problems are still there. Nico tells me about the band. We talk about music, him showing me all this strange, obscure keyboard stuff he listens to, me guiding him through my own version of rock history. I give him industry advice, tell him stories, but the whole time, he has to dance around his band’s privacy.
I’m not a safe person to share with, not totally.
Just when we’re finally getting to know each other. Right when I think the secrets are over, when I can actually visit his damn home, another barrier rises up.
I’d go bankrupt and break every contract in the world to tear those walls down.
The way I want him hurts. It’s a blazing furnace, shaking my screws loose, red hot with the need to touch him.
But even when my fingers press to his soft skin, even when I taste him on my lips, I can’t really have him. He has to guard himself from me, but I should be the one keeping him safe.
How the fuck am I going to keep him safe?
The thought quakes through me as I walk through his apartment building, helmet on. No one spots me on the way in, and after Nico hurries me into his place, he takes me in a deep, long kiss.
“Whoa. This is your home.”
Nico spins around, gesturing. He’s wearing one of the new dress shirts I got him, sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone. “This is my place,” he says. “It’s not much. But there’s ample reading material at hand, and the room service has a personal touch.”
My eyes trail across the bookshelves. Each one is different from the next. They must have come from a thrift store or something. But all four are huge, big enough to cover the wall and filled with neatly arranged books.
“You’ve read all of these?”
He laughs. “Not exactly. But most of them! I use old novels as inspiration for my space opera—”
“I remember.” I kick off my boots and walk over to the shelves. “You need a name for it, by the way. Your space opera.”
Nico joins me as I scan the titles. “Funny you should mention it. I was thinking the same thing a couple of days ago. Case suggestedThe Star After Forever, you know, like that one song? But Mare said…” He trails off and turns his eyes to the bookshelves. “Anyway, I’m still deciding. Titles are hard!”
There it is again. The wall that means we have to keep secrets from each other. He starts talking about Mare and stops himself. It stings, but mainly, I want to make sure Nico doesn’t feel bad about it, so I force a smile and ask him about something I know he is comfortable sharing, his experience on stage. “The climate rally kicked ass?” I ask as I pull a book out to examine. “You loved playing live?”
“It’s the applause,” he says, excited. “I don’t know how to explain. I love performing. There’s this energy feedback loop, just like you described it. But I wasn’t prepared for how good the applause would feel.” He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“It’s a climate rally. It’s not about me!”