Deeper Than Dreams (4 page)

Her fingers danced along a section of my curls, separating them from the pack and pulling them poker-straight between the tongs of the flat iron. A hiss of steam escaped.

“Your brother. Rocks. My fucking world.”

I waited for her to throw out some sort of glass-half-empty statement about him living on the wrong coast, but it didn't come. “So glad to hear that, Lizzie!” Unable to bounce up out of my seat and hug her, I just grinned to myself. I felt her happiness radiate above me as she held my head steady and straightened another section.

Adrian kept us company, distractedly thumbing through the reviews. “‘Shockingly potent' . . .” he quoted, “. . . ‘impossibly flawless,' ‘rollicking, galloping guitar-play . . .'” He tossed down one rag and laughed. “They make us sound like bloody Clydesdales!”

Kevin couldn't resist leaving his post in the kitchen to come hear his idol wax poetic on the concert reviews . . . or tossing in his own adoring two cents. “Dude, like . . . when you guys busted out with ‘Plunder and Pillage,' I was as happy as a little kid with a birthday party at Medieval Times, man. So righteous!”

His fanboy fanfare had me laughing to the point that Liz had to stop working, for fear of burning my head as it bobbed with unbridled hysteria. She turned the threat of the tongs on Kev, to keep him from delivering his customary sibling knuckle punch to my arm in retaliation.

“I loved that you guys threw down that old school Judas Priest cover, too.”

“Ah, ‘United' wasn't planned; I had just teased the lick a few times during the course of the show, which prompted Riff to channel his inner Rob Halford.” Adrian chuckled. “Then Sam and Jim just followed our lead.”

As had the twenty thousand faithful. The sound of forty thousand feet, marching to the beat, had been jaw-dropping. I had no doubt the crowd, like little leather-clad lemmings, would've followed the band outside and marched right into the East River, had they been given the command.

“What's it feel like to have the world in the palm of your hand?” Liz asked; her eyes a glossy moss green as she blinked them in Adrian's direction. Funny, this coming from the girl who wouldn't trust him as far as she could kick him six months ago. I know she'd been doing her best to protect me, and to lock up her own jaded heart from further hurt at the time.

Adrian narrowed his gaze to the pages in front of him, biting a smile back. “Madison Square Garden is hardly the world.”

That's when I heard it. Not the weary modesty I was expecting, that normally came with talk of his band's once-upon-a-time world domination. No, there was a spark of something else in his scoff.
Like he'd just gotten the taste of a really good drug . . . again? And wanted more?
my brain suggested, but my heart sent a pounding summons for it to cease and desist in
that line of thinking.

“Ah, listen to this one.” He was holding up the
Muse
, unable to wait until after lunch, after all. “‘Whatever deal Corroded Corpse made with the Devil years ago, it's clear the debt has been paid, and the Rotten Graves Project are worshipping kinder, gentler deities now. But don't let their age and smiles fool you. Digger Graves and Riff Rotten are still lean, mean, well-oiled rock and roll machines, and they completely decimated Manhattan last night.' Not bad, eh?”

His eyes scanned the rest of the article, before coming back up to the byline. “Alexander Floyd strikes again.”

My ears pricked up at the name. The same rock journalist had written the article that had given me the final clues in my research quest to find Rick. And somewhere in the house, there was an entire book he'd penned on “the truth and turbulent times of Corroded Corpse,” according to the subtitle. Adrian had called
Godforsaken
“unofficial, unauthorized, wildly inaccurate accounts published purely for monetary or shock value,” but everything I had read by Alexander Floyd rang fairly true so far.

“He's everywhere, isn't he?” I ventured.

Adrian ruffled the pages of the magazine. “He was there when we exploded onto the scene, and he was there when we imploded as well. And he's tried to sniff out every bone locked away in our closets of skeletons ever since. I believe we're some sort of pet project with him.”

Thinking back to our game of Truth or Dare over the Memorial Day bonfire, and Adrian's humbling confession of the one person, alive or dead, he would like to meet and why, I realized I would like to get myself in a room alone with Mr. Alexander Floyd, somehow, somewhere, to pick his brain. And perhaps get his prediction on what would be next for the most important man in my life, and his band.

“Hot damn, girl. Look at how long your hair is,” Liz exclaimed. She offered me her handheld mirror and stood back. I took a look, to the left and to the right, at the silken caramel curtain that now framed my face. Normally my curly hair fell slightly past my shoulders, but straightened, I felt it rustle at the middle of my back.

Adrian was absolutely transfixed, the concert reviews forgotten. “Cripes, Kat.”

“You like?” I asked, sending a swish over my shoulder in one sexy move.

“I . . . I . . .”

If Abbey were here, she'd say he was gobsmacked.

“He can't talk right now,” Liz reported happily. “All the blood is rushing out of his brain and headed south.”

“I adore you”—Adrian defied her claim, and his cheeks were a ruddy British red to prove it— “however you choose to look. But I must say, you look smoking hot right now. Especially whilst wearing my rock shirt.”

I glanced down at his Dead Can Dream shirt and grinned. It was just a boxy black band tee. Liz grabbed a hunk of excess fabric at my waist and cinched it with a ponytail holder, allowing my feminine silhouette to shine through. Adrian swallowed noticeably and stood up, rubbing his hands on his dark denim-clad thighs.

“I'm going to go check on Kev's progress with lunch,” Liz said pointedly. She raised a finger in Adrian's direction.
“Don't mess her hair up.”

I laughed as he captured my arms to inspect me at closer range. “If I'd known the effect it would have on you, I would've done it a lot sooner.”

“No, no. No need,” he murmured. “I love winding your curls around my fingers. I love that they match Abbey's. This is nice, though, for tonight.” He dipped his hand in, cradling the back of my head, then let the strands flow through his fingers like a waterfall. His other hand claimed my waist and slid up, tracing the outline of the band's logo where it curved along my chest.

“I was a dead man,” he said, swallowing hard, watching his fingers move along the
D
. “I never dreamed you'd come along.”

The kisses he dropped on my lips were featherlight compared to the deep, drenching ones delivered over my shoulder in the shower earlier, but just as potent.

“Chow! Now!” Kev hollered.

“I don't think your brother approves of me.”

“Correction,” I laughed, laying my hands on his cheeks, “he doesn't approve of me bursting his scuzzy teenage fantasy like it was a big, fat zit. The rock gods he worships are supposed to bag the hot chicks, so he, too, will bag the hot chicks in some sort of divine karmic reward for being a devoted follower. But if the rock god ends up with his sister . . . he goes straight to hell.”

Adrian laughed all the way to the dining room. There was the mammoth table, set cozily for two with place mats kitty-corner. I had to bite back a smile, remembering how I had suggested an alternate use for the dining furniture earlier in the day.

Liz pulled my hair back with a clip like I was Sadie, her childhood cocker spaniel, always in danger of dragging her ears through her food dish. “Just in case,” she said. “And I want to run the curling iron through and add some glam waves to it after you eat.”

“Spa lunch is served.” There was pride in my brother's voice as he plated huge salads for each of us, bursting with crisp, colorful vegetables and what looked like perfectly seared salmon on top. He had even made spiced walnuts for garnish. Roasted butternut squash soup accompanied the perfect fall meal.

“Kev, you just whipped all of this together?” I marveled.

“Liz and I did some of the prep work at her place. But had I known there was such a stellar kitchen waiting for me . . . I woulda camped out in there all night!”

“You're giving me a complex, Underwood.” Liz gave him a push. “Anywhere else you would've rather been besides my apartment last night?”

Liz had had some crap hands dealt to her over the years in the game of love. She'd learned to approach the table with a poker face, and she hedged her bets carefully. I could tell this was a heavy wager.

Kev scrubbed a hand over his white-blond spikes and grinned apologetically. Quicker than you could say “in the doghouse,” he replied, “As long as you're with me? I don't care where I am.”

I saw the miniscule twitch of my good friend's lips before it ignited a full-blown smile. I mentally congratulated my brother . . . good to know he had some aces up his sleeve, and he wasn't afraid to use them.

“Come, sit. Eat with us,” Adrian urged. The two didn't need to be told twice. Liz ladled soup, Kevin tonged salad, and pretty soon they were eating off each other's plates like newlyweds.

“I see you are serving healthier amounts these days,” I ribbed. Back home in Portland, my brother doled out the best Lilliputian-sized fare around. And his restaurant's name, BITE ME, was his perfect retort to anyone who criticized his portion control. His concept was perfect for someone like me, who hated to choose. I could sample the whole menu and still have room for dessert.

“Ha, you sound like Dad. He called it ‘stingy rations' when they visited in July.” Chelsea gave a pitiful cry at his feet. “Come 'ere, Kitty Cat. I have some salmon in the kitchen for you.”

“Let's not get her in the habit, Kev.”

“Speaking of which, I was hoping to hear ‘Habit' last night. And no ‘Simone'? What was up with that?”

Adrian's eyes met mine above our soup bowls. For all Kevin knew about his beloved band, there was still so much he didn't know, and might never know. Especially when it came to Simone. Rick wasn't ready to let the world pry into his loss just yet. And the fragile footing he and Adrian had established in their friendship didn't need the added strain of sore feelings, where “Simone” was concerned. Besides the band and their ex-manager, I might've been the only other person privy to the identity of its chief songwriter.

Adrian cleared his throat.

“What'd you think of the new song, Kev?”

“What did
I
think?” My brother was clearly thrilled to be asked. “Balls out, just about the best thing I've heard in a decade! Heavy, melodic . . . it had it all. Loved the guitar solo in the beginning.”

“I'm all about new beginnings, mate.” Adrian's legs twined with mine under the table, and his smile warmed me like the morning sun over Central Park had this morning in his bed.

Arise and drink your bliss!

The trill of the doorbell startled the soup right off my spoon. No intercom or Batphone preceding it indicated another tenant within the building had come to call. Adrian played footsie, his bare foot caressing my ankle, and made no move to get the door.

“Liz, would you mind getting that?”

She rose, slow and unsure, but assented. “No problem.”

I watched her back. Kev watched her backside. Adrian's attention was back to his meal.

A shriek pierced the high-ceilinged foyer.

***

“Mindy Carmichael! Through your peephole!” Liz clutched her chest and reported back to us, like she was playing a jacked-up game of I Spy
.
“Even through a fisheye lens, she's gorgeous,” she huffed, leaning against the wall.

“Mindy Carmichael,” Kev mulled the name over. “Sounds familiar. Porn star?”

“Even better,” I answered. “Reality TV star.” Mindy Carmichael was part of the team who performed some serious magic on Liz's favorite show,
Makeover Manipulators
. How on earth did she know Adrian?

I had a feeling she wasn't here to borrow a cup of sugar.

“Well, don't just leave her standing in the hall!” Adrian rose to remedy the situation.

“Oops! Sorry,” Liz peeped. She trailed behind him, and Kev and I brought up the rear.

“Hey, stud!” Mindy was into the apartment with a breeze of perfume that smelled like summer air. As Liz had reported, gorgeous. And I would go one step further to even say luminous. Her heart-shaped face boasted eyes shining with inner joy. Each blue-black curl cascading down her back was perfectly formed and frizz-free. The dress she wore was Goddess-worthy, clinging and flowing as she glided in. “Terrific show last night.”

“Thanks, luv. Come, meet my friends. This is Liz . . .” Liz gave a miniscule wave and I thought she looked ready to curtsy . . . or pass out. “. . . and Kevin . . .”

“You're . . . you're a Corpse fan?” My brother was captivated. After years of online chatting with other like-minded metal aficionados, the majority of whom were male and closing in on middle age, he didn't know how to take the creature before him. Had she even been born when the band formed?

“I'm no poser. My dad played their records all the time when I was little. There was no way we'd miss the opportunity to finally see a show together . . . and my favorite neighbor.” Mindy grinned tiny pearls in Adrian's direction. “Oh my,” she breathed. “This must be Kat.” Everyone stepped away, and I felt exposed. “You weren't kidding about those eyes, Adrian. Emerald City!”

She clasped my hands in hers and said earnestly, “We are going to have so much fun.”

Makeup hadn't been fun for me since the sixth grade, back when Marissa used to steal teal eye shadow from Colby's Five and Dime. We'd apply it way more liberally than necessary and vie for spots in the bathroom mirror to marvel over our transformation. After that, makeup became just another weapon in the teenage arsenal. Tucked into our Bermuda bags, right next to the emergency tampon and the Velamints.