Reverb (13 page)

Chapter Seventeen

AVERY

Bryn Hughes asked me to go ice-skating with him.

Bryn Hughes.

Ice-skating.

I said yes, mainly because I think this could be the most hilarious thing I've seen in years.

So, on a dim and freezing Sunday evening, I'm at Canary Wharf looking through the crowds of people for a rock star. Even if he wanted to, Bryn couldn't be inconspicuous. People his height and build stand out; add in the too captivating looks and confident persona and he shines through the masses.

We agree to meet by the skate hire and Bryn's there, waiting, leaning forward, and watching the skaters nearby with interest. My heart does a tiny somersault and the giddy sick feeling in my stomach intensifies as I approach. The mountain of a man fills the space around him, and any doubts I've had about seeing him again are dragged away as I'm pulled toward him by the strange effect he has on me.

Bryn doesn't notice me at first, too busy smiling at the antics of a couple of teenage girls gripping each other and trying to stay upright. His curls are pushed beneath a beanie, flattened against his head and touching his collar. I've never dated a guy with long hair before. With Bryn, it softens him because despite being the proverbial gentle giant, Bryn with a crew cut would terrify small children.

“Evening, cariad,” he says as I approach.

“Hello.” I push my shaking hands in my thick, black coat pockets, hoping Bryn thinks my red cheeks are due to the icy wind.

“Looking good.”

Not as good as you. And, sweet Jesus, do not smile at me like that.
I break out in goose bumps, unable to forget the rough kiss he gave me with those amazing lips. I moisten mine and when Bryn raises an eyebrow I realise my eyes are telling the story running through my head. Nope, he won't believe the amount of red on my cheeks is the cold.

When I don't respond, he indicates the nearby skate hire. “I would've got yours too but I don't know what size your feet are.” He points to his ice-skates and I giggle. “What?”

“You in ice skates.”

“Well, I'm at an ice rink; I'd look a bit bloody stupid if I wasn't.”

“I know but…”

“Rock star? Don't pigeon hole me, Avery Paige.”

“Apologies, Bryn Hughes.”

A relaxed smile passes between us as my fears about meeting Bryn again ebb. He's right. He’s more than a rock star; he's a crazy guy with a weird sense of humour to match mine, who asked me on a date.

No, he's not. He's a bloody god.

At his name, a girl with thick blonde hair falling from beneath her big, blue woollen hat looks over her shoulder, then between us with a goggle-eyed expression, I'm beginning to recognise as one to expect when Bryn is around. She nudges and whispers to her friend.

“Get your skates on!” Bryn says. “We might need to beat a hasty retreat.” He tips his head at the girls behind. I head past him to collect my skates, apprehensive about the evening ahead; exactly how long will it be before I embarrass myself?

The venue is crowded, mostly with couples but a few families remain. The rink spreads into an icy pathway winding the perimeter beneath tall trees covered in fairy lights. I tentatively reach the edge of the rink and watch the children pushing penguin-shaped skating aids across the ice, debating whether I should've asked for one.

Bryn appears next to me, sharing my look of concern as we both hang onto the edge.

I giggle at the ridiculousness. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Probably ten years ago. You?”

“About the same.”

“We're a bit crazy doing this then?”

“Absolutely.” Bryn's grip remains on the side bar, lips pursed, and any last doubts I had that he was an ego driven, pretentious rock star fade. “Whoever stays upright the longest gets to choose the next date.”

“Next date?”

He flashes me a grin.

I chew my lip. Should I give up now rather than inevitably land on my backside in front of everybody? Bryn already knows my co-ordination is crap.

“Why did you suggest this?” I ask as I gingerly move along, hanging onto an edge.

“The same way I usually decide what to do: first thing that came into my head.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. So, could've been worse. I think I saw a movie once where the guy took the chick ice skating. I thought it must be romantic.”

I stop. “Romantic?”

Bryn bumps into me, steadying himself with a hand on my shoulder. “Don't you like romantic guys?”

“No, it's just I didn't think–”

“Oh. Friend-zoned.” His eyes glint in amusement. “Is that what you’ve come to tell me? One more date and we’re over? I really need to work on that kissing thing; it always puts you off.”

At this point, my words have floated across the ice somewhere because I can’t respond. What is he expecting me to say?

“All good,” he says. “I told you I’m probably not a good idea right now.”

My lack of vocabulary gives him the wrong answer and I want to smack myself. Hard. “Right.”

“But we can have fun?”

“Here? I expect so, but if I break my leg, I'll bloody kill you!”

“And if I break my arm, Steve will bloody kill me. One handed drumming on tour isn't going to work.”

We continue to teeter across the ice as confident skaters whisk past us, ice spraying in their wake. Surprisingly, I'm not as wobbly as I expected and I experiment with a few wider strokes.

Without realising, we've branched out, further across the ice as we skate slowly side by side. The cool air smarts my face, my long coat and matching gloves a sensible idea for the evening. Bryn's hands are bare but he's wrapped himself in a grey scarf and leather jacket. Of course, leather, the rock star is never far away.

“Too slow! The kids are overtaking us!” exclaims Bryn, as a couple of young boys pass at a speed I don't intend to try anytime soon, laughing at us.

Bryn grabs my gloved hand and skates away. I'm dragged behind, attempting to match his pace as he pulls us toward the path leading to the trees. I try to tug my hand away but he grips tighter.

“Bryn!”

“Keep going! You're less likely to fall then!”

We round the corner, along the narrow pathway beneath the white lights in the trees. My panic turns to a weird sense of enjoyment as he slows and keeps his hand in mine, matching my speed. Other couples skate by and I smile a little too smugly to myself when I compare my date with theirs.

Bad, Avery.

“Are you sure you haven't skated for ten years?” I ask.

“Yeah. I guess I'm a natural.” He winks.

“You've done this more recently than ten years ago!”

“Might've done…”

“That's not fair!” I attempt to drag my hand away in disgust but he keeps hold. “I'm surprised I haven't landed on my backside yet.”

“Me too, cariad. But don't worry, I'll catch you.”

I stop and move to the edge of the path; Bryn looks back at me and skates in a semi-circle to face me. “What's wrong?”

“It's weird you calling me that.”

“But you are a sweetheart.” He heads over and I scowl at him. “I mean it in a good way. I'm not trying to patronise you.”

How can I tell Bryn the way the word slips off his tongue is sexy as hell, in his strange mix of Welsh burr and American accent? There's no longer a teasing tone when he uses the name; it's natural as if the word is meant for me. What stings is the endearment was undoubtedly used on other girls before me.

“I could call you bach but I think you'd hate that more.”

“Or you could call me Avery.”

Bryn tips his head. “If you prefer.”

“Yes.”

“I'll try, but it's who you are to me.” He turns and skates away, leaving me confused beneath the trees.

I soak up the atmosphere; the shrieking and laughter carry through the evening and accompany the latest chart hits played around the rink, as the skaters share a night out of the ordinary, relaxed in the strange white world out of place in London's heartland. The tall towers of the Wharf loom above, into the clear sky shrouded with the orange dim of the city lights.

What's Bryn's motivation? Does he need somebody to talk to on the edge of his normal life? Or did the kiss mean something? Has he changed his mind?

I grit my teeth and set off in the direction Bryn went. That kiss remains with me much longer than it should.

I reach the end of the path and emerge back to the large rink, swept into the people circling like a whirlpool. Skating to keep up and so nobody smacks into me, I crane my head looking for Bryn. As I head to the edge of the rink, desperate to pull myself from an increasingly speedy roundabout of bodies, I cut diagonally in front of a family. The adults swerve out of my way but I collide with the penguin-aid the little boy is pushing and lose my footing. The heavy boots drag me to the floor and I sprawl, luckily at the edge of the rink away from sharp skate blades.

The mum mutters something at me and instead of checking if I'm okay, fusses over her kid who has carried on unperturbed, as I drag myself into a sitting position. Nobody looks twice, a common situation for the rink but my hip hurts where I landed roughly on the hard ice.

I scramble to stand again before Bryn sees me, but seconds later, he emerges from the crowd and skates to a halt in front of me.

“I can't take you anywhere!” he says with a shake of the head. “Attacking small children!”

“I didn't! He got in the way!”

“Hmm.” Bryn holds a hand out. “Are you okay?”

“I think I'm going to have an impressive bruise.”

He hauls me to my feet and I steady myself against him, placing a hand on Bryn's chest. As I wobble, his arm circles my waist, holding me upright. Despite the thick layers of clothing between us, the awareness of his touch fires heat into my cold extremities and I toy with the idea of holding onto him for longer than I need to.

“Where?” asks Bryn.

“Pardon?”

“Your bruise. On your arse?”

And with that, he breaks any illusion of romance.

“Great choice of word, Bryn.”

He ignores me. “But you're okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to go?”

I brush ice from my jeans. “No. I'm enjoying doing something I never thought I would when I got up this morning. I didn't think it would be, but this evening is refreshing. Different.” I move away from where we're still touching. “Let's go.”

Bryn catches my arm before I can leave, sliding me across the ice toward him. The intensity in his deep brown eyes matches that of the kiss on the sofa the other night. He tugs me to the edge of the rink and rests against the barrier. “Like you. You're refreshing. Different. I enjoy being with you.”

The iced white world around fades as the energy between us hums into the space nobody else occupies. Today was a crazy idea for a rock star; but with Bryn, this is normal, as if anything we did together would be natural because we're Bryn and Avery. There's confusion on Bryn's face, thoughts buried deeper than his words. We're Bryn and Avery on the surface, but we don't reach further below; there aren’t any roots pushing deeper and won't be while we both hold back.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Bryn takes hold of my coat collar and his mouth meets mine with the same urgency as the last kiss. My feet slide from under me and I sink into him, grasping his jacket arms. Bryn’s cool lips move against mine and when I respond to his kiss, he digs his fingers into my hair. This man kisses with a passion I haven't felt before; a raw intensity where he holds nothing back. People don't kiss like he does in public, or they shouldn't with children around.

Bryn releases my hair and drags me into his hips, continuing his exploration of my mouth with his tongue. He tastes of mint, and of Bryn.

Three kisses and Bryn Hughes tastes as if he's mine.

My feet slide apart again as I lose balance through lack of concentration; and I'm pulled out of the moment, back to a reality that could hit me on the backside again at any second.

“Bryn!” I breathe as my mouth slips from his. How can anybody balance on ice-skates and kiss like that at the same time?

Bryn loosens his grip and I steady myself on the barrier. The scratch from his stubble joins the cold of the evening in smarting my face and I touch my cheek as I look back at him.

“I think I like you a bit too much, cariad.” Bryn runs his tongue along his bottom lip.

Breathe, Avery
.

“I think the rest of Canary Wharf now knows you like me too,” I reply breathlessly.

Bryn doesn't look around, and drags me closer. “And?”

“Somebody could take your picture.”

He nudges my neck with his cold nose. “Nobody cares, I'm the drummer, remember?”

His warm breath against my skin contrasts the cold and I shiver as he gently places his lips on my pulse point. Relieved we're in public, and nothing else can happen, I wriggle from Bryn's grasp and take his hand.