The Sound of Us

Chapter Two. “Sound of Your Voice” by Port Cities

CHAPTER TWO

“Sound of Your Voice” by Port Cities

SKYE

Have you ever heard a voice that takes your breath away? I’m talking that deep, heart-melting bass with the low C talent from musical greats like Johnny Cash, Leonard Cohen, and Jim Morrison—a voice that makes the most mundane words sound rich beyond imagining. Silken and sensuous, distinctly seductive, the first time I heard his voice, it vibrated deep into my body and bones.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” I looked up, my voice trailing off as I fell into the most intense dark eyes I’d ever seen. For a moment I thought Jeff Buckley had come back from the grave to rip my heart out with his haunting cover of “Hallelujah” all over again. The man holding out his hand to me was quite simply my fantasy come to life.

He had features a sculptor would love: angular jaw, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. A vintage The Cure T-shirt molded over a body that radiated raw, lean power, the short sleeves revealing chiseled arms covered in ink. His black Levi’s sat low on his hips, held in place by a brown leather belt that matched his Red Wing Heritage Blacksmiths. The way he moved when he held out his hand screamed street-level royalty—the hot dude at the party you would never approach in case you stutter or stammer or stare at your shoes.

“Let me help you up.” His warm hand engulfed mine and he pulled me up in one smooth, easy motion, his forearm rippling beneath the ink. Liquid heat flooded my veins, and my body came alive with the most primal of hunger.

He helped Isla to her feet, and she shot me a worried look. “Are you okay?”

“Uh…” I nodded, unable to take my eyes off the pure, exquisite masculinity in front of me.

With a snort of laughter, Isla picked up her vape and went to join Scott, who had just walked out into the alley.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” My rescuer’s voice moved through my body like the beat of a song as he brushed messy strands of his dark brown hair out of his face.

“I’m…” Bewitched, bewildered, entranced. I was a down-to-earth, practical person who preferred facts to fiction, reality to fantasy. Never in my life had I met a man who so utterly and completely overwhelmed all my senses.

His lips quirked at the corners, drawing my attention to his soft mouth and straight white teeth. “‘Eye of the Tiger’? ‘Eye in the Sky’? ‘Eye Know’?”

Did he just name “eye” song titles?

“You forgot ‘Eyes of A Stranger,’ ‘Eyes Without a Face,’ ‘Eye,’ and ‘Eyes on You.’” The words came out before I could stop them, my competitive streak tweaked by his music-based query.

“She knows her music.” A grin spread across his face, taking him from beautiful to breathtaking in a heartbeat.

“So does he.” I held out my hand. “I’m Skye.”

“Dante.” His warm palm pressed against mine, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

“Are you going to include any ‘eye’ songs in the playlist you’re making in your head tonight?” he asked.

I vaguely remembered mentioning the playlist to Isla when we’d walked into the alley. “You were listening to a private conversation.”

“That you were having right outside my van,” he interjected. “I couldn’t leave without disturbing you, so I was effectively trapped inside with nothing to do but listen.”

“If you found yourself inadvertently listening to a private conversation, you should have made some noise, covered your ears, or, here’s a thought…” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my tone. “You could have come out of the van, let us know we were disturbing you, and we would have gone back inside.”

“But then I wouldn’t have heard about the guy with the Boner playlist.” Dante’s voice rippled with laughter. “I wouldn’t have known that your tremendous leap for your friend’s vape was the result of being a basketball player, and not some kind of secret superhero skill.”

My lips quirked at the corners. “How do you know I’m not a superhero?”

“My bad.” He held up his hands, palms forward. His fingers were long, slim, and calloused. Musician’s hands. “I must have missed the cape.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?” My eyes followed the rugged contours of his face, the line of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. Big mistake. I could feel my face flush hot, my cheeks burning like I’d spent a day in the sun.

A grin lit his face. “If I really wanted to apologize, I’d send you a playlist of carefully curated songs.”

A sliver of pain shot up my leg, warning me I’d been standing still too long, but damned if I was going to walk away when things were getting interesting.

“What would be on this apology playlist?” Creating a playlist is both an art and a form of personal expression. My playlists are inspired by an emotion, an event, or a moment in time. I build on the feeling with songs that not only flow together but whose titles and lyrics express a cohesive story. I desperately wanted to know the stories his playlists would tell.

Dante’s eyes glittered with amusement, and he pulled out his phone, scrolling until he landed on something that made his lips quiver. “Which one?”

“Which one?” My voice rose in pitch. “Do you make a habit of pissing people off?”

“I like to be prepared,” he said.

“For eavesdropping on private conversations?”

“For riling up a beautiful woman.”

My mouth opened and closed again. I’d given up on feeling beautiful a long time ago, and especially after the accident that left my body covered in scars. “You’re dragging this out,” I said. “First song. And if you even mention Adele, I’m out of here.”

His lips twisted in a grin. “‘Wrecking Ball.’”

Laughter bubbled up in my chest and came out with an inelegant snort. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“That’s not really an apology. It’s a song about regret.”

“I regret overhearing your conversation,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “But if you really need to hear the words, I can change it to the ‘Apology Song’ by The Decemberists.”

“That’s about a bicycle.” My cheeks were sore, and it took me a moment to realize that I hadn’t stopped smiling since we met. I looked around for Isla to share the joy, but she was deep in a conversation with Scott.

“He was very sorry he lost it.” Dante tipped his head to the side and gave me a teasing smile. “It’s not easy to find apology songs that don’t deal with heartbreak.”

“What else is on your non-apology playlist?” I wanted to know every song. I wanted our conversation to go on until I could figure out why, for the first time in forever, I felt a lightness in my soul.

“‘A Little Bit Me, A Little Bit You.’”

“The Monkees?” I liked that his musical tastes varied wildly, so much like mine. “I am not to blame. You were the eavesdropper.”

“How about Chicago’s ‘Hard to Say I’m Sorry’? he offered. “Demi Lovato’s ‘Sorry Not Sorry’?”

“I’ll take your pathetic and unsophisticated apology playlist and raise you Madonna’s ‘Sorry’ and OneRepublic’s ‘Apologize.’” My heart pounded, and I felt a rush of adrenaline like it was Christmas and my birthday and the day I’d been accepted to Havencrest’s prestigious journalism program on a full-ride basketball scholarship all at once.

He staggered back in mock horror. “You reject my apology?”

I smiled. He smiled. Where had he come from? This man who spoke my language in a world I no longer understood.

We spent the next five minutes trying to outdo each other with obscure songs or silly lyrics. He knew more classic rock. I knew pop. He beat me in hardcore but couldn’t match my love of jazz. I was vaguely aware of his bandmates behind me, climbing in and out of the van to unload their gear.

“Where does Angerfist feature?” Amusement laced his voice as his smoldering eyes danced over me. “Dutch hardcore or hardstyle beats don’t really seem to be your vibe.”

“It doesn’t feature. I was trying to put out a ‘I’m not into you’ vibe for a guy who…” I glanced over again at Isla and Scott, lowering my voice so they couldn’t overhear us. “Wasn’t really my type.”

“What is your type?”

“Someone who doesn’t have Hudson Mohawke’s ‘Cbat’ on repeat as their number one song on their Boner playlist.”

Dante threw back his head and laughed. “That doesn’t really tell me anything except that you like a little variety with your sex.”

Burn, cheeks, burn. “A track full of disjointed beats and a repeated sample of squawking is not particularly romantic.”

“So, it’s romance you want.” His eyes dropped to my mouth, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss those soft lips. “Is that the theme of tonight’s playlist?”

“I don’t want anything,” I said, turning away. Music, I could handle, but not the direction of the conversation. “My theme was about escape. I haven’t been to a bar for a long time, and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed.”

“First song?”

I could have just walked away in that moment instead of giving this stranger a glimpse into my soul, but he had me under some kind of spell. Not everyone understood the rules of creating the perfect playlist. Nothing is more important than the first song. It establishes the mood or theme and gives a hint of what’s coming next.

“Rusted Root’s ‘Send Me on My Way,’” I blurted out, and then, since I’d broken my own rule about sharing, I let it all go. “Then I was playing around with G Flip’s ‘GET ME OUTTA HERE,’ Dobie Gray’s ‘Drift Away’—the original and not a cover—The Lost Patrol Band’s ‘Going Going Going Gone,’ and Kanye West’s ‘Runaway.’ Sometimes you just need that literal meaning when you’re feeling something big. I try to capture the mood in the moment before it’s gone.”

“That’s what I like about Paul Simon,” Dante said. “He’s one of my favorite songwriters of all time. You always know what he’s talking about. When he says, ‘A man walks down the street,’ he’s just telling a story, and you don’t have to get into heated debates or analyze the meaning of each word. It’s the kind of music that really resonates with me.”

“Like Cat Stevens and Harry Nilsson,” I offered.

“Exactly.”

We stared at each other in a comfortable shared silence, the sense of being separate together almost as seductive as his sexy smile. I’d never been so attracted to someone’s mind that I wanted to give it space. I’d never connected with someone in a way language could not express.

When he finally spoke, my heart skipped a little beat. “What song are you listening to right now?”

I pressed my lips together to stop myself from smiling. I always had a song. My mind wrote my soundtrack as I lived my life.

“Is that your equivalent of a pickup line?”

“Do you want it to be?” His words shimmered in the air between us, sending a rush of white-hot heat through my veins.

Yes. No. I don’t know. On the surface, Dante was the kind of guy I fantasized about but could only watch from a distance. Too cool. Too hip. Too unpredictable for someone like me who had spent their whole life trying to avoid rejection. But underneath…

“Coming through,” a man said behind me.

I startled, moving a second too late. Something hard and heavy hit me from behind and I stumbled forward. Dante moved unbelievably fast, catching me and pulling me into his chest.

Our eyes met. Locked. Gold flecks glittered in the midnight depths of his gaze, and he palmed the dip in my waist, drawing me closer. We’d barely acknowledged the hum of electricity between us, the sexual tension that had kept us in the alley when we both had other places to be.

“I should get going,” I said. “You’re on stage soon.”

“I’ve got time.” Neither of us moved. After twenty minutes of easy conversation, we’d run out of things to say. But I knew what I felt. Desire. Raw and soul deep.

I don’t know what came over me in that moment. Maybe part of me feared I wouldn’t make the roster and I’d never see him again. Or maybe for a brief time he’d made me feel alive. I’d never been the kind of woman who made the first move. But then I’d never met anyone like Dante before.

“Skye…?” he whispered like he knew my thoughts, like he could see into my heart. His breath brushed over my lips, sending a flush of heat through my veins that made my body tremble.

I reached up and pulled him down to me, and anything else he had to say was lost the moment our mouths pressed together.

Some great song intros are long and complex, but in Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” three simple notes let you know you’re about to be treated to five minutes of soul-deep sensuality. Dante’s kiss moved through me like the rhythm of that song. I melted against him, slowly unraveling as he eased my lips apart. His tongue glided along mine, sending a wave of heat rippling over my skin. I knotted my fists in his shirt and pulled him closer. He groaned low and deep in his throat, and then his arms wrapped around me, and for a moment we were one body, not two.

“Dude.” The voice behind us was laced with irritation. “Break it up. I need to switch out this amp and we’re on in twenty.”

Dante froze and pulled away, breaking the spell. For the briefest of moments, I’d forgotten we weren’t alone in the darkness, that I wasn’t the kind of woman who kissed strangers in dark alleys, that I might very well be leaving and wouldn’t be back.

A gust of cold air blew through the alley, and I gave an involuntary shiver. Dante’s gaze dropped to my arms.

“You’re cold.”

“I’ll be fine once I get back inside.”

“Wait here.” He disappeared into the van and returned a few moments later with an oversize black hoodie. It had a stylized bonfire on the front with the words Dante’s Inferno written across it.

I traced over the embroidered lettering. “It’s got a retro look. I like it.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something. Instead, he held out the hoodie, his voice quiet, controlled. “Hands up.”

Without giving it much thought, I obediently raised my arms. Dante carefully pulled the hoodie over my head, blanketing me in warmth, his voice dropping to a sensual rumble. “Good girl.”

My brain short-circuited, my face heating to what felt like one thousand degrees, and an unexpected wave of desire pulsed through my veins.

If only he knew.

I’d spent my entire life trying to be a good girl. I’d put aside my love of music and my interest in journalism to join the school basketball team so my father, a former NBA player, could live his dream of playing professionally through me. But it was never enough. I was never enough. I’d never thought that my deepest darkest self might harbor a secret craving. A need that might manifest itself as a rush of white-hot heat, a fire kindled by praise that flamed and licked and begged for more.

Dante tugged the sweatshirt over my head and gently pulled my hair free while I studied the worn, brown leather of his boots. My heart pounded, my traitorous body trembling. I tried to smooth my expression so he wouldn’t know he’d pushed a button I didn’t even know I had.

When I finally looked up, our gazes met, locked with an intensity that made it difficult to swallow.

“Skye…”

I felt everything in that one word… how much he wanted me, how badly I wanted him, how deep he saw inside me. It scared the hell out of me.

“Dante!” the same dude shouted from the open doorway. “You’ve been working that bitch up for over half an hour. Save the groupies for after the show. Christ, how many times are you gonna make us set up without you while you hit up some chick? It’s not fair, bruh. We all want to get laid.”

How many times?

Dante’s face hardened. “Shut the fuck up, Quinn.”

The guy who walked into the alley had a broad, craggy face, straight black hair that hid his eyes, and a thick, muscular body. He smirked knowingly as his gaze slid to me. “You’ve got ten minutes to give him what he’s after, honey, or you’re gonna have to wait until after the show like all the other girlies he’s got lined up for tonight.”

I felt a pain in my chest and had to fight back the overwhelming urge to turn and run. Even with my clothes on, I felt naked in the alley, on display for everyone to see.

Idiot. I should have known. Guys that gorgeous thought they could have anyone they wanted. This had been a game to him, and I didn’t want to play anymore.

“Iz,” I called out. “We need to get going.”

Isla took one look at me and turned off her vape. She exchanged numbers with Scott and caught up with me by the door.

“If you want to stay…” I began.

“We came together. We leave together,” she said. “Also, you look like someone ripped out your heart. I’m not about to let you go home alone.”

I couldn’t have loved her more.

We made our way back into the bar and wove our way through the crowd. The band had set up and the drummer tapped out a slow beat on stage.

“Well?” Isla asked as she pushed open the front door. “What happened with your hottie?”

“For a few minutes there, I thought he was… special. Different. Or maybe the same. We had a lot in common.”

She put an arm around my shoulder and gave me a sympathetic squeeze. “At least you’ve got a good story to tell. ‘Isla dragged me to Steamworks for a good time, but all I got was this lousy sweatshirt.’”

I touched the logo embroidered across my chest. Despite the fact I’d misread our encounter, the memory of what could have been was woven into the threads that spelled out his name.

I thought he’d seen me—the real me. But there was no “me” to be seen.

It was the story of my life all over again.