The Sound of Us

Chapter Four. “Can I Call You Tonight” by Dayglow

CHAPTER FOUR

“Can I Call You Tonight” by Dayglow

SKYE

“You don’t look totally wrecked this morning,” Isla said when I walked into the kitchen Monday morning. She’d decorated the small space with brightly colored accents and added a vintage table and chairs to give it a cozy feel.

“Is that meant to be a compliment?” I hadn’t been able to sleep properly since the accident. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in the car, pinned by twisted metal with my father lifeless beside me.

“Considering the dark circles I usually see under your eyes, that would be a yes,” she said. “That’s a good sign for your tryout today.”

“How was your night?” Scott had come over after his shift, somewhere close to midnight, but Isla was alone at the counter, which meant she’d kicked him out at sunrise.

“Nothing to write home about. He put on the Boner playlist. You were right that it was a play on ‘Bone-her.’ He needed Mohawke’s ‘Cbat’ to get his game on, and I don’t think anything has turned me off more. Who wants to have sex to the sound of a squeaky door? I couldn’t get him out of here fast enough.”

Isla wasn’t one for sentiment. She didn’t like long mornings in bed or lingering hugs, and nothing disgusted her more than people wandering around in their pajamas after 8:00 A.M. She hadn’t been that way when we’d first started living together in residence. But a few months into our first year when she was alone in our room, someone broke in and sexually assaulted her. Isla hadn’t been able to see her assailant in the dark, so without a description, the police were unable to find him. The university managed to hush it up, paying Isla a nominal amount of money in exchange for her silence on the outrageous basis that she bore some responsibility for leaving the door unlocked.

It was a year before Isla felt comfortable enough to be alone with a man, and then only in her own apartment and only when her roommate was in the next room. Her hookups were never allowed to stay the night, and relationships were strictly off the table.

I grabbed a bagel and popped open a protein shake. Isla was a grazer and didn’t like to waste time cooking, but I needed regular meals when I was training to keep up my energy.

“I can’t imagine you’d write home about any of your hookups,” I said, checking my messages. Isla’s family was very religious. They assumed she was still praying every night before bed, going to church on Sunday, and avoiding temptation. They couldn’t have been more wrong.

“This is true.” She grinned, sliding a clip into her hair to hold back the mass of curls. “They still think I’m going to marry the preacher’s son.” She waved a hand over her crop top then down over her very mini mini-shorts. “Do I look like I was made to be a preacher’s wife?”

“Maybe a very progressive preacher?” I slathered peanut butter on my bagel and added a few slices of banana.

“No such thing.”

While Isla filled her lunch bag, I responded to the good luck messages from my mom and little brother. Jonah was a miracle child. My parents had adopted me after being told they couldn’t have children, but four years later Jonah was born. My father had been overjoyed, but his dreams of having Jonah follow in his footsteps were quickly dashed when Jonah was diagnosed with a heart condition that prevented him from participating in competitive and contact sports. My father channeled his disappointment by turning up the pressure on me, and the first few years of Jonah’s life were some of the most difficult of my childhood.

“Jonah says hello,” I said after we’d packed up. “You made a huge impression when you came to visit in summer. He still thinks you’re the coolest person he’s ever met.”

“He’s a great kid and very intelligent for a ten-year-old.” Isla preened in the mirror before closing the door. “I am pretty cool.”

After we were done, we walked through the building and onto the street. Isla, being Isla, had managed to find an apartment only a few blocks from campus in a leafy student-oriented area of the city. It was real estate gold, and I still couldn’t believe she’d managed to get it.

“You’re very quiet,” she said. “You haven’t hummed a single song since you got up. I think that’s a record. Are you nervous about the tryout this afternoon?”

“I’ve just got so much riding on this…”

“You’re going to kick ass,” she assured me. “They’re going to offer you a place back on the team. I feel it in my bones.”

“And if they don’t?”

“In the unlikely event that happens, we’ll go to the financial aid office and apply for every single scholarship we can find,” she said firmly. “I’ll also hit up the editor of the Havencrest alumni magazine to see if he has some freelance work. I just hope he’s managed to get over our spectacular breakup.” She stopped at the corner where our paths diverged. Most of her classes were on the opposite side of the campus to mine. “It involved a pitcher of margaritas being poured over someone’s head.”

“Not yours I hope.”

“Of course not.” She patted her curls. “No one would dare ruin this hair.”

I was ten minutes from the end of my shift at the Buttercup Bakery Café in the main library when my injured leg began to ache—an irritating response to the cooling weather. It was our busiest time of day so asking for a break wasn’t an option. I mentally chided myself for not keeping up with the exercises my physio had given me, but with all the intense training I had to do to recondition for tryouts, the twenty minutes of tiny movements three times a day was not only tedious and inconvenient, but it was also a constant reminder that I still wasn’t fully healed.

Gritting my teeth, I limped from the register to the espresso machine to give my co-worker Haley the cups for the latest order. Haley and I had hit it off the moment we were introduced. She was a sophomore, just shy of five foot seven inches tall, with high, sharp cheekbones and a wild mane of curly chestnut-brown hair that fell past her shoulders in a controlled chaos. She was still undecided on a major and spent most of her free time auditioning for bands and performing at open mic nights to try and launch her singing career. Her style was equal parts edgy and bohemian, and she had absolutely no filter—good for her Hidden Tracks show at the college radio station; bad for business when she eviscerated rude customers with a few well-chosen words. I was terrified she’d get fired and I’d wind up with no source of entertainment at an otherwise routine job.

“Are you okay?” Haley whispered as she poured milk into the steamer.

“Fine.” I retied the strings on my apron, bright white and decorated with yellow buttercups.

“My uncle used to say ‘fine’ when we asked him about his limp, and it turned out he had bone cancer and they had to amputate.”

“My leg is made of titanium,” I reminded her. “It’s got a half-life of sixty years, so it’ll still be around when I’m gone. I’m like my grandpa who had a bad knee and could tell us when a storm was coming.”

“Speaking of storms…” She lifted her chin ever so slightly in the direction of the till. “Look what just blew in. I’d ride that hurricane in a heartbeat.”

I glanced over, my eyes immediately locking on a familiar dark gaze and the breathtaking face of the man whose voice I had been imagining every night before I went to sleep. Dante. He was wearing a vintage Twisted Sister T-shirt tucked into worn jeans cinched by a black belt that had thick silver chains hanging off one side. His hair was artfully disheveled, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his dark eyes glinted when he grinned at me. Everything about him screamed “bad boy,” and I felt a tingle in my stomach, followed by a thud in my heart.

“Do you know him?”

Haley laughed. “Everyone knows Dante Romano. He DJs the late-night show at WJPK, our independent campus radio station. Dante’s Darkness has the highest ratings of any late-night show in Chicago.”

“ DJ Dante? I thought he played in a band.”

“He’s all over the music scene,” she said. “And he’s majoring in finance here at Havencrest. I heard he’s graduating this year. What a total loss. I tune in to his show when I can’t sleep. You should hear his voice. I could get off just listening to him read a shopping list.”

“We met on Friday night at Steamworks,” I admitted as I helped her prep the orders, straightening the row of paper cups and checking the coffee bean supply to keep my gaze from drifting across the counter. But it was no use. It was as if the strength of his features and the power rippling beneath his muscular frame had magnified until I couldn’t ignore him.

Haley’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Do tell.”

“Isla dragged me out into the alley so she could vape with the bartender, and Dante was there unloading gear with his band. We were talking music when one of the guys said something about Dante always trying to hook up before their gigs. He thought I was a groupie.” I grimaced at the memory and the reminder that what I thought had been a special conversation between us had, in fact, just been a standard seduction.

“I’m not surprised,” she said. “Dante is a player. My friends at the station say he’s with a different woman every night.”

I could feel Dante’s eyes on me as I added coffee beans to the almost-full dispenser. “Can you take his order? I don’t want to talk to him. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Sorry, babe.” Her curls bounced when she shook her head. “My mouth starts going and doesn’t stop when I have to deal with the tall, strong, silent types. I can’t handle a noise vacuum. I’d chase him away.”

With a sigh, I returned to the till and plastered a fake smile on my face. Dante’s gaze dropped to my apron, where the word Buttercup was printed in big yellow letters across my chest. He looked up and grinned. “What’s up, buttercup?”

“My name is Skye; not buttercup, as you know,” I said, trying hard not to melt into a puddle at the sound of his voice. “Is this a coincidental meeting? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I talked to Scott, the Steamworks bartender, after our gig on Friday night,” he said. “I might have asked him if he knew anything about the mysterious woman I’d met in the alley. He might have mentioned that she worked here and that she’d made a coffee-bar playlist. I might have been intrigued—”

“By the woman or the playlist?” I couldn’t believe he’d made the effort to find me, especially if he had women beating down his door like Haley said.

“Both.” He reached over the counter and released a lock of hair that was caught in my collar, sending electricity dancing over my skin.

I huffed out a breath, still uncertain about whether he was here for the challenge or out of genuine interest. “You’re listening to it now.” I pointed to the speaker in the corner that was playing Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl.” I’d convinced my boss to switch up the smooth jazz for something more upbeat because I’d noticed people came to the café to socialize, not study. “I put a little bit of everything in it, from Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes to the Eagles, Adele, Tracy Chapman, CCR, Queen…” I handed him my phone so he could see the entire playlist. From our brief conversation in the alley, I knew that he’d appreciate it in a way no one else did.

“Jesus.” He scrolled through the list. “That’s some mix. You’ve got over three hundred thirty songs on here.”

“I wanted my boss to be able to play it all day and not worry about repetition or having to switch from one playlist to another.”

“I approve.” He smiled. “But there’s a song missing.”

“What song?”

“ABBA’s ‘Take a Chance On Me.’”

“ABBA? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three, and they are one of the greatest pop bands of all time.”

Laughter burst from my chest before I could stop it. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he said. “Quinn was being a dick. If he hadn’t chased you away, I would have given you my number and then I would have spent the entire weekend waiting for you to call.”

“That’s very presumptuous. What if I didn’t call?”

“You would have called.” His voice was strong, confident, daring me to deny the connection we’d had in the alley.

“Someone thinks a lot of himself.” I gestured to the line forming behind him. “Also, that someone needs to order a drink because there are people waiting.”

“What do you recommend?”

“Coffee.”

“What kind of coffee?” He tapped his lips with his finger, considering. “Latte? Cappuccino? Macchiato? Filter? Espresso? I hope you use fair trade beans. I’m thinking espresso, but only if your machine is set and calibrated to pull a double.”

What were the chances we had yet another thing in common? I’d applied to Buttercup my first year because I love everything about coffee, from the rich, complex taste to the heavenly scent and from the warmth to the caffeine buzz. It’s one of my comfort foods, easing me back to life in the morning but keeping me relaxed at the same time.

“The split-style portafilter halves the shot for a single,” I said. “So, do you want a double espresso?”

“Hit me. Or hit on me like you did the other night. I’m easy.”

“I’m sure you are,” I muttered under my breath as I wrote his name on the paper cup. Were his parents fans of the famous Italian writer of the Divine Comedy , or had they decided to set him up on a journey of redemption?

“Did you say something?” He put his hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“I asked if you would like something to eat with that,” I said loudly. “I recommend the lemon squares. The shortbread crust is to die for, unless you don’t have a sweet tooth, in which case I can’t really talk to you anymore because I don’t really understand savory people.”

His lips quivered at the corners. “Savory people?”

“You know, the ones who order the cheese plate instead of dessert, or the chips instead of the chocolate bar.” I leaned over the counter, dropping my voice. “Are you one of them? Because if you are…”

He studied me intently. “I’ll take six lemon squares.”

“The sensible thing to do would be to buy just one. What if you don’t like them? You’ll be stuck with six squares, and it will be my fault.”

“‘Sensible’ isn’t a word I would use to describe myself.” His voice dropped to a low rumble that made me shiver. “Also, I like to share.”

Beside me, Haley made a show of fanning herself with her hand.

At least we didn’t have that in common. I’d always done the sensible thing. Basketball was the sensible thing. Havencrest was the sensible thing. Staying home to recover after the accident was the sensible thing. Getting a part-time job at the local library during my recovery to help my mom with the medical bills was the sensible thing. The only times I hadn’t been sensible, Isla had been involved.

After writing out the order, I handed the cup over to Haley, who was making no effort to conceal her interest in both Dante and our conversation. I didn’t blame her. He had a dark, dangerous vibe that was utterly electric.

Crap. I needed to get it together. I was at work. He was just some random dude who oozed sex. Besides, I wasn’t looking for a man. If I made the roster, I’d be spending at least thirty hours a week practicing and training on top of classes and work. And then there were the nightmares and the scars. I wasn’t ready to open myself up body and soul to another person, and when that day came—if it ever came—it would be with someone solid and stable. Not some sexy sexpot straight out of my bad boy musician fantasies who had a woman for every day of the week.

“Did you just call me a sexy sexpot?” Dante gave me a quizzical look.

Dear God. I’d said it out loud. “No.” My cheeks burned, and I crumpled the cup in my hand. “You must have misheard.”

“You didn’t stay for the show on Friday night.” He scanned his payment card, dropping his gaze for the first time since he’d come up to the counter. “I made my bass talk when we played ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine.”’

“I had a busy weekend planned. I needed my sleep.” I liked that he’d noticed my absence… maybe a little too much. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear you play. I love McKagan’s slinky four-bar solo.”

His face brightened. “Do you play bass?”

I shook my head. “I never had time to learn how to play an instrument, but if I had to choose, it would have been the guitar. I can’t imagine there is anything more cathartic than sitting in your bedroom strumming ‘Stay With Me,’ ‘when the party’s over,’ or even ‘Wind of Change’ while you cry and sing through your tears.”

“What about ‘Hurt’?” he asked, stepping to the side so I could help the next customer.

“Nine Inch Nails or Johnny Cash?” I waved my hand in the air. “Don’t bother answering that. It has to be the Johnny Cash version. The Nails dragged it out too much. Six minutes is too long to cry.” I took the next two orders and then turned my focus to helping Haley.

“Nine Inch Nails’s version of ‘Hurt’ was six minutes of musical genius,” Dante said, resting his elbows on the espresso machine.

“Only if you’re wearing earplugs.”

He gave me yet another knee-wobbling smile. “I think this requires further debate. When are you done?”

“Thirty minutes,” I said. “But then I’m heading straight for my basketball tryout. I’m surprised you didn’t remember since it was part of the conversation you were listening to that didn’t include you.”

He sipped his coffee, and I couldn’t help but watch the way his lips moved, or how his corded throat tightened when he swallowed. “I remember everything about that night.”

So do I.

I was grateful for the chance to cool my heated face in the chiller where we’d stored the extra lemon squares. I took a few deep breaths as I filled the box. My chest wasn’t tight the way it had been all weekend, and the stress headache that had kept me up all night was gone. I felt light, curiously relaxed, and inexplicably… happy.

“Don’t eat them all at once,” I warned, handing him the box. “It’s not good to have too much sugar.”

“Too late, buttercup.” He looked back over his shoulder as he walked away, and his wide smile made his eyes crinkle. “I think I’ve just overdosed.”