As Dust Dances, Page 3

  Forlorn and truly worried for the first time since I’d gotten to Scotland, my fingers trembled as I packed my guitar away. Not only would I go to sleep hungry tonight, I would go to sleep soaked to the skin. The rain had stopped almost as abruptly as it had started, but the damage was done to my clothes and cash flow.

  I sucked in a shaky breath, my stomach twisting with nervous butterflies.

  Standing up from my haunches, about to turn for my backpack, I almost bumped into a guy no more than an inch taller than me. He stepped into me, holding an umbrella over both our heads, and I shuddered in revulsion as his gaze dragged down my body in a way that couldn’t be misconstrued. Close to his mid-fifties, I’d seen the man before. He was dressed in a nice shirt that was dragged down over his jeans by his large, drooping gut. His broad shoulders were stuffed into a leather jacket that strained with his movements. But it was his face that was hard to forget. He had a distinct bulbous nose and pockmarked cheeks.

  I remembered him because he had bothered Mandy one day when I’d stopped to talk to her. Ham had shown up and scared him off.

  Obviously, word had gotten around that I was homeless.

  I straightened, taking a step out from under his umbrella, my already jangled nerves blasted to hell by my sudden fury.

  His leering eyes moved up to my face and at the sight of my glare, he gave me a placating smile. “Let me buy ye a hot meal, love.”

  “No thanks.”

  “I think we both know ye need it.” He gestured to the now-closed guitar case in my hand.

  “Not that badly. Piss off.”

  Eyes hardening, he took a step toward me. “Now that’s not nice, when I’m trying to be friendly. Ye need a friend if ye’re going to survive on the streets of Glasgow, love.”

  “Sweetheart, even if you weren’t some slimy little prick with a beer gut, I still wouldn’t let you touch me, so if I were you, I’d do as I say and piss off. Oh, and a heads-up,” I sneered at him as I lied, “if I ever see you around, bothering me or any of the girls, I know some very scary guys that will be happy to ‘deal’ with you. Got me?”

  Anger mottled his cratered face and he made to take another step toward me when a large, masculine hand wrapped around his bicep and shoved him none-too-gently back.

  My gaze flew up to the taller man, my fury now mixed with suspicion and confusion. It was my original song stalker from last week. Except this time, he was close enough for me to see the genuine anger blazing from his dark eyes as he stared down the shorter, older man.

  “I think she told you to piss off.”

  To my increasing annoyance the older man, who had not been intimidated by me in the least, seemed to shrink under my rescuer’s gaze. “My mistake,” he muttered and hurried away with his bloody umbrella up like a shield.

  Little cowardly shit.

  “What do you want?” I snapped at my unwanted rescuer.

  He was staring after the sexual predator and slowly turned to look at me. Although his jaw was still hard, those dark eyes softened and for a moment, I was held suspended under them. Everything about him seemed carved in stone. Implacable. Cold. But his eyes were a warm, dark brown rimmed with thick, long black lashes. They were smoldering, bedroom eyes, and completely at odds with the rest of him.

  Then he spoke, breaking whatever spell his eyes momentarily had me under. “You’re an idiot.”

  The words were harsh with irritation.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, the words suspiciously American. I turned away from him to collect my large backpack.

  “You keep this up, you’re going to get hurt.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No.”

  “Look, I’ve got to go.” I turned and tried to brush by him.

  This time it was my arm he took hold of.

  Renewed anger and fear lashed through me and I glowered up at him, ignoring the heat of his closeness, the smell of cologne and shower gel. He smelled clean, he felt warm. All the things I wasn’t. I envied him and hated him in equal measure, forgetting for a moment that I’d put myself in this position.

  Without me having to say a word, he let go, holding his hands up, palms out. “I’ve already said I don’t want sex from you. I just want to talk. Let me buy you dinner.”

  As if on cue, my stomach grumbled and I could feel my defenses crumbling. It was go to bed drenched through and hungry or merely drenched through. Tempting . . .

  “They have hand dryers in the bathrooms of restaurants. You could dry off some of your things.” He gestured to my drowned rat–like state.

  Dammit.

  I knew this guy wanted something from me, I just didn’t know what.

  However, the priority right now was getting fed and dry.

  It was five o’ clock in the evening, it was Saturday, and the busy streets of the city center would not only soon fill up with club-goers but also the accompanying police. There was nothing this guy could do to me here.

  “Fine. TGI Fridays.” They served salads and actual meat, not the processed shit I’d been eating lately.

  Thankfully, he didn’t offer me a smug, triumphant smile. He gestured toward the restaurant up the street as if to say, “After you.”

  I walked, far too aware of him as he fell into step beside me. I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye. He must not have gotten caught in the rain because his clothes were dry, so where had he been? I hadn’t seen him in the crowd as I sang.

  This was weird.

  “Can I carry anything for you?” he offered.

  “No thanks.” Nobody touched my stuff but me.

  He didn’t reply but rather strode ahead to open the restaurant door for me. The gesture almost caused me to stumble up the steps. It had been a while since anyone had held a door for me.

  I refused to acknowledge the little tingle of warmth it gave me, just as I refused to acknowledge that I missed anything about the time in my life when I wasn’t one of the invisible.

  The hostess at the podium raised an eyebrow but was immediately distracted from whatever she was going to say as the stranger pulled up beside me.

  I realized I didn’t even know his name.

  “Table for two,” he said.

  She smiled. “Do you have a reservation?”

  “No.”

  I snorted at his abrupt manner. What a charmer.

  The hostesses smile dimmed a little. “Well, you’re in luck. We have a table. Right this way.” She grabbed a couple of menus and led us through the busy restaurant. I was assaulted by smells: burgers, barbecue sauce, ketchup, beer, all of it clenching my stomach with need. And noise: loud chatter, laughter, clinking of cutlery, and clash of dinnerware that made me flinch, the sounds making me feel slightly claustrophobic. I was used to crowds but out in the open air. It felt like forever since I’d sat in an enclosed space with so many other people.

  She took us toward a tiny table where there would be no room to put my stuff. The stranger touched her shoulder to halt her.

  “The booth.” He gestured to an empty booth behind us that would take all my stuff and the two of us.

  “That’s reserved.”

  He reached toward her and I caught the glimmer of money in his hands as he discreetly tucked it between her fingers on top of the menus she held. She glanced down at it and then gave him a wide grin. “Right this way.”

  I slid into the booth first, putting my guitar on the floor at my feet and pushing the backpack toward the end of the booth. In hindsight, I should’ve slid in after my backpack, using it as a barrier between me and the stranger, a thought that occurred to me too late as he moved in beside me.

  As it did among the small crowds that stopped to listen to me sing, his presence seemed to swell over the table, and I felt more than a niggle of annoyance as he sat close enough for me to feel his body heat.

  I tried to shift inconspicuously away from him as he looked at the menu but was caught when he shot me a quizzical look out of his periphery.
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br />   Not wanting him to think he unnerved me, I turned to my own menu and immediately felt almost faint with hunger. I wanted to order everything. EVERYTHING.

  Silence descended over us as I was lost in the heaven of choice.

  “Don’t order too much,” the stranger suddenly said. “You’re too thin and I imagine not used to eating large portions. You might make yourself ill.”

  Disappointment filled me because he was annoyingly right, so when the waiter came to take our order, I only asked for sautéed sea bass and not the wings, loaded skins, nachos, and ribs I wanted as well. Saliva was building up in my mouth.

  “Why don’t you go dry off while we wait?” the stranger said once the waiter left.

  I immediately glanced down at my expensive guitar.

  He grunted. “I’m not a thief.”

  “Then what are you? What do you want?”

  “Get dry first.”

  I nodded, but when I got out of the booth, I swung on my backpack and grabbed hold of my guitar case. I trusted no one. He got the point, seeming almost amused by it. Now hungrier than ever, more irritated than ever, I almost snarled at him as I passed by the booth to make my way to the restrooms.

  Now that the panic of going hungry wasn’t messing with my mind, I remembered I had dry clothes in my backpack from the laundromat this morning. It was amazing what fear could do to you because in that moment, I’d completely forgotten about them. Relief flooded me, and I grabbed a bunch of paper towels before I ducked into a stall to change. Once I’d stripped down, I dried off with the paper towels. I luxuriated in the feel of dry underwear and clothes as I pulled on fresh pants, jeans, socks, T-shirt, and hoodie. I folded up my wet clothes and raincoat, refusing to put them back in the backpack because they’d only get the rest of my socks, underwear, and books wet. Feeling naked without it, I tucked my fedora into my backpack.

  When I returned to the main restaurant, I put the folded-up wet clothes beside me on the bench, my underwear tucked out of sight.

  I couldn’t meet the stranger’s eyes as I reached for the Diet Coke I’d asked for, savoring the taste. On tour, I’d needed lots of energy so I’d eaten well and drank plenty of water. Soda was a treat at the best of times. But I hadn’t had a Diet Coke in months, and it tasted great.

  “Excuse me,” my companion’s voice jolted my gaze upward and I saw him wave down a passing waitress. “Do you have a bag?”

  “A bag?”

  “Carrier bag, paper bag. A bag.”

  “Um . . . let me check.”

  It was my turn to stare at him quizzically, but he didn’t acknowledge the look. He sipped his water and stared around the restaurant as if this weren’t awkward and weird. His nose had a slight bump in it, his cheekbones high, and his jaw chiseled and angular. Overall, he had a very hawklike profile, masculine, rugged, and intimidating. And at that moment I felt like prey, stupidly allowing myself to be caught.

  Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he genuinely didn’t want anything sexual from me.

  I stared at him unabashedly, wanting answers.

  He remained steadfast, ignoring me, until the waitress he’d called out to returned with a plastic carrier bag. “Will this do?”

  “Aye.” He took it from her. “Thanks.”

  He held it out, staring at me with those eyes that would’ve been much more suited to a Lothario, to someone who knew how to be charming. “For your clothes.”

  Oh.

  It was a kind gesture, also at odds with his demeanor, and my suspicion increased. I took the bag, however, sliding my wet clothes into it and out of sight. Exasperated, I said, “What the hell do you want?”

  “Food first.”

  “So I’ll be well fed, satisfied, and more amenable to whatever the hell it is you want from me?”

  He looked at me now, really looked at me, and the corner of his mouth curled up ever so slightly. “Exactly.”

  “A good villain doesn’t admit to his plan, you know.”

  “I’m not a villain.”

  “What are you?”

  “Fo—”

  “Food first. Yeah, yeah.”

  And so we sat in silence until the food arrived, and the smell of my sea bass made my stomach grumble loudly. Years ago, it would’ve embarrassed me. Now I couldn’t give a shit. All I cared about was that fish.

  I dug in, closing my eyes in joy as I ate.

  When I opened them to scoop up buttery mashed potatoes, I felt his gaze on me.

  The furrowed brow, the glimmer of concern in his eyes, made me stiffen. But just like that, his expression cleared, blank, and he went back to eating his burger as if I didn’t exist.

  I savored every morsel of that meal, including the Chocolate Fudge Fixation I ordered for dessert.

  My belly felt full and satisfied, and exhaustion began to force my eyelids to droop.

  And I knew it was time to pay the piper. “So . . .” I pushed away my empty dessert plate and slumped back against the booth, my expression baleful. “What the hell do you want from me?”

  His answer was to reach into his wallet, pull out a business card, and hand it over.

  I stared down at it, disbelief flooding me.

  * * *

  Killian O’Dea

  A&R Executive

  Skyscraper Records

  100 Stobcross Road

  Glasgow

  07878568562

  MY FINGERS BIT INTO THE fancy embossed business card in my hand and I looked up at Mr. Killian O’Dea frowning. He was an artist and repertoire executive. Someone who found new artists and built the repertoire of a record label. “A record company?”

  He stared blandly back at me. “If you don’t believe me, I can give you my phone so you can google us.” Before I could respond, he rhymed off who they’d signed; I recognized a few of them as successful British artists. “We’re the only record company in Scotland worth discussion and on our way to eclipsing the top labels in England. Between our eye for recognizing relevant talent and a marketing team that knows better than any how to sell talent to a digital generation, we’ve had a succession of number one albums in the last five years and a handful of our artists have gone global.”

  There was a spark in his eyes as he spoke that hadn’t been there before. A light. Of passion or cold ambition, I wasn’t quite sure. Moreover, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure why I was getting his pitch.

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  O’Dea turned slightly toward me, his intense focus unnerving. “We don’t merely grow commercially successful singers, we nurture real artists. You have a gift. Do you think I stop by every bloody busker out there listening to them do Adele covers? No. You made me stop the first time I heard you singing an original song. You have my interest. I’d like a chance to hear more of your stuff, and if it’s as good as I think it is, then I’ll want you to write an album for me.”

  “I don’t have a manager.” It was a lie.

  “I can help you with that.”

  There was a small part of me that would always be pleased to hear someone appreciate what I could do, but there was an even bigger part scared shitless that this guy had approached me. My heart pounded in my chest at the thought of what he was proposing. Putting me out there again. It would only take seconds and all my secrets would be uncovered. Sweat slickened my palms and I felt cold and shivery. I reached for my stuff. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “That’s it?” he bit out, and I glanced up to see him glaring at me.

  “I don’t have anything else but the songs you’ve heard me sing.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Anger mingled with the fear, making my cheeks flush. “I don’t care what you believe.” I made to slide out of the booth but he grabbed my elbow.

  My eyes blazed with warning but O’Dea didn’t let go. “Why would a person choose to stay stuck on the streets rather than take up an offer to change her life? That doesn’t make sense to me.”

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nbsp; I laughed unhappily at his naiveté. “Do you think fame and fortune are all they’re cracked up to be? It’s an emptier existence than mine.”

  “And how would you know?”

  “Let go of my arm.”

  “How would you know?”

  “You only have to look at the lives of famous people. How many of them seem truly happy to you?”

  “I happen to know a few who are genuinely happy.”

  “Then they’re probably self-medicating.”

  “You’re awfully cynical for a young girl.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “How young do you think I am? If you’re looking for a new teenybopper to burst onto the scene in short skirts and fake pointy nails, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “If you think that, then you haven’t been listening. How old are you?”

  “Why the twenty questions?”

  “That was one question. I haven’t even asked for your name. Why the evasion?”

  “Because you’re a strange man who is buying me dinner because he wants something from me. It might not be what most men want, but it’s still something I’m not willing to give. You can dress it up anyway you want, but we both know you couldn’t give a shit about me. You want to make money and I don’t want to make you that money. Still going to pay for dinner?”

  O’Dea reluctantly let go of my arm. “Aye.”

  Relief flooded me but I didn’t let it show. I pretended I wasn’t shaking all over and got out of the booth, hauling up my backpack onto my shoulders.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  I paused reaching for my guitar case and waited for him to go on.

  “I couldn’t give a shit what age you are, what your name is. I couldn’t give a shit that you’re homeless. All I care about is your voice, the songs you write, and your ability to sell records.” He stood up, pulling a wad of cash out of his wallet and dumping it on the table. It covered way, way more than the meal. His dark eyes were steely with disappointment and annoyance. “When you’re ready to pull your unwashed head out of your arse, give me a call.”

  Outraged pride suffused me. “You condescending, pain in—I washed my hair this morning.”