All The Ways You Saved Me Part 17

"Like what?"

"Like you don't even know me. Bianca, what's wrong?"

"It's . . ." I caught sight of Ben making his way toward us, and lamely finished with, "Nothing." What else would I have said anyway? Sorry, Ian, I just can't help wondering why you look so happy around everyone else, but when you're with me I practically have to beg for a smile.

Ian's head whipped to the side as Ben clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Ben said, with a glance in my direction. "I think we might've gotten off on the wrong foot."

"I'm sure." I stretched my lips across my teeth into something that resembled a smile.

Ian nodded toward Ben. "This is Ben, my brother."

"Oh." I flipped my gaze between the two of them. Now that he'd said it, they did look similar. Ben was a few inches taller, his hair the same color but shorter. Same nose, similar face shape. I might've noticed if I hadn't been out of my mind before. "It's very nice to meet you, Ben." Holding out my hand, I flipped on my high-wattage smile.

He shook it. "And you are?" He widened his eyes expectantly.

"Bianca."

Ben shifted his eyes between the two of us, clearly not satisfied with the vagueness of my answer.

"You're gonna have to excuse us, big brother. Bianca's up next on stage."

"You're a singer?" Ben asked, his lips sinking to a thin line and pulling tight.

"Not even close." I clasped my hands behind my back because I wasn't sure what else to do with them. Ian kept his distance, and if I was reading the situation correctly (which, with my state of mind, I wasn't quite sure I was) I was getting the feeling he didn't want Ben to know that he and I had a thing. "Why" was another question that I didn't feel like pondering at that moment.

I lifted my shoulder in a half shrug. "I guess I'll catch you later."

Ian led me over to the stage, bending over to say, "Ben's a good guy. He's just looking out for me."

I frowned, and when I looked up at him, he was frowning too, like he was wondering why he just said what he did.

We waited on the outskirts of the stage, listening to the last few bars of "Man, I Feel Like a Woman." After so many upbeat songs, mine was definitely going to be a downer. With every note the woman sang, coming closer to the end, my stomach plummeted and my pulse jackhammered.

I tried to convince myself this was no different than public speaking. Don't look at anyone specific, focus on something in the crowd, calm and even breaths. As the woman hopped off the stage, her pink sequined dress glinting in the light, I took in one deep breath and held it till my lungs felt like they were going to explode. I climbed on the stage in front of me like I was walking up to a firing squad.

The lights blinded me, but not enough that I couldn't see the people in the crowd. My palms were damp as I wrapped them around the microphone stand, my fingers shaking. I listened to the first few notes through the speakers, waiting for my cue. When it came, I opened my mouth and . . . nothing came out. I froze.

Everyone looked at me expectantly. A man leaned toward his date, whispering in her ear with a laugh. Oh G.o.d, I couldn't do this. I wasn't just failing, I was failing Renee. Letting her down. I was about five seconds away from having a panic attack when a pair of warm hands gripped my waist and spun me around.

"Breathe, Bianca."

A breath trembled through my chest, sending a fine course of shivers through my entire body.

Ian's fingers gripped my chin and angled my face upwards. "You're going to do this, do you hear me?" His lips pinched together. "Let me help you."

I could only nod. Help me? How in the world could he help me?

He left the stage, and all I wanted to do was cling to his arm. Static buzzed through the now silent speakers, and even though my back was to the crowd, I could feel their eyes on me, the rumbling of their voices keeping up a low, consistent drone. Exchanging words and a few gestures, Ben disappeared and then reappeared, handing Ian a guitar. Ian shoved a stool behind me and then pushed me down on it. I covered the microphone with my hand. "Ian, what are you doing?" I hissed.

The stool screeched across the stage as he scooted it closer, then sat down on it. Sweat stood out on his forehead, and all the color drained from his face. "Don't look at them, just look at me. You can do this."

"You don't have to do this," I told him.

He looked down at his fingers where they clenched the neck of the guitar, the strings digging into his fingertips. He shifted his gaze to me, and his eyes softened. "I want to."

Leaning forward, he snagged the microphone off the stand. "Sorry about that guys, I missed my cue."

"Not the first time!" Someone shouted from the crowd, which caused a ripple of laughter.

"Probably not the last, either," Ian joked. A smile was there, pinned on his face, but it was strained and painful to look at. No one else seemed to notice though. "You ready for some music?"

A cheer went up, and I focused on my breathing. I couldn't sing if I couldn't breathe.

Ian pa.s.sed the mic back to me, and I cradled it in my lap.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded.

The place went silent, dead quiet. Even the bartender stopped to watch. Someone dimmed the lights as the first slow strains of the song peeled out from Ian's guitar. I turned on my stool so I could watch him, and pretended that we were alone in the room.

He went for the long intro, adding a little flourish here or there that was completely his own. I relaxed, letting myself flow into the music, feeling my heart rate settle into an almost normal rhythm. But every breath I took seemed to steal one away from Ian. While I relaxed and my nerves st.i.tched themselves back together, his chest heaved like he was struggling to breathe. When I thought he might pa.s.s out, his eyes flew up to mine, locking there.

Something stretched between us, like a lifeline we were each desperately grasping. I gave him a small smile, trying to squeeze every feeling that was overwhelming me at that moment into one tiny expression. He took in a deep breath that seemed to shudder through him, never breaking eye contact.

My first words were as shaky as Ian's first strums, my voice almost cracking. The lyrics didn't sound right when they were coming out of my mouth; it should've been Renee up here singing. This was her song, her list. My eyes burned as I made my way through the chorus, but I couldn't shut my eyes like I wanted to. Not when Ian was staring at me like he thought I might disappear.

As Ian picked up steam, so did I-his fingers flew over the strings, his muscles in his arms rippling, and my voice steadied, ringing loud and clear. I forgot the crowd, stopped being embarra.s.sed, and sang like no one was listening. I sang like Renee could hear me. I sang for her.

And through it all, I listened. I don't know what I'd been expecting from Ian, but it wasn't this. The guitar was like an extension of his arms and hands. He didn't just play the guitar, he made love to it, coaxed out sounds I didn't even know a guitar could make. Each note was breathtaking and heartbreaking and beautiful. I'd never in my whole life heard something that pure.

Before I knew it, the song was over, my throat aching, and the only thing I wanted was to do it again, just so I could hear him play one more time. The crowd cheered and whistled, and I offered them a quick smile, slipping the microphone back onto the stand. But it wasn't me they were going crazy for, I knew that. Ian seemed oblivious to the applause. He set the guitar down so gently on the stool it was like he thought it was made of gla.s.s.

Hopping off the stage, he walked straight past Ben, down a narrow hallway and out the doors at the end. I hurried after him, bursting out into the night. We were in an alley, the dark pavement shimmering in the glow of the streetlight. The brick walls were soaked with rain, and mist clung heavily to the air.

Ian stood a few feet away, hands clenched in his hair like he was getting ready to rip it out.

"Ian," I said, reaching out a hand toward him, but drawing it back at the last second. He took a step forward at the sound of my voice, away from me.

"Please, Bianca. Please just leave me alone." The words were strangled, like they had to fight a battle just to make their way out of his mouth. His hands dropped from his head to cover his face, and his shoulders shook silently.

The walls I'd been building around my heart to keep him out cracked and crumbled. I took a hesitant step, the asphalt crunching underneath my feet.

"Bianca, please."

I froze, the raw vulnerability in his voice making my lip tremble. My hand slipped to my throat, skimming up to my lips so I could press my knuckles against my mouth. And because he asked, because he practically begged me to leave, I turned around and left.

Chapter 26: Ian.

3 Years Earlier "I got it!" Maggie danced through the door, a magazine clutched between her fingers. She skipped across the kitchen, launching herself onto the couch between Felix and me. We bounced with the impact, and I almost lost the grip on my Xbox controller.

Gavin peeled his eyes away from the TV long enough to peek at Maggie. "You left the apartment in that?"

Felix snorted, and Mags backhanded him in the arm.

"Shut up. There's nothing wrong with my outfit."

I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye-a faded pair of overalls with a hole in the knee, a purple crop top that kept wandering off her shoulder and showing off her blue polka-dotted bra underneath. Paint splatters covered all of it, stuck to strands of her hair, and there was one large brushstroke that went from one corner of her eyebrow to the tip of her ear. Her easel was still set up in the corner, the canvas shining from the wet oils. Thank G.o.d she had the drop cloth down, or we'd never be getting our deposit back on this place.

"Whatcha got there, Maggie?" Ben asked, without pulling his eyes away from the screen. He slammed down on the b.u.t.tons, sending a barrage of bullets in my direction.

"Lemme guess," Felix said, his tongue creeping out over his lip as he concentrated. His whole body rocked to the side as he sent his character diving behind a tree. "It's Cosmo-'Fifteen Secrets to Spice Up Your s.e.x Life.'"

I reached behind me to grab a pillow. Swinging with my left arm, Maggie ducked, and I walloped him in the face with it.

His yell was m.u.f.fled in the fabric. He swiped it away, his hair standing straight out from his head with static cling.

Maggie sighed and hopped up on the coffee table, blocking out the TV. "Guys, I have the brand new issue of Rolling Stone. I don't know, I think there's someone you might recognize on the cover?" She waved the issue up and down, practically vibrating with excitement.

Felix was the first one off the couch, the controller left forgotten on the cushion. "Whoa! Check out these s.e.xy beasts!"

Gavin s.n.a.t.c.hed the magazine from Maggie. "Man, this is so unreal. This is real, right?"

"'Inside the Downfall,'" Ben read, pa.s.sing the magazine on to me.

The glossy pages slid through my fingers as I flipped it open. "You read this yet, Mags?"

She hopped down from the coffee table and curled onto my lap, readjusting the magazine in front of her. "Couldn't help it."

"Summarize it for us," Felix said.

"Forget how to read?"

"Christ, you two," I said, poking a finger in Maggie's side and making her giggle. "What'd it say?"

She skimmed through the pages, stopping when she got to more images of the band. They'd done interviews with all of us, one-on-ones and then as a group. Same with the pictures. We each had one page dedicated to us with a quick summary of the Q&A on the side.

"Let's see." Maggie stroked a finger over her chin. "The writer called Felix a descendant of Vikings, comparing his vicious performance on the drums to his appearance."

Felix grinned and pointed to his nose. "It's the nose, isn't it? Or the hair, maybe it's the hair." Another pillow flew at him, this time from Ben's direction.

"They said Ben was 'silently s.e.xy.'" She air-quoted that. "Something about him clearly being dedicated to the band, and his intelligence and business ac.u.men shining through a playful personality."

Ben shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased with the description. Whoever had done his interview nailed it. The memory of the party boy he used to be still popped through now and then, but between the night cla.s.ses he was taking to finish his business degree and the role he took in managing the band, you were much more likely to see his serious side.

"And then there's Gavin." Maggie turned the page with a flick of her wrist. "A true sweetheart." She leaned back against my chest and clapped a hand to her heart. "With a sultry voice and a talent at songwriting that is hard to surpa.s.s."

Maggie hurried on. "Last but not least, my darling husband." She reached up and patted my cheek. "The strong, silent type. They called you a guitar whisperer, and insinuated that with those dexterous fingers, you're probably good at more things than just playing the guitar." She elbowed me in the stomach when I started to laugh. "They went on to say you're a recluse who is very clearly devoted and in love with his wife, so it's unlikely anyone else will get to benefit from your talents."

"And a thousand teenage hearts break," Felix muttered, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead with a dramatic sigh. If I'd had another pillow, I'd have thrown that one at him too. Rolling off the couch, he stretched, his fingertips brushing the ceiling. "Who's hungry? I'm hungry."

"Only if we can get Thai. No more pizza." Gavin tossed the controller back onto the couch behind him.

"I've gotta make a call, but I'll meet you guys there?" Ben asked, already pulling his phone from his pocket. "Text me where you decide." Pressing the phone to his ear, he disappeared through the door.

"Ian? Mags?" Felix asked.

She tilted her head back and lifted an eyebrow at me. We had a silent conversation with our eyes that went something like: What do you think, Ian?

Well, I am hungry.

Even if we don't go we could still eat. And we'd have the place to ourselves. Hmmm, I wonder what we could do with an empty apartment . . .

I grinned down at her. "I think we'll pa.s.s."

"Pa.s.s," Maggie agreed.

Felix smirked at us. "Mhmm. I know what you two are up to. You just want to sample some of Ian's talented fingers. Dirty dogs."

Maggie rolled her eyes at him. "One day, Felix, you're really gonna need to learn to think with your brain and not your d.i.c.k. There's more to life than s.e.x."

"Then clearly, doll, you're not living it right." He winked at us.

When it was just the two of us left, Maggie rolled over onto my lap, pressing me back into the couch.

I laughed up at her. "What was it you were just saying to Felix?"

"Just because I think Felix's brain lives in his pants, doesn't mean that I don't enjoy a good romp with my husband." Raking her fingers over my chest, she circled the sh.e.l.l of my ear with her tongue. "My very s.e.xy husband who's going on tour in another week."

"I still think you should come with us," I said, slipping my hands through the gaping sides of her overalls to run over her stomach.

She drew back, sitting up straight. "You know I would, but I can't with my scholarship."

"I know." And I did know. We'd talked about it over and over. Frankly, I loved how dedicated she was to her schoolwork, to her art. Maggie wouldn't have been Maggie without paint under her fingernails and charcoal dusting her cheeks. That didn't mean I wasn't going to miss her. So I told her so. "I'm gonna miss you like crazy."

"Tell me about it."

"You know what that means, right?"