Rowan
Iwatch Elijah hand the DJ the microphone he was using.
Fuck.Elijah on that stage… he looked and soundedjustlike Benjamin.
Last night I had a dream I haven’t had in a while—one where I’m standing in a crowded club as Benjamin stands on stage in some kind of hot gypsy costume. He’s singing, and everyone around him is in love with him—but I know. I know that as soon as he comes down, I’ll be taking him home and tearing him apart.
So when I woke up this morning, the idea for our date was very apparent. I had to see Elijah on stage; I had to know if it would be the same.
And of course it was.Of course.
He looked radiant up there. Eyes glimmering under the stage lights as he sang, his lean muscles flexing beneath that tight black shirt. So fucking beautiful and sweet.
Elijah looked just like the angel he is.
And I was fully convinced I had made the right choice in bringing him here. Well—I was until I realized that his jeans hang so low that his little back dimples are on complete display and every goddamn person in the bar is getting an eyeful.
Then there’s the DJ that was eye fucking him the entire time, even going as far as trying to send him a flirty wink when he got off the stage. Elijah didn’t seem to notice, but it pisses me off anyway.
He’stoohandsome tonight, and everyone around us can see it. It makes me half hard and half irrationally irritated. Not necessarily at him—more at the fact that I can’t keep him locked up in a basement somewhere where no one else can get a peek at him.
I’mhis long-lost lover—not any of you assholes!
Elijah suddenly appears in front of me.
His eyes are bright; his face flushed as perspiration beads slightly at his forehead. A few of his blond curls are damp from the sweat, and he pulls lightly at the collar of his tight little shirt.
“That was terrifying,” he says, giving me a shy grin. I watch as he climbs back onto his stool and takes a drink of his watered-down cocktail.
“You didn’t tell me you could sing,” I chastise, propping my cheek in my palm as I stare at him. He flushes further, his shoulders rising and falling.
“Not sucking and being good are two completely different ball games,” he insists, to which I just shake my head at him.
Elijah clearly has no idea that he has a knack for singing. I find it kind of adorable—that I know something about him that evenhedoesn’t know. Another piece of irrefutable evidence that I am, in fact, Aaron—and he is Benjamin.
“Here you guys go.” A basket of fried pickles with a small container of ranch is set on our table, and the elderly woman doesn’t wait for a response before she pushes through the crowd on her way back to the kitchen.
“Damn, took them long enough,” Elijah mutters, grabbing a piece and tossing it into his mouth. He’s not wrong—we ordered like an hour ago.
“Are they good?” I ask him, watching his jaw work as he chews. Everything he does is so fucking alluring I could cry.
“Yeah. They’re a bit hot though, so I’d give it a minute.”
“Okay.”
The flashing lights mixed with the dim backlighting of the bar are making Elijah glow next to me, and I find myself struggling to think around the weight of his presence .
What should I do? What should I say? How can I push him further toward my goal?
I need him to fall in love with me—I need to grab him before someone else does, and I’m stuck living in these memories alone. Suffering. Until I die.
“What?” Elijah asks, having caught me staring. I watch as he puts his straw on his tongue and then wraps those full lips around it.
“You look good enough to eat,” I tell him, and I mean to say that he’s beautiful—or maybe that I enjoy his company. Something sweet and romantic. But the words leave me before I can stop them; I’m watching him suck on that straw, and I’mthinking nasty things. It’s only natural that my words would reflect it.
Elijah chokes on his cocktail, eyes wide as I pat his back gently.
“Uh,” he starts once he can breathe properly again. “That was not what I thought you were going to say.”
