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Her eyes find mine before she catches my shirt and drags my mouth back to hers.
Maybe a stronger man would hold back a little. It’s not exactly the most romantic of settings to make out; there’s garbage about 5 feet away from us.
The kiss stretches on until I register that the music inside has stopped.
Then the side door bangs open.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Cal
Bea tears her mouth from mine. We stand there breathing hard, her lipstick smeared and my hands still locked around her waist.
“Oh,” Bea says faintly.
A man fills the doorway.
He’s enormous, somewhere in his fifties, with a beard reaching his chest and a leather jacket that looks really old. A cigarette sits behind one ear.
His eyes adjust to the darkness. Then his weathered face splits into a grin.
“Bumblebea!”
Bea freezes.
Then she laughs—high, bright, and younger than I’ve ever heard her—and runs toward him.
She throws both arms around his middle, disappearing into his beard and jacket.
“John,” she says. “You were incredible tonight.”
“Ah, we’re old. We were alright. We’ve still got another half the show left.” He holds her at arm’s length and looks at her. Something passes across his face. “Look at you. All grown up.”
“Don’t get all soft on me,” she warns, but she’s smiling.
He clocks me over her shoulder. She turns.
“This is Cal,” she says, glancing back at me. Her cheeks are still flushed from my mouth. “He’s a friend. He’s a musician too. He’s been having some trouble writing, so I thought tonight might help.”
A friend.
My tongue was in her mouth thirty seconds ago, but sure.
Friend.
John offers a hand roughly the size of my head.
“John Briggs.”
“Cal Fox.”
His grip is exactly what the beard promises. Bone-crushing.
I return it firmly enough that he gives me a brief, approving look.
He studies me for a second before recognition hits.
“Atlas Falling?”
