FascinatingRhythm (6 page)

Emmelie looked around as if noticing the crowd for the first
time. Since people surrounded them on either side and behind, not to mention
the heaving mosh pit below them, that was some feat.
Oh look, where did all
these people come from?
her look seemed to say. She glanced back at Sabina,
eyes chips of ice. “You had the opportunity, so you took it?”

Sabina deliberately kept her hands steady and efficient, as
Emmelie’s signing became more agitated. “I’m under no illusions, I know he’ll
leave.” But this time, he’d promised to keep in touch, although right now she
didn’t know if that would help or hinder her. Constant reminders that he was
somewhere else in the world might not help. Especially when he found someone
else, even if it was a groupie. Hunter wasn’t a monk, and she couldn’t expect
it of him. Maybe she should go off and find someone for herself. Someone not
quite so—thrilling, but with more staying power.

Emmelie kept talking until the lights went down and the ones
on the stage gave off a soft, amber glow. Shadowy figures walked across to
their stations and picked up their instruments and just—began. One startling,
audience-quieting guitar chord from mouthwateringly gorgeous Jace Beauchenne,
dark and glowering. She watched his hands, clever hands, move over his guitar.
He didn’t play like other guitarists—he hit the cords, struck them as if he
were trying to kill them.

Next to her, Emmelie started texting. Sabina wanted to
snatch the phone from her hands, but instead she did her best to ignore the
distraction.

An earth tremor vibrated under her feet. Light flashed over
Hunter, his hair loose, hanging forward, gripping the drumsticks as if they
were extensions of his hands, surgically grafted there. A plethora of
instruments surrounded him. Less a drummer, more a percussionist. She knew he’d
had some classical training at school before he’d taken the path of the rock
artist. That had to factor in to his performance. It must be so loud, because
sound filtered through to her. The band wore earpieces, like large hearing
aids. Except for Hunter. She looked closely, but nothing.

The drums cutting in to vie with Jace’s savage chords formed
the cue for the others. Donovan Harvey, the bassist, began a complex pattern on
the four strings of his bass guitar and Zazz, an acoustic guitar slung over his
shoulder like a troubadour’s, held the mic close and began to sing. His cropped
hair, dyed electric blue tonight, although she knew he changed the color
frequently, contrasted with the drab, beatnik-black of his clothes. V, the only
female member of Murder City Ravens and its saxophonist, breathed a note.
Beautiful, dressed in an ethereal silver sheath, her golden hair swinging down
to her waist, she began quietly. Sabina saw the way she settled into a rhythm
of her own.

She wanted to hear what they were playing. Enough sounds
filtered through to make her want more, not enough to give her a melody. A
yearning she thought she’d left behind years ago surged through her. She rarely
felt like that about anything, firmly putting her hearing into her past life
and coping with what she had now. The notion came as new and different, because
she hadn’t thought about it in so long.

A light illuminated Riku, wearing a guitar but operating a
keyboard.

Wow. Even Emmelie glanced up when he appeared in full light
and didn’t immediately look down again.

From reading about the band, Sabina knew that Riku liked
visual kei, the Japanese way of dressing like a rock star. His face was heavily
made-up, with a pale, almost white base, cyclamen-pink blusher, and a black
line painted above, a dash from his nose to the side of his face, underlining
his eyes rather than outlining them.

Sabina turned her attention to the huge screen at the side
of the stage. Smaller screens were set above the band, showing each member, but
the huge screen currently displayed Riku in all his glory. His hair was the
same color as his cheeks—cyclamen-pink, with part of it sticking in spikes on
top of his head and the rest caught behind in a ponytail, which turned black
below the golden clasp.

He wore black with pink accents, the shoulders of his jacket
hugely exaggerated, buttoned asymmetrically, as if he’d fastened it up wrong,
but the cut indicated he hadn’t. His pants were tight, almost sprayed on, but
the bright-pink streamers fastened to his waistband swirled around him as he
moved, flying up when they caught the stream of what must be a fan set at the
side of the stage. He should look funny, but he didn’t. He looked otherworldly,
different and deeply committed.

Sabina watched him as, utterly intent on his work, his
fingers flew over the keyboard with the increasing tempo of the music.

The crowd went wild. Most people were on their feet by the
end of the first number, but Sabina preferred to lean forward and rest her
elbows on the parapet in front of her. She watched the band, her attention
going from one member to the other, Hunter’s rhythms pounding under her feet.

She loved it. Could watch this every night, even if the band
did exactly the same thing, which she guessed they didn’t because she saw the
way they gave Jace space to work magic on the guitar and the subtle signals
they sent each other.

At one point the lights dimmed and most of the band left the
stage. Hunter left on the opposite side to where she was sitting, but as he
did, he looked up at her and stepped into a spot of bright, clear light. He
signed, “I can’t see you but I know you’re out there. It makes a difference.”

Tears rolled down her face. She didn’t hide them. Two, one
from each eye. They filled her lower lids and then fell from the corners, tracking
down each side of her face. They were her homage to him and what he’d done.

Other people must have seen him. He’d used ASL, one of the
most common out there, so someone out of these thousands of people must have
read it too. But he could have been signing his mother, as far as they knew.
The message could mean something to both of them.

Not that Emmelie had seen. She was too busy texting.

During the acoustic numbers, Zazz held the audience in his
thrall. She watched his lips, made out most of the lyrics as he sang. Not about
love or its loss, but about people who allowed their negative sides to rule
them, criticizing and wrecking other people. He opened his soul, showed them
some of the people he’d known and made the particular universal. Sabina loved it,
drank in every word.

Only Jace accompanied him, but her attention was distracted
when Hunter returned to the stage, walking quietly across to his kit in the
gloom. Although he was among the plethora of instruments, he shook only a small
percussion device, which she guessed added new textures to the song. She wanted
to hear it.

Occasionally sound filtered through, but unfocused and
undefined. It gave her only a taste, an aural glimpse into the music. She
wanted more.

The song about negativity segued into a song about victims,
people who were used or who took a wrong path in life, people who received the
wrong advice, and people who leaped in without considering the consequences.
Not a song about responsibility though, because Zazz sang about tragedy, and sometimes
events that were beyond the control of the victims.

It should have been depressing, but Sabina found the
experience exhilarating. Although Zazz had exaggerated the stories in his
songs, there was something in them for everyone to recognize, evoking times
they’d been less than perfect. But they’d survived. They were here. The
togetherness he created staggered her. Even Emmelie had stopped texting and was
watching Zazz, lip-reading.

The lights blazed and the band appeared back on stage.
Without warning, they created a massive, discordant note that pierced even
Sabina’s wall of sound and she heard everything. Like having her ears cleaned
out.

They launched into a new song and her senses subsided once
more, muffled and dull. But that one note made her hungry. More, she wanted
more.

For the rest of the performance, she watched Zazz, her
attention occasionally going to Hunter. She had no idea how her lover kept up
that level of clean, precise work. He and Donovan seemed to act as one at times
and at others, Donovan moved forward to set up a counter to Hunter’s driving
rhythm. Occasionally Riku moved back to take a hand in the drumming, and she
discovered why Hunter’s kit was so diverse and plentiful—sometimes he wasn’t
the only person using it.

She had no idea how much time had passed and she didn’t
care, as long as they didn’t stop. The mosh pit’s occupants surged forward, the
occasional person spilling over the barrier to be tipped back by one of the
security guards standing with his back to the band. How they managed that, she
had no idea. She’d make a lousy security guard.

The concert came to an end, but when Emmelie stood to leave,
Sabina put her hand on her employer’s arm. “They’ll play encores,” she said.
Emmelie got out her phone.

Three extra songs, the last something plaintive that made
the crowd sway. They were still singing after the band left the stage.

Emmelie put her phone away and faced Sabina, one eyebrow
raised. “What now?” she signed.

She hadn’t bothered to pay attention to Chick’s instructions
then. “We wait for someone to come get us.”

Emmelie sighed and watched the crowd slowly disperse with an
attention she’d failed to bestow on her son, then lifted her hands. “I don’t
think I’m missing a great deal. These concerts require a lot of effort, don’t
they?”

“They do,” Sabina answered, “but they make a lot of people
very happy.”

“You know he decided to leave the classical world early? He
was always listening to music, until I had complaints about the noise.” She
grinned, a rare expression for Emmelie. “Can you imagine? Deaf people
complained about the noise!”

Sabina didn’t find it funny, but she gave a polite smile.
Habit. Emmelie liked people to share her rare jokes. All Sabina could think of
was a sad and lonely little boy trying to attract attention any way he could.
Not that it had worked. And now he’d moved away. One day Emmelie might realize
what she’d lost. Her dismissal of her son as not good enough would come back to
bite her. And now she wanted to use the attention that rightfully belonged to
him to publicize her own interests.

Sabina knew Hunter would let her.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder. Not a security guard,
but Hunter himself. She stood up fast, using her hands to speak. “They’ll mob
you, you shouldn’t!”

“I wanted you.” He reached for her hand and stroked it.

She could pull away at any time if she wanted to sign, but
she didn’t. Despite the almost tangible disapproval of Emmelie, she spoke.
“That was amazing.”

“Come.”

He drew her out of her seat and into the aisle. Already
people were beginning to gather around, but he hadn’t come alone. Two burly men
stood a few steps away, ready to intervene if needed. She hadn’t seen them
before because she’d only had eyes for Hunter.

His hair swirled wildly around his face and his eyes blazed.
She recalled the legends of her people, stories of warriors who drove
themselves into a frenzy, the Berserkers. He looked like that now, a man who
knew what he wanted and wouldn’t stop until he’d achieved his mission. Only his
mission was her, and she wasn’t the enemy.

Once she’d reached his side, he dropped her hand to sign to
his mother. “These men will take you to the public room where the press
conference is taking place.”

She nodded, her face expressionless now, something unusual
for a deaf person. Sign language involved facial expression as well as hand
gestures.

Hunter took Sabina’s hand and led her up the stairs, toward
the exit at the side, leaving the guards behind. Ahead of them was another door
with someone standing guard. He took her through it, no need to show the band
around her wrist, and straight on, along a maze of hallways, some broad, with
closed doors lining them, some narrow. Eventually they entered one with doors
on either side and he grabbed a keycard from his jeans pocket, swiped it down
the slot and pushed it open, dragging her inside. Not unwillingly.

No sooner had the door closed than he had her against it,
his big body swamping her, his mouth on hers, feasting as if they’d spent weeks
apart. When he unfastened the buttons on her shirt, she realized his hands were
shaking.

“What about the press conference?” she asked when he’d
finally moved back to strip her.

He looked at her so she could see his words. “They can wait.
I can’t.”

Hooking her arm around his neck, she dragged him back for
another desperate kiss. Their tongues met and stroked, demanding attention, and
he found the button to her jeans. He had her unfastened in an instant and his
big hands, so recently on the drumsticks, were on her now, his finger inside
her. He pushed two fingers inside, but she was already soaked, so there was no
impediment to his insistent strokes.

When he finished their second kiss, she tried to pull him
back, but he shook his head and pushed at her jeans until he went down on one
knee and dragged them off, together with her panties. Wide-legged jeans, so
they went over her sneakers, which he didn’t bother to undo. For a moment, she
thought he meant to suck her clit again, and pushed her groin forward to make
it easy for him. But with a groan he straightened, his hand going to the
fastening of his own jeans. “No time,” he said. “Later.”

She didn’t know where the condom had come from and she
didn’t care. She wanted this gorgeous, sexy man and with every throb of his
drums tonight, she’d wanted him more. It was if he’d driven a path right inside
her, and her body pulsed with wanting him. If he stopped now, she’d die. Either
that or kill him.