Page 4 of Cuervo's Carnival
I try to push through the anxiety that has resurfaced, reassuring myself that I did not hear what I thought. But then, the menacing croak reemerges an octave higher as it practically annunciates every syllable, confirming my nightmare.
“Lola,”the sound screeches my name once more.
I glance over my shoulder, hoping, praying to a god I don’t believe exists that someone is trying to get my attention and that I’m not going crazy. But much to my dismay, the crowd that filled the open area outside the concert tent just moments before has dissipated. Now, all that remains…is me with the raven.
Perched in eerie silence, it mocks me, cocking its head in my direction as if it is waiting for me to begin to converse with it.
Once more, I try to ignore its presence. I make it not even two steps before the rich hue of inky black invades my periphery. Stretching its expansive wingspan outward as it comes closer to me, it descends from the statue with swift precision, but I process its movement toward me like it is happening in a slow, cryptic motion.
I am snapped out of my trance when I peer at my shoulder and see that it is now perched on me, just as it was the bronzed Pallas. Its long talons curl against my skin, causing my increased heart rate to taper until I feel nothing but a glacial chill washing over me. Replacing the angst and fear with an unexpected calm.
Unsure of why it has nestled itself on me or why my body is having these conflicting reactions, I remain still.
Burrowing its head against my cheek, it opens its bill once more. This time, its deafening croak has been reduced to a sullen murmur as the word “pronto” leaks into my ear.Soon.
And with that word, which it repeats two more times, its presence on my shoulder vanishes as it takes flight, ascending back to wherever it came from. Leaving me feeling simultaneously shattered and connected in its wake.
* * *
A loud cheerexplodes throughout the crowd as the band on stage wraps up their song. Making my way through the sea of rowdy people, I glance up at the lead guitarist, who is sporting a black tank with the words “Stitched Pumpkins” on it.
Perfect timing, as I remember Zeke mentioning the guys would be playing after the Stitched Pumpkins. Somehow, even with my unexpected detour, I still made it on time.
It feels strange having to sneak up on them like this. Usually, when they have a gig, I am front and center in the crowd, swaying my body to the beat of the music, until afterwards, when they can sway me in between them. Though now, since I have had to go along with my father’s plans for me, per their request, I feel like I have been simply existing on the sidelines, observing them from a distance, and I can’t stand it.
The crowd begins to roar when the DJ in the corner of the stage announces their band, The Midnight Dreary’s, is up next.
I position myself close enough to the center of the stage, where I can get a good look at them, but still far enough that they won’t notice me right away.
Paxton leads the way onto the stage with his confident strut, running his hand through his partially slicked-back blonde hair before waving to the crowd. He flashes a smile that highlights the pronounced dimples on his chiseled features. Even with the dense scruff that adorns the lower half of his face, his dimples peek through with his widening grin.
The women in the crowd scream even louder when Paxton grabs the mic to address the audience. My gaze darts over to the drums, where Cillian sneaks onto the stage. I know he is just as pumped to play as Pax—the stage is their happy place—but unlike Paxton, Cillian isn’t into grand entrances. He would rather just play and allow the music to work through him.
Their other band members take their place on the stage, though they are just background to me. All I can see up on the smog-covered stage are them.
Paxton begins the opening riff to Diary of Jane. Cillian’s part on the drums begins just after that, and within seconds, the energy under the tent becomes electrifying.
The rumble of the music rattles my core as I watch them play one of my favorite songs. Since my middle name is Jane, this has become one of their go-to songs to play when they perform covers.
I wish they would play more of their own music because they are such incredible songwriters, but they always seem to fall back on playing other artists’ songs instead. It’s like they are embarrassed by releasing the words that leak from their hearts out into the world. I’ve only read some of the songs they have written—by accident—but the lyrics were as tragic as they were beautiful. I can only fantasize about how stunning they would sound coming from Paxton’s lips while Cillian beats to the rhythm on his drums.
My eyes zone in on Paxton, who is wearing a plain, white tee under his decorated leather club vest. He sings in his breathy baritone with eyes closed, feeling the music as he grips the microphone as if holding on for life. The intensity in his voice and how his body commands the attention of everyone in the audience make him shine more than he already does. Purple lights hang above the stage, highlighting the golden hues of his dense beard and reflecting the row of rings he dawns on his fingers. I watch the veins in his muscular arms bulge out as he practically growls the lyrics that he has memorized by heart.
My hips move to the sinfully chaotic beat while my hands trail up to my breast. I feel up my ample cleavage until my fingers grab hold of my braids that drape over them. I twirl my hair playfully, drinking them in as my gaze shifts to Cillian, also in his club vest. He has opted out of wearing a shirt underneath, so his chest piece is on full display.
He is much leaner than Paxton’s brawny, muscular build, and look-wise, Pax’s complete opposite. Where Pax has fair skin, Cillian’s is olive, like mine, and his eyes are black as night, with mid-length hair to match. He is just as alluring with his body covered in ink. Every inch of his tanned skin—neck, chest, arms, legs, everywhere aside from his cock—is covered in murals of ink. He, just like Paxton, is a walking piece of art.
My hips grind the air with wanton need, matching the pace of Cillian slamming down on the drums. I stare at the way his ink-drawn digits grip each drumstick, fantasizing about what those fingers could be doing to me instead. The way he plays the drums is parallel to how he fucks. Rough, passionate, and so fucking intense. Music, much like sex, is how he communicates all the thoughts that creep into his complex mind. A sight as mesmerizing as it is erotic.
The more I witness his body thrash, along with the mayhem he unleashes on his drum set—not just playing the music but becoming it—filthy thoughts infiltrate my mind.
Even though I could watch them play all night long, I feel a ping of relief when the sound of the final riff sears through the speakers.
It is then, when the music has stopped, that their eyes finally focus in on me. Their expressions are angry and starved with desire, all in one unified glance.
A smug grin slips from my lips when I bring my hand upward, playfully waving their way with my fingertips.
Their body language escalates as their jaws tense. The veins that had been popping out in Paxton’s arms have now traveled to his thick neck. They both look eager to pounce on me, making me their prey for the evening.
