Page 46 of Graves

I’ve gotten used to the sight of the paparazzi by now. I tell the driver to pull up at Muvi’s restaurant. We go through the gate into the courtyard and enter the building through the back. The world is spinning and I’m grateful to have Nahla to lean on. We take the elevator to the top floor, and I take out the keys. Nahla snatches them when I can’t find the lock and makes sure I don’t trip over the threshold.

“Oh no,” I slur. “We have to get Pixie.”

“I don’t think your old lady neighbor is still awake.” She laughs, guiding me inside. “You can pick her up tomorrow.”

“No… Harriet stays up late.”

“It’s after midnight.”

Nahla suddenly stops. I lift my heavy head and look around. In the dim light of the living room, Aran is sitting on the couch with an acoustic guitar on his lap. He has a pen in his hand and a notebook in front of him. He blinks at us in surprise.

“Holy shit,” Nahla mutters so only I can hear.

“What?” I mumble, pushing off her heavily and stumbling into the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him set the guitar down and stand up. “Aran, this is Nahla. Nahla, Aran.” I grab a glass from the cabinet, fill it with water, and drink it in one go. Then I refill it and glance up.

“Hi,” he greets, politely offering Nahla his hand.

“Hi!” my friend says, transforming from African goddess to fangirl in a heartbeat. “Holy shit! Aran Graves! In the flesh!” She shakes his hand and doesn’t want to let go. “Th-thank you for the concert tickets! Last Sunday was insane!”

“I’m glad you liked it.” He gently moves his hand back.

Even after five years, he still knows exactly how to handle fans. He even smiles while Nahla raves about her favorite songs and shares a few memories.

I watch the two of them—or rather, I watch Aran.

He stands barefoot in front of Nahla, wearing black jeans, a Rise Against T-shirt, and an open black button-up over it. His dark brown hair sticks out in every direction as usual, even when he runs a hand through it, trying to tame it. And then there’s that restrained quality that makes him so damn attractive.

Why am I suddenly into this guy?

“Working on a new song?” Nahla asks, gazing at the coffee table.

“Uh… no… or… kind of,” he answers awkwardly. “I don’t really know.”

I don’t know why it calms me to see him with a guitar. Maybe because I’ve witnessed his chaotic noise experiments in the studio several times this week? What he produces in there is just noise. The guitar gives me hope that maybe a real musician wasn’t lost after all.

“You guys were out?”

“Yeah, at Lux. Koh went a little overboard.” Nahla giggles. “Come with us next time! Oh God, I have no idea why I said that. I only had three beers. Or was it four?”

“There were exactly five,” I slur. Ever since Luke, I count everything.

Aran’s smile changes. When he turns his head toward me, his expression softens into something genuinely tender. “Believe me,” he tells Nahla, “I’d really like that. Maybe… sometime.”

He’s keeping it together well, but I can see the sadness in his eyes.

Why is he sad? He’s a fucking rockstar! Fresh out of prison!

“We’ll figure out a way to get rid of the paparazzi outside,” Nahla jokes, earning another restrained smile from Aran.

It’s obvious they get along, and I don’t like it one bit. “We should drink to that,” I blurt out.

“You got anything?” Nahla asks, already heading for the kitchen.

Aran strokes his mouth and chin, turns indecisively toward the coffee table, then back to us. He’s still holding the pen.

I snag the ouzo from the fridge and shot glasses from the cabinet. “You in, Aran?”

He eyes the bottle warily. “I’m not a great drinker,” he mutters.