The Player

Chapter 1

1

Flynn

Nadia is having a panic attack.

I'm in the alley behind Rue's Lounge sharing a blunt with my buddies in the band when the stunning young Russian comes flying out the emergency exit door gasping for breath.

She veers quickly around the corner like she doesn't want to be seen.

“I'll see you guys inside.” I push off the wall and pass the blunt back to Ty, our drummer. I don’t call attention to Nadia, the girl who lives in my sister’s building. I'm sure she wants privacy while she tries to get control.

I'm all too familiar with what a panic attack looks like. My mom suffers from anxiety and depression, and I've spent my entire life helping her navigate it. Lightening her moods. Working to make her smile.

I stroll around the corner like I'm still just out for a smoke and find Nadia with her back against the bricks and tears streaming down her face. I don’t know her that well. Not well enough to presume she wants to talk to me right now. Or that I’m any comfort to her.

But I’m incapable of walking away. Not before trying.

Her eyes widen when she sees me, and she gasps harder to catch her breath, doubling over at the waist, her hands resting on her ripped jeans.

I lean my back against the brick wall beside her, so we're side by side. No direct eye contact. No threatening interaction required.

After a moment, she lifts her torso, but she’s still unable to breathe. Her face is red and tears leak from the outer corners of her eyes. I can't think of any words to say, so I just take her hand and thread my fingers through hers.

She struggles to inhale for a few moments longer, and then some of the fight drops away, and her arm loosens.

“Hey,” I say softly.

She whimpers.

I’ve been drawn to this girl since she first started coming to see the band. She’s gorgeous but in the most understated way–almost like she’s hiding. Like she doesn’t want anyone to see her. But then she lights up when I talk to her, so I figure maybe she’s just shy.

Now I think I understand it better. She has social anxiety.

Which is totally cool. There is no one less daunted by mental health issues than I am.

“I love your new hairstyle.” With our hands still joined, I reach up and brush a lock of hair from her brown eyes.

She showed up tonight with copper highlights in her brown hair and her previously long hair cut into a long shaggy bob that frames her heart-shaped face. She's also wearing make-up tonight–another first. Black eyeliner sweeps under her eyes and out toward the outer edges of her brows in a dramatic nod to punk. The upper and lower lids are rimmed and shadowed with gold, copper and bronze that catch the light and make the gold flecks in her eyes pop. She’s wearing an open flannel shirt over a pale pink tank top that molds to her breasts.

I purposely don't address the panic attack. I'm not going to ask her what's wrong or if she's okay. I know none of those things will help her move past this moment. She's probably already embarrassed enough that someone has seen her.

“You do?” she chokes out. I hear the relief in her voice that we're not talking about the tears.

“Yeah,” I say. “You look great.”

She takes her fingers back and wraps her arms around her waist. I push off the wall to face her and adjust the lapels of her black leather jacket, zipping it up because she looks cold. I guess even if you’re from Russia, Chicago is too damn cold in February to stand outside for long.

“Do you want a hit?” I ask. I have another blunt in my pocket that I could light up. As soon as I offer, I wish I hadn’t.

It feels wrong to offer her w**d even though I know m*******a is useful for anxiety. I feel like a reprobate. I have no idea how she feels about partying or drugs or even alcohol for that matter. I’ve never seen her drink anything but a bottle of water.

Besides, I don't want her to go down that rabbit hole if she’s not already in it. I know so many people who've wasted entirely too much of their lives getting stoned–myself included. Nadia seems too fresh and bright for that. She seems pure.

“What?” She looks me in the eyes for the first time since I arrived.

“Never mind,” I say. “It was a dumb idea. I have a better one.” I catch her hand again and tug her toward the van the band uses to transport our instruments and equipment.

She hesitates, dragging her feet a bit, so I stop to wait. “Are you scared of me?” I am a guy she barely knows trying to pull her to his car in a back alley. It makes sense she’d be reluctant to follow.

But she shakes her head, and the resistance leaves. I pull her to the back of the van where I open the doors. After I crawl inside, I hold my hand out for hers. Her brows go down, but she takes my proffered palm and climbs in. “What are we doing?”

I pull the doors shut and sit cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the van. “It's warmer in here.”

She gets comfortable, leaning her back against the sidewall of the van. “Won't your bandmates miss you? I mean, don't you have to go play?”

I shrug. “I'll go back in a minute. For now, it's nice to be away from the crowd. Don't you think?”

Probably understanding that I'm helping her, she tips her head back against the side of the van and lets out a soft sob. A tear streaks down her face.

I keep my mouth shut. This is the art of being with someone in a meltdown. You match their energy. Share the burden. Normalize the moment.

Even though she’s crying again, I sense the panic ebb. The tears are the letdown that comes afterward.

“I like my hair, too.” Her Russian accent is sexy–I could listen to her all night. “I felt so strong tonight.” She swipes at the tears with the back of her hand. “And I want to go to a party with you.” When I tilt my head in puzzlement, her eyes widen like she wishes she could take the words back. “I mean–you invited me last month, and I wanted to go, but crowds make me hyperventilate. So I've been trying to work on it.”

“Yeah,” I say like it's all no big deal. Because, truthfully, it isn’t. She could freak out or cry all night, and I wouldn't judge. I wouldn't run. I have a capacity for chilling with emotional wreckage.

I let her gather herself in silence for a beat then offer, “We could go to a party tonight.”

Her gaze lifts to mine in a sort of shocked wonder. She’s wearing a pink-gold lip gloss that makes me want to kiss her pretty bowtie mouth.

“After the show. I already know of at least two parties. We could go to both. You know–try it out. See how you do.”

I know she was already writing tonight off as a failure. Maybe she was waiting outside for a ride to go home. But I figure the night is still young. Panic attacks pass. The best thing to do is just move on. Try again. Not make a big deal out of it.

Her full lips part.

“Nadia!” A male voice bellows in the alley.

Only because I hear the panic in his voice–like he’s afraid something bad happened to her– do I kick open the back doors to the van and call back, “She’s in here!”

I climb out to find the guy I think is her brother striding toward me like he’s about to kick my a*s.

Nadia follows me out and stands beside me, which makes the guy slow his step. “I’m here, Adrian. I’m fine. It was cold, so we sat in the van for a minute.”

He’s definitely her brother–there’s no mistaking the resemblance. I’ve seen him in the building a few times. Another one of the lethal-looking tattooed Russian mafiya members. I’d be more wary if my sister, Story, wasn’t living with one of them.

I guess her boyfriend normalized the mob for me.

His girlfriend runs up behind him and hooks her arm through his like she’s trying to slow his roll. “She’s okay. Let’s go back in, Adrian.”

Adrian doesn’t move. He gives me a glower before turning his gaze back on Nadia. “What happened?”

Ugh.

Does this guy not know that bringing it up is only going to bring her down?

“I invited her outside for some fresh air,” I lie, looping my arm behind her back like this was some kind of flirtation and not a near-emergency.

He ignores me. “We should go.”

I draw Nadia closer. She lets me. She fits nicely by my side, her smaller purple Converse beside my black ones. I like the feel of her against me.

She glances up at me uncertainly. “I-I’m going to stay.” She looks back at her brother. “Flynn and I are going to a party after the show.”

Adrian’s girlfriend’s face splits into a smile. “That’s great! See? She’s fine. Let’s–”

“No.” Adrian squares off like he’s going to fight me if I try to convince him otherwise. I can’t tell if he’s protective or controlling or both. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and say he’s concerned because he knows about his sister’s social anxiety, but I don’t think making a big deal about it does her any favors. If anything, it reinforces the feedback loop that there’s something wrong with her.

It’s Nadia who takes charge. She pushes me toward the building, simply walking away from her brother.

“Nadia!” he yells, but he doesn’t follow.

I sense both their gazes on our backs as I take Nadia’s hand and lead her in through the propped stage entrance door.

Inside, Story is waiting with the rest of the band, her electric guitar looped over one shoulder. She thrusts my guitar at me. “Jesus, Flynn, where in the hell–oh.” She sees Nadia and chops her own tirade off. “Hey, Nadia. I think Adrian’s looking for you.”

I shrug off my jacket and toss it over a chair. “He found her,” I clip, sliding the guitar strap over my head. I catch Nadia’s gaze and see she’s starting to turn frantic again. I tip my head toward the stage. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

Her body goes rigid. “What?”

“Flynn, we're going on now,” Story says with impatience.

I ignore her, stepping close to Nadia, right into her personal space. “Do you trust me?” I meet her gold-flecked eyes with mine.

She locks onto my gaze like I’m a lifeline. Like she’s walking on a tightrope, and if she dares to look away, she’ll lose her balance and fall.

I shouldn’t take offense that her answer isn’t immediate. We don’t really know each other. We’ve never even been alone together before those few minutes in the van. She’s just a girl who comes to my shows. An acquaintance.

But I know my intentions are good. I know down to my bones that I speak her language. Not Russian. But another one. The emotional one. Or energetic. I may not know anything about her, but I get her completely.

“Flynn!” Story hisses over her shoulder as she and the other band members go out on stage. The crowd cheers.

Finally, Nadia gives a tiny nod.

“‘Kay. Come here.” I send her a smile and take her hand, leading her to the wing of the stage. I yank a chair over and situate it just behind the wing. “Sit here.” I point at the seat.

She hesitates, blinking into the stage lights.

“Just sit,” I coax.

With faltering steps, she advances and sits in the chair, looking up at me expectantly.

I point toward the stage with a grin. “Best seat in the house,” I tell her. “You can see everything on stage in complete privacy.”

She cranes her neck around the curtain and darts a look toward the packed house. The air is thick and warm with bodies.

The Storytellers should really be playing bigger venues, but Rue gave us our first job, and we're loath to snub her now. If she decides one day she's sick of the crowds we bring, then we'll move somewhere else. For now, our fans will just have to get here early or buy their tickets in advance because we pack the house and sell out every Saturday night.

“See?” I tilt my head toward the audience. “If you can't see them, they can't see you.”

At last, I win one of her rare but beautiful smiles. Like a flower blooming in the snow.

“All right—we are back.” Story speaks into the microphone. “We're going to get going with our next set just as soon as my brother gets his butt out here onto the stage.”

The crowd cheers. “Flynn! Flynn! Flynn!”

“You okay?” I ask Nadia.

She nods. I see hope shining behind her expression, and it does something odd to my chest.

“Don't go anywhere,” I tell her.

Pink stains her cheeks. “I won't.”

“Promise?”

“Flynn!” Lake yells from the stage.

I wait for Nadia's answer.

“Promise,” she says.

I flash her a smile and jog out to the stage just in time to get hit by three girls' panties at once.