Save a Prayer (3 page)

A
ngie

At least when I was behind the camera, I felt like I knew what I was doing. Last night with Graham had fully illustrated that I didn't always know what I was doing when it came to matters of the heart. If someone had asked me twenty-four hours ago to wager money on whether or not I was over Graham Whiting, I would've laid down a hefty bet on "over". There had been no doubt in my mind. Not a speck of questioning. But I'd failed to form a contingency plan for the two things that could end up being my biggest downfall—the torch Graham was still carrying for me, and his superhuman pull on me.

His kiss still lingered on my cheek. It nearly made me dizzy when it'd happened. I'd leaned against the door inside my hotel room after he left, brushing my fingers across the spot where he'd pressed his lips. Funny, but Graham and I had never reached the point where a kiss didn't feel special. Even after two years. No—every time he laid one on me, even a small one, the world went topsy turvy.

Graham and Chris took their seats behind the big boom microphones in the radio studio, massive headphones on. I stood in the background and snapped away with my camera as they chatted with the DJ and started to take phone calls from fans. My dad had taught me well, the art of seeing people for what they are and capturing it all on film. Every amazing candid shot I captured only dug up another memory of last night and the flutter in my stomach when Graham had walked me to my room. How could he still make me feel like that, even after I'd brainwashed myself into thinking he was all wrong? And standing here, taking pictures of him, I couldn't escape the feeling that my heart had somehow missed the memo about being over Graham. It was whispering in my ear that I was missing out.

And with good reason. Graham was just…there was something about him. If anyone was born to be a rock star, he was, burning so much brighter than a normal person. One smile from him and the rest of the world seemed to stop. One clever quip and the masses were laughing. Same could be said for Chris, both of them the sort of guy who walks into a room and makes everything come alive. The sort of guy who makes you feel like you're the luckiest girl on the planet if you get even a sliver of his attention. Being in the biggest band on planet Earth only added to the spectre of Chris and Graham.

"We're going to take a few more calls," the DJ said. "We have Jennifer from Swarthmore on the line."

"Hi Graham and Chris. I'm such a huge fan and I think you're so awesome and I just love you guys so much."

Graham leaned into the microphone. "Thank you. We love our fans. Did you have a question for us?" His voice came out with a sexy rumble. I nearly had to grab the wall to keep my balance.

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Oh my God. I'm so nervous,” the caller said. “Um, my question is for Christopher. I didn't really know what to ask but I really wanted to talk to you, so I'm just going to ask if you prefer brunettes or blondes."

Chris grinned wide. "I have to ask what color your hair is, love."

"Oh my God. Are you serious? Blonde. I'm blonde."

"Well, I generally prefer brunettes, but I'd absolutely make an exception for the right blonde." He said it in an unbelievably flirtatious tone. Between Graham and Chris, every girl listening to the station had to be dying, especially poor Jennifer from Swarthmore. I was certainly about ready to faint. No wonder there was a legion of girls out there for them—their allure was indisputable, like gravity.

"Excellent answer. It's like you guys have done this before." The DJ laughed at his own joke. "Does that answer your question, Jennifer?" His inquiry was met with dead silence. "Huh. I think you might have killed her, Mr. Penman."

"I'm very sorry," Chris said. "That happens sometimes."

"And how about you, Graham?" the DJ asked. "Blonde or brunette?"

"Yes."

Everyone in the studio burst out laughing. I caught the look on his face, that sly pride that said he was glad he'd done what he had. And I'd caught it on film.

Graham snickered. "But seriously, I think it's an unfair question to be honest. What about gingers?" He pivoted in his seat and looked right at me. "I love a fiery redhead."

Cheeky bastard.
My face heated and I retreated back behind my camera, my mind back to running in circles. I was doing more than letting him flirt with me— was lapping up every second of it like a thirsty puppy. I needed to get my head on straight—I was enjoying being around him way too much for a woman who was sure she wanted nothing more to do with him.

The DJ wrapped up the interview and Reggie escorted us down to the limo waiting behind the radio station. They let me into the car first, but Graham followed and sat next to me. Proximity was going to make my attempts to focus on work difficult, especially given the subject of my photo assignment.

The police had blocked off the alley, so there weren't any fans, but sure enough, there was a mob of them once we made it to the street. They shrieked something awful.
I love you, Graham. Christopher, we love you.
Despite the presence of police officers and a barricade, the girls pushed through to the limo, pounding on the windows, making the most horrible sound, like hail the size of golf balls pelting the car. A dozen or so fans chased after the limo, screaming for Graham and Chris. Luckily, our driver seemed to know what he was doing and lost them quickly.

"Is it always that bad?" I pulled out my camera and started taking pictures again.
Focus.
I snapped a few of Chris, but then he pulled out a tissue and blew his nose, so I decided I'd best turn the lens on Graham.

"It's really weird to feel like I can't let down my guard around you," Graham said to me. The soft light in the back of the car made his eyes blaze with intensity. His hair was pretty damn exceptional today, too—messy and slumped over to one side, perfect for fingers. "What with you taking pictures non-stop."

"Oh, come on. You know you love it. And this is the sort of stuff the magazine wants. Slice of life. The back of the limo. Doing a radio interview. It might be old hat for you guys now, but it's incredibly glamorous to a teenaged girl. Just relax and pretend like you're extremely busy being a rock star."

"I'd rather talk to you. It's not easy when you're hiding behind a lens all day long."

I held my camera in one hand and looked him square in the eye. He grinned and I didn't want to smile back like a girl who was too easily charmed, even though that was exactly the way he made me feel, so I pressed my lips together tightly.

"You're trying not to smile. I can tell."

"No I'm not." I could already feel the corners of my mouth about to betray me.

"Yes you are." His gaze made me uncomfortably hot. If I couldn't handle the raw chemistry between Graham and me when I was fighting it tooth and nail, I might combust if I gave into it.

"Do I need to separate you two?" Chris looked at me as if it were my job to be the grownup in this situation.

"No. Angie's seeing to us being plenty separate," Graham answered.

His vision was so intently focused on me that I nearly squirmed in my seat. "Hey, can we get back to the business of rock stars hanging out in the limo?"

A
ngie

Graham wanted to talk when we got back from the radio station, but I owed my mum a phone call, so I used that as my excuse and caught a short break in my room back at the hotel. It wasn't that I needed a break from Graham. I needed a break from the way I was acting around him, behaving as if there were no repercussions to things like flirtatious glances and questions with double meanings.

I settled back against the headboard as the call to my mum went through.

"Hello?" Her voice, filtered through the crackle of an overseas connection, made my eyes watery.

"Hi, Mum. It's me."

"I thought you weren't coming home from America until next week." She’d really slipped, and I’d only been away from England for barely two days.

"Mom. I'm still here. Remember, I said that I'd call you?" I pulled my knees up to my chest, picking at a snag in the fabric of my stretchy red dress.

"But that's so expensive. I don't think it's a good idea for us to talk long distance."

"No, Mum. It's fine. The magazine is paying my expenses. And I need to know that you're okay."

"I'm fine. I went to see your father this morning."

"How's he doing today?"

"The same. A bit sad. I could see it in his eyes. You know how hard it is to look at him when you can tell that he has something he wants to say, but can't."

Indeed, it was the most torturous thing in the world to sit next to his bed at the rehab hospital, look that brilliant man in the face, knowing everything he was capable of, and yet it was all bottled up inside him now. "I'm sorry. I know that's hard. No worries, though. I'll be back in England in a few days and you'll have more help again."

"I don't want you to worry too much. I know you have work to do. How's it going?”

“Well enough. It’s not easy being around Graham.”

“Graham is there?”

I shook my head. Her forgetfulness was becoming a big concern. “Yes, Mom. That’s the whole reason I’m here. Remember? To photograph his band?”

She was quiet on the other end of the line for a moment. “Oh. Well, is he behaving himself? Because if he isn't, I've got a right mind to set him straight."

She was always so funny when she got ornery, and I loved her protective inclination. "He's behaved, but it's been really hard to be around him. He's just so bloody charming."

"Just like your father. I swear, I had no defense for the man. I couldn't have stayed away from him if I'd wanted to. Not that I'm comparing Graham to your father.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Just don't let him take advantage."

I wasn't sure what sort of advantage she was worried he might take, but I didn't care to discuss it any further. At this point, my biggest worry was the advantages I might be willing to hand to him on a silver platter. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I'd better go though. I'm due to go with the band over to the festival grounds. We have to be there quite early."

"Oh, okay. Well, you take care. Love you, darling."

"Love you, too."

After a quick trip to the loo and a fresh coat of mascara, I met the guys back behind the hotel, where they had a motor pool of golf carts to take the talent down the street to the Music Revolution festival. Organizers had been clear with Reggie that the band needed to be on site hours before their set. We rode in a caravan of motorized buggies, bouncing along through a maze of fenced-off pathways of trampled grass, which led to the backstage area. The sun peeked between clouds, the humidity made a frizzy mess of my hair. The smell of carnival food and beer hung in the air.

I was in the second cart, sitting next to Graham, at his invitation. I suppose I could've said no, but I didn't want to make a big deal of it. And the truth was that whatever shift there had been last night when we talked and again today in the radio studio, we would always be friends. Graham and I were not the sort of people who'd ever be able to completely walk away from each other. There were ties there that could not be broken, no matter what either of us ever did to hurt the other.

Back behind the four main festival stages, trailers were corralled in a horseshoe shape around a large, central space, almost like a picnic area. Each band, or at least the major acts, had their own trailer. There were twelve bands playing on the main stage today. Right now, at mid-afternoon, a-Ha was on stage, with Cyndi Lauper to follow. Banks didn't go on until eight.

Reggie spoke to a woman with a walkie-talkie about locating the Banks Forest trailer. I took a few pictures of him—the light was so perfect. He wasn't a classically handsome guy, but he looked smart and in control, taking care of four guys who meant an awful lot to him and to me. I doubted the magazine would print the photos of Reggie, but it was part of the behind-the-scenes life of Banks Forest and that was what I'd been asked to deliver.

Everyone climbed out when we arrived at our trailer. I sneaked up to the towering fence separating us from the masses. Through a break between the boards, I took a few pictures of the crowd. It was a nearly incomprehensible sea of people stretching off to the horizon, watching the band, talking, and dancing. There were more Banks Forest T-shirts out there than I could count, mostly worn by girls. The fans—their adoring, female fans.

Graham pulled me aside. "Come on, love. Let's go for a walk. Nobody will bother us if we stay back here."

My brain got stuck on "love". He hadn't called me that in ages and it really tripped me up, especially when I noticed that it had made my chest flutter with excitement. "But the guys. I'm supposed to take more pictures." It sounded like a lame excuse, but it was the first thing that came to mind when I wasn't prepared for another heart-to-heart. I had the growing suspicion that Graham was seeking me out because he had some need for me to finally, once and for all, absolve him of his transgression.

He blew out an exasperated breath. "I promise you'll get your chance at more pictures. We'll be spending more than enough time backstage. There's nearly five hours until we go on. And don't forget we have New York ahead of us."

I still wasn't sold and my dad was there in the back of my head, telling me to focus on the job and don’t get involved.

But it was a little late for that. Graham and I had passed the point of “involved” a long time ago. I couldn’t brush him off—not when he seemed so dead-set on talking. What if he needed my help? I might be making a lot of stupid assumptions. "Okay. But I'm bringing my camera. If you do anything noteworthy, I'm taking pictures."

Graham then did the one thing I truly wasn't prepared for, especially not after he'd ambushed me with "love".

He took my hand.

I stood with my feet frozen to the ground, looking down at our fingers clasped as Graham tried to tug me away. I couldn't ignore how conflicted I was. No matter what he and I were about to discuss, I couldn't imagine skipping away from it like a giddy schoolgirl.

We walked away from the trailers back to a fenced-off staging area for equipment. A few security guards were on hand, presumably to keep amps and drum cases from being nicked. No fans to worry about, as close to privacy as we were going to get. We found a shady spot under a tree and we sat, both of us leaning against the fat, gnarled trunk. It was much like a scene from the summer we started dating, when we used to hang out in a park in Stourbridge. I was still living with my parents, and Graham was living in an unkempt bachelor flat with Nigel and Terence and those two were always home. The park gave us the only alone time we could get some days.

We'd sometimes bring a picnic or otherwise sit and talk, always between kisses, lots of kisses. One of the things I most adored about Graham early on was that he hadn't pressured me for sex. We'd taken our time getting there—nearly three weeks. I'd only done it with two other guys before him, and the second one, Bradley, left deep emotional scars and came close to leaving a few real ones. I'd tried to break up with him many times, and it never worked—he'd fly into a rage and throw things, tell me he couldn't live without me. When I'd finally had enough, he got so angry that he'd grabbed me, nearly shaking the life out of me and pushing me to the ground. I forced myself to stay away after that, but I was frightened for a long time afterward, terrified I'd run into him or he'd come after me.

I told Graham that story about a week after we'd starting dating, when he'd asked about my past relationships. At the time, only one close girlfriend knew about Bad Brad, as I'd dubbed him, not even my parents. Graham didn't say a word as I told him the story, and I distinctly remembered worrying that I'd told him far more than any guy would ever want to know. When it was over, he took my hand and wasn't about to let go, speaking softly after a few silent moments.
No one should ever hurt a girl, but especially not a girl like you. It kills me to know that happened. I can't imagine anyone ever wanting to hurt you.

After that, he took things very slowly, almost too slowly, all because he wanted to follow my lead. No matter what happened between Graham and me, he would always get bonus points from me for that. He'd listened. He'd cared. A lot.

"What did you want to talk about?" I asked.

He knocked his head back against the tree and ran his hands through his thick mop of hair. I loved the way it would never completely lie flat. It was always sticking up somewhere. "I didn't get to fully apologize to you last night."

I stopped him before he could go any further. "It's okay, Graham. Really. It is. Stop torturing yourself."

He turned to me, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. "You’re so beautiful, Ang. Inside and out. I could spend a lifetime looking for a girl like you and never find anyone who'd could come close to matching how incredible you are."

I swallowed, hard. His words were pulling me out of the safe place in my head and heart, the universe of my own creation where I was over him. And I could feel myself willingly going.