She led him to a grassy spot behind the large crowd. From here, the music was still loud but tolerable. They could talk without shouting. She drew out the blanket and he helped her spread it into a large square. Allison collapsed onto it, lying back, and Peter lowered himself to sit with his feet flat on the grass and his knees bent.
“Relax, Peter.” Allison tugged him backward so he was leaning back on his elbows. His right side pressed against her left from shoulder to foot.
Though he was lying back in a relaxed pose, his muscles remained tight and tense. He didn’t know what to say or do. Allison solved the dilemma by pressing her palm over his forearm and saying, “Listen to the music. Feel the rhythm?”
He concentrated, tempted to tell her theratatatatof the drum was like a jackhammer in his ear, but then the rhythm and pulse of it caught him up and his foot tapped and his head bobbed, and for a wild moment he wanted to jump up and shout or dance. It was amazing. It was primal.
“You’re feeling it,” she laughed.
He imitated the way she lay on her side, and he rested his head in his hand, balanced on his elbow. Daringly, he ran his left hand along her wrist. “You like the music?”
“I looove the music,” she said. “It’s who I am. I’m a singer.”
“In bands like this?” He gestured toward the faraway stage.
“I wish. Someday. As soon as I save enough, I’m going to New York City. There’s a club there called CBGB. I’m going to get a job there and find a band.”
“How old are you?” She looked a little younger than him, and way too young to tackle the city of New York by herself.
“I’m eighteen,” she said. “I graduated high school a few weeks ago, and now I’m free. Free to do anything I want.”
“No college?”
She rolled on her side and her feet tangled between his ankles. His breath caught at the intimacy of the position. “God, you sound like my parents. Don’t be a downer. College isn’t for everyone, you know.”
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t go to college and I have no plans to.”
“Really?” She brightened a little and leaned up to kiss his cheek, then recoiled back. “I’m sorry. That was bold of me. This’ll sound weird, but I feel like I know you. Like we were meant to meet today. Stupid, right? I don’t even know your last name.”
“Shepard,” he said automatically, abandoning his plan to use a false last name and false identity. His fingertips rubbed his cheek where her lips had touched. His first kiss. He wasn’t going to lie to Allison, because what she’d said about feeling close to him was exactly what he was feeling. Ten minutes ago he’d been at this concert, lonely and out of place. Now he was with a woman who made him feel like they were at the center of an organized universe. He hoped she’d be daring enough to kiss him again, this time on the lips.
“I’m Allison Macclesfield.”
“Hi,” he said, sitting up to offer his hand. She sat up also and giggled as they formally shook hands.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she said, shocking the hell out of him when she released his hand and climbed into his lap. The synapses in his enhanced brain went haywire and then settled as he inhaled the scent of her mixed with the herb she’d previously been smoking. “This okay?” she asked, obviously feeling his stiffness and hesitation at the new position.
His legs bracketed her thighs, and his arms came around her to cuddle her up against his chest. “It’s excellent,” he said. He loved feeling her body against his but wished he could see her expressive face.
“Your hair isn’t this color naturally,” he said, observing a dark line along the part in her scalp.
She giggled, causing a vibration against his chest. “Well, duh. No one’s hair is platinum naturally. I dyed it to look like Blondie, but I’m thinking of changing it and cutting my hair to give it more of a Pat Benatar look. What do you think?”
He vaguely knew who Blondie and Pat Benatar were. Ever since he’d been fighting to get off campus and attend this festival, he’d been reading the newspapers and magazines. There’d been mention of both female singers. Unfortunately he’d never had the opportunity to buy one of their albums, so he couldn’t share Allison’s love of their music. “You’d be beautiful no matter what you do to your hair.”
She swiveled slightly to smile up at him, and he nearly groaned at the sensation in his groin. “Is that a line?”
He shook his head, wondering what a line was.
“Cause no guy our age talks like that. ‘Beautiful no matter what I do to my hair?’” She released a breath through her nose. “What if I went punk? Would I beautiful if I had a green Mohawk?”
He grinned, mostly at the image of bringing a woman onto The Program campus who looked like everything his commanding officers feared. They had a deep-rooted fear of hippies and now punks. “Sure. What about me? Should I dye my hair blue?”
Her husky laugh warmed the cold lonely center of him that had longed for the ease of normal friendship like on the sitcoms he’d occasionally been allowed to watch. His life was nothing likeHappy Days, but man, wouldn’t it be nice to pretend he was Chachi and Allison was his Joanie. Someday The Program would do a search and find his destined match, and he’d live happily ever after with her, but he wanted to experience a little of life before he became a breeding stud.
“So if you’re not a college student, what do you do?” Allison asked.
“Uh,” he stuttered, trying to come up with a new cover story on the fly, one that wouldn’t make Allison hate him if she ever learned the truth. He had a feeling that the truth would be revealed to her sooner rather than later. He’d latched onto the thing she’d said about feeling destined to meet and as if she’d known him for longer than a quarter of an hour. He was feeling it too. “I’m kind of in between things now.” Not a total lie. He’d been in military training for sixteen years, since he’d been old enough to walk and talk, but had yet to be tested on a real battleground.