Just a Crush

by Tabatha Kiss

  I take a second to catch my breath. “Jonah, I don’t know the first thing about writing music.”

  “But you know everything about the music I’ve written,” he says. “Hell, you probably know it all better than I do.”

  “That doesn’t exactly negate my point.”

  “I know.”

  “And you still want me to do this?”

  “I asked you, didn’t I?”

  I squint. “Not really.”

  Jonah straightens up in his chair and holds his hands out in prayer between us, palms pressed together while his dimples cave in along his chin. “Marla,” he says, “will you please be my songwriting partner?”

  Partner.

  Gulp.

  I let my shoulders sag as I sit back. I’m still getting used to the idea that Jonah Botsford wants to speak to me — at all. Now I have to handle the idea that he wants to collaborate with me? Me?

  Why me indeed.

  “But what if it sucks?” I ask.

  “It might,” he says with a shrug. Then, a smirk. “But what if it doesn’t?”

  What if it’s good?

  What if it’s so good the band records it? And performs it live? And every time I hear it on the radio I get to smile at whoever is around me and say, ‘Hey, I wrote that?’

  I know what if.

  I’d literally die.

  “Mar-la?” Jonah snaps his fingers. “When did I lose you?”

  I chuckle. “Honestly, around the time you tapped me on the shoulder in the middle of class.”

  He smiles. “Eight o’clock good for you?”

  Eight o’clock. Mom should be home by six-thirty. The boys will be down by seven-thirty at the latest, assuming no toddler meltdowns occur. I have a little reading to do but it’s nothing I can’t push back until tomorrow.

  Logically, yes. Eight o’clock works just fine for me.

  But what if it doesn’t?

  What if this is the worst idea in the world?

  What if I’m destined to make a fool out of myself in front of the band that means more to me than any other?

  What if Jonah never taps me on the shoulder again?

  “Yes,” I answer anyway. “Eight o’clock is good for me.”

  Because what if it is?

  Nine

  Jonah

  Knox throws his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer to him in the booth. His other hand hovers dangerously close to the woman’s rear end but I get the feeling she won’t mind at all if he did the ungentlemanly thing here.

  Bronson squeezes into my other side and we hunch together to get all of us in the frame as the woman raises her phone up and smiles.

  “Say Criminal Records!” she says.

  “Criminal Records!” Knox and I repeat as she snaps a few pictures in quick succession. Bronson stays quiet but still smiles, easily retaining his silent reputation.

  Her dishwater blonde hair swirls around her waist as she spins around to face us. “Thanks so much, guys! You’re amazing.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Knox says, laying on enough charm to choke a donkey.

  She gives us a little wave but her stare lingers on Knox as she scuttles back to her friends across the room. Bronson and I slide around the half-circle seat of our booth, keeping a comfortable amount of space between us as Knox’s lashes flit open and closed.

  “Boys, I think I’m in love,” he says.

  I laugh and reach for my beer. “Here we go again…”

  “No, I’m serious this time.” He tips his bottle in her direction. “That’s the girl I’m going to wife.”

  Bronson and I share a glance; the same glance we’ve shared a dozen times before. Knox’s neediness has become a long-running joke within the band for years.

  Then again, Knox does this often enough he’s bound to get lucky eventually.

  I turn away and look across the bar toward the entrance into the crowded lobby.

  Knox nudges my arm. “What are you doing?”

  I turn back to him. “What do you mean?”

  “That’s the seventh time you’ve done that since we sat down.”

  “… That’s a really specific number.”

  “It’s a very specific and noticeable action.” He cranes his head to look over my shoulder. “Who are you looking for?”

  “No one. A friend,” I say. “I invited a friend.”

  He leans forward with interest. “You invited a friend to beer night? Is she hot?”

  “She’s a friend.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Bronson smirks.

  “She’s attractive, yes, but that’s not why I invited her. She’s a…” I pause, torn on how to phrase it. “Okay, remember Harmony?”

  Knox nods largely, using his shoulders as well to dip his neck up and down. “Oh, I remember Harmony. I remember Harmony very well.”

  “She’s like that,” I say.

  Knox bites his lip. “Okay. Well. I also remember Harmony being a cautionary tale for the ages. Harmony ruined me.”

  I point a finger. “You let it go too far. I won’t.”

  “Oh, you say that now,” he warns. “That’s the thing about Harmony. She’s cute and bubbly and fun at first. Harmony makes you feel alive. Harmony fills you with passion and the power of the cosmos. Then, next thing you know, you’re curled up in a fetal position in your bathtub, surviving on a diet of Twinkies and scotch. That’s the power of Harmony.”

  I raise a finger to argue. “Yeah, but you wrote Pure Blue on Harmony,” I point out.

  “I did. Along with Power Play and Save Me and Holler at the Back and…” He sinks into a thousand-yard stare. “Good god, that woman brought me to life.”

  “The mistake you made with Harmony was not keeping it professional,” I say. “I can keep this professional.”

  “Should I call Harmony?” he asks us. “I feel like I should call her.”

  “Don’t call her,” Bronson says, using the best possible moment to hit his three-words-a-minute limit.

  Knox shakes off the disappointment and turns back to me. “Wait, keep this professional? You’re already working together?”

  “Kind of,” I answer. “I have formally extended an invite. I expect her to give me an answer tonight.”

  I turn around to check the entrance again. Still no Marla.

  “You must have already written a song on her if she’s got an invite,” he says.

  I nod. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Well, let’s hear it.”

  I reach into my pocket and withdraw my phone. “Now, it’s still rough in spots, but…”

  I set it down face up in the center of the table and hit play. Unique Utopia starts up, quiet, melodic chords echoing over top of one another.

  Knox tilts his head in that way it always does when he listens to new music. It’s never a decent indicator for whether he likes it or not so I just sit back and wait through the first two verses.

  Bronson nudges my arm and gives me a thumbs up.

  “It’s different,” Knox finally says.

  “It is,” I agree.

  “But good. Damn good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You should definitely play this at the meeting on Friday,” he says. “Addison will play anything but Katrina will surely hate it. She’s picky but… easily persuaded.”

  Bronson nods in silent agreement.

  I hesitate as a rumble fills my gut. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Either way,” Knox grabs his drink, “I’m officially looking forward to what you and Harmony 2.0 come up with next.”

  “Marla,” I say. “Her name is Marla.”

  I twist around out of habit again and scan the bar entrance for that red hair.

  And I find it.

  Marla sits at the bar near the center with what looks like a rum and coke nestled between her hands. My eyes drift downward to her loose denim jacket and stylish black pants, a very different look that
I haven’t seen on her before. She throws her head back and laughs, shaking around an adorable messy ponytail I’m sure took several minutes to achieve.

  I crane my neck to see who she’s talking to and there’s Doc the bartender leaning in close with his tatted-up, sinewy forearms on full display along with a big, white, toothy grin.

  I pat Bronson on the shoulder and he scoots over to give me space to leave. “I’ll be right back,” I tell the table as I slide out of it.

  I quickly head toward the bar, trying to consciously make it look less like a full-on panicked beeline and more like a casual stroll.

  “I’m telling you, it’s true,” I overhear Doc say.

  “I’m telling you, you’re full of it,” Marla replies.

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  “I’m sure we will.”

  I sidle in beside her and set my empty bottle on the table. “Hey, Doc, can we get another round?” I ask, casually butting in.

  He nods. “You got it, Jo.”

  I pretend to see Marla for the first time. “Oh, hi there!” I greet.

  “Hello,” she says, her laugh still lingering in her mouth.

  “I didn’t see you. Did you see me?”

  She nods, peeking over my shoulder toward our table. “I did. Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you come over?” I ask.

  Her ponytail shakes with a nervous laugh. “I see Jonah Botsford, Knox Benton, and Bronson Isaacs sitting around a table… and you expect me to come say hi without liquid courage first?”

  I sigh. “You know, you’re right. You’re totally right. I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget how intimidating we can be.”

  She shrugs as Doc returns with three fresh beer bottles. “It’s all right. Gave me a chance to catch up with Doc for a while.”

  He flashes me a wink and I squint.

  “Oh, yeah?” I ask. “What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing important,” Doc says. “Right, Marla?”

  “Right,” she says, smiling at him. “Very mundane.”

  “Didn’t look very mundane,” I say.

  “Well, it was.” Doc tosses a dishrag onto his shoulder. “Excuse me.”

  “Bye, Doc,” Marla says, casting him off with a wave.

  I study her as she takes a sip with her straw, tight lips pursing between two bright pink cheeks. “Hey, so, have you given any thought to what we talked about before?” I ask her.

  Marla swallows hard. “Uh…” She chuckles. “It’s kind of the only thing I’ve thought about today.”

  I smile. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I can’t say my classes often get interrupted by rock gods who want to partner up with me.”

  “Oh, come on. That’s not that rare,” I joke.

  She smiles weakly. “I’d have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “You’ll learn.”

  “And my schedule is hectic, to say the least.”

  “We’ll make time.”

  “And…” She sighs.

  “What?” I ask.

  Marla pauses to scratch behind her ear. “I want you to promise to not make fun of me or laugh at me or anything like that if I suck.”

  “Ditto,” I say. “I have feelings too, ya know.”

  Her dimples show as she smiles. “Okay, then.”

  “Okay?” I repeat.

  “Okay.”

  “That’s a yes? You’ll work with me?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I will try and work with you.”

  I raise my bottle, gesturing for her to the same and she picks up her highball glass. They barely tink together, creating a dull, unmemorable sound but I don’t think that matters right now.

  “Come on,” I tell her. “I’ll introduce you to the guys, we’ll shoot the shit for a bit, and then we’ll go upstairs.”

  She blinks twice. “Upstairs?”

  I nod. “Yeah. We’re starting tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she parrots back, still firmly on her stool. “We’re starting tonight? Upstairs — in your room?”

  “Is that okay?”

  Marla hesitates, each second adding another blush of color to her cheeks. “No, that’s fine, fine,” she sputters out. “I’m fine with that.”

  I catch myself starting to look down her short legs to her cute slip-on sandals. With any other girl, I’m sure I’d pick up one of the fines from her sentence and turn it against her. Maybe tell her she’s more than a little fine or some clichéd bullshit to hint at something more than small talk.

  I stop myself.

  I didn’t ask Marla here for that. I asked her here to help me lock into a headspace that seemed so far out of reach until recently.

  She’s my muse. Nothing more.

  I can keep this professional.

  Easy.

  I was never worried about Knox and Bronson disliking Marla.

  It’s always a possibility when one of us introduces new blood to the band. Friends, lovers, even family members can throw a wrench into a decade of partnership (the aforementioned Harmony being a notable highlight) but I knew the second I got Marla to the table she’d work her ego-stroking fangirl magic and the boys would be puddles within seconds.

  Addison and Katrina, however…

  They’re a little harder to please.

  Baby steps.

  Tonight, the one I was worried about was her.

  Shy, timid Marla Gorchinsky.

  But once she got that liquid courage in her, her shoulders relaxed and her words came faster. She started to seem more and more like the fun girl she dressed up as.

  Makes me wonder how much of the Marla iceberg she’s let me see so far.

  With hair like fire

  and eyes like rain,

  she’s cold as ice…

  I reach into my back pocket for my notebook.

  Knox sets his fourth — or was it fifth? — empty bottle down and stretches his arms over his head. “Well, I’m good and sloshed. I’m gonna go find me that blonde.”

  I laugh as I quickly jot my thoughts down. “And sometime between now and the morning, you should ask her for her name. Pro tip.”

  He flattens both hands on the table to steady himself as he stands. “That’s why I like you, Jo.” He points at me and talks to Marla. “This guy’s gotten me more tail than… something with a lot of tail.”

  Marla smiles. “Yeah, I can see why you’d need some help with that.”

  My jaw drops and Bronson cracks up. “Ohhhh!” I say. “Shit.”

  Knox bows with respect. “Well, you got me there, Marla.” He points dual finger guns and smiles. “I’ll pay next time. See you kids later.”

  I point a gun right back. “Have fun, Knox. Remember to wrap it.”

  “And there he goes again.” He pats my shoulder as he walks off. “Keeping me safe.”

  I shake my head at Marla and she chuckles softly. “Hey, Bronson,” I say at him. “You sticking around here for a while?”

  He eyes the gaggle of new ladies spilling in from the lobby. “I think so,” he says.

  “All right.” I laugh and look back at Marla. “You wanna head upstairs?” I ask her.

  Her face falls an inch but she nods quickly. “Sure,” she says.

  Ten

  Marla

  Jonah swipes his keycard and the door unlocks. He steps inside and holds the door open for me, making a wide, swooping motion with his arm to tempt me inside. “Come on in,” he says.

  I linger in the open doorway, my feet digging into the blue and gold carpet.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” I answer. “I just... realized that I’ve never actually been in a suite here before.”

  He tilts his head in surprise. “Really?”

  “Well, I worked the desk, so I knew what was in here — amenities and whatnot — but... I just never got the opportunity to step inside…”

  Jonah smiles and holds the door open wider for me. He waits silently, the curls of his smile digging into his c
heeks as he watches me.

  I take several steps inside and pause. “Hmm...”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Thought it’d smell differently,” I joke. “Like caviar or Chardonnay.”

  “I can order up one of each if you don’t feel fancy enough,” he offers, still grinning.

  “No, thank you.”

  He laughs and opens the closet by the door to hang up his jacket. “Feel free to snoop wherever. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “Awesome.” I let my wandering eyes take in my new surroundings. From the bright lamps to the stocked mini-fridge to the jacuzzi tub in the bathroom.

  So, this is what life is like for a Botsford on a daily basis. Must be nice.

  My gaze falls to the giant bed and I instantly gasp.

  “What?” Jonah asks somewhere behind me.

  I step closer, not daring to go too close as I admire the abused neck and vicious curves and smooth wood. “That’s your guitar,” I say.

  He stops beside me and nods. “Yeah. It is.”

  I twitch slightly as he gives me the look I’ve been dreading since we started hanging out together and he saw me for what I really am...

  A crazy fangirl.

  “Can I...” My voice falls as I try to hold myself together. “I mean, could I just... can I touch it?”

  Jonah bites his cheek to smother his laugh. “I’ll do you one better. How about you hold it?”

  My eyes widen. “Can I?”

  He bends over and grips it by the neck. “Go ahead,” he says, offering it to me.

  I shudder from head-to-toe. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” He extends it closer. “Take it.”

  I blink twice and stare at the guitar for a moment before reaching out a quivering hand.

  Jonah pulls it back. “You know what?” he says quickly. “How about you sit down first?”

  “Okay.” I shift a step back and lower down to the edge of the bed. “That’s a good idea, actually...”

  He steps forward, bridging the short gap to stand above me. “Two hands,” he warns, his voice playful but still very serious.