“What?”
“I can’t even. Do you know…?”
“Semi-music history genius and all Saving Silverman quotes, yes, but a mind reader I am not,” I say.
“Babe,” he calls me, not realizing it, but his attention is completely transfixed on the guitar. “Look at the signature.”
I lean forward, my eyes having to squint to survey the autograph. “Is that—?”
“Kurt Cobane.” His voice is strained. He has yet to take his eyes off the instrument.
“You think it’s a fake?”
“Not a chance. Look at his signature. The way he signed his name, there was always a distinction. Way after he died, people tried selling forgeries of his shit, trying to make a quick buck. But real fans started coming forward pointing out the imitations. It’s an easy miss, but a true fan would know instantly. This bad boy…it’s real.” The instant his fingers brush against the tight strings, I identify exactly what he’s going to play. Nirvana’s “All Apologies” whistles from the sound hole as Jim works the instrument like he was born to play this exact guitar. It’s when he starts softly singing the lyrics, I finally lose myself.
“You all right there, trouble?” he asks, still playing flawlessly.
“Yeah. It’s just…so beautiful. I wish I was as talented as you are.” And it’s the damn truth. An investment banker may be rich with money, but someone like Jim is rich with talent.
“You can be. Come here.” He stops playing and pulls the strap from over his head. Taking a step toward me, he lifts the strap over mine.
“Oh no.” I put my hands up to stop him, but he doesn’t listen. I’m too scared of knocking the guitar out of his hands, so I stop fighting him. The strap is delicately placed around my shoulder, and the guitar now rests across my chest. Jim takes a stand behind me, his chest pressing against my back. His hands wrap around me, lifting my arms and guiding my fingers to where they need to be. “Jim…” I start, but he ignores me. His breath hits the back of my earlobe as he adjusts my fingers, each tip touching a cord.
“You want to place your index finger on the second fret of the A string, and your middle finger on the third fret of the low E string.” With his guidance, I do as he says, all while trying not to concentrate on how good he feels pressed up against me. His enticing scent, bold and masculine with a hint of spice seeps into my nostrils, and I lose my footing, taking him in. “You okay?” he asks, adjusting the guitar.
“Yeah. Just nervous. What if I break her?”
The rumble of his low chuckle feels like heaven tickling my eardrum. “It’s a her, huh? You won’t. Fender guitars are made to love you back. This model is called the Mustang. Cobane altered the guitar to be played with his left hand, instead of his right. Now, strum from the E chord all the way down.”
I inhale a small staggered breath and pluck the C chord with my pinky while my index finger tugs on the E chord. A smooth melody of sounds releases from the instrument, and Jim hums.
“Now, press this finger to the F chord, and this one to the G chord.” I do as he instructs, and as more music echoes around the room, his smooth-as-silk voice follows. “See, you can play just as beautifully,” he says, pressing his own fingers gently over mine. Together, he plucks and strums, playing another Nirvana classic as he hums the lyrics in my ear. I’m not sure at what point I close my eyes, but the vision before me is magical. Behind my closed eyelids, I’m not standing here with Jim at my back, but in front of me. We’re laying down and his fingers, as he strokes the guitar, brush along my bare skin, sending a heated path to my core. His eyes are on fire, matching the blaze in mine. His head dips and his lips, warm and plump, fuse to mine. He kisses me with a ferocity and there’s nothing I want more than for this fantasy to become real.
My fingers must have stopped following his lead because he pulls away. I barely notice the strap being lifted off my shoulders or Jim replacing the guitar back on its stand. I hardly register him positioning himself in front of me, or his open palm reaching out to my chin and raising my hooded eyes to his.
He leans into me with such slowness, I fear I’ll combust before he even makes contact. There’s a sudden pulse between my thighs. Holy mother of pearl, he’s about to kiss me. I know this is simply him playing his role, but I can’t help but feel more—want more—need more. This kiss, this much needed kiss he’s about to gift me, is something I’ve wanted for so long. The ache in my stomach is now triggered by need. The tightness in my chest caused by want. The disillusioned emotional trigger going off in my head threatens to bring me to my knees. It hits me all at once. This moment. Him. This is what I’ve yearned for.
“Casey?” His voice is deep, yet a gentle melody to my ears.
“Yeah?” I barely recognize my own weak voice.
“I’m going to kiss you now. And I want you to know it has nothing to do with our agreement.”
“Okay,” I whisper, the words barely ghosting across my lips.
“And I’m also going to enjoy the hell out of it, ’cause I’ve been wanting to do this ever since the first time I got a taste of you.”
“Mmmm,” I moan. My eyes are shut, and my lips have already parted with the hope he does more than kiss me. Deep down, I’m begging for him to completely ravish me.
He’s so close, the soft rumble of his chest vibrates against my own as he chuckles. His free hand works around to my lower back, pressing me closer into him. “God, you’re beautiful,” he hums, his breath hitting my lips as he covers mine. Just as I remembered—warm, soft, perfect fused against mine. A soft moan travels up my throat, but he swallows it with his tongue as he parts my lips and entwines his tongue around mine. I open wide, and together, we explore, kiss after kiss, dancing around one another. His grip on me tightens, and an aroused moan trickles through his lips. There’s no hiding the sparks blazing around us, the aura of our sexual connection lighting a fire between us. My hands slide up his chest, the softness of his shirt brushing against my open palms. I grab for his neck and press my lips harder against his, the thread pulling us together on the verge of snapping.
Not even in my wildest dreams would I have imagined this farce would turn into something so breathtaking. This is real. This kiss is real. The way my skin prickles with need is real. We go at each other like two crazed teenagers, until we’re panting and in need of a breath.
His touch becomes more tender, his lips softer as the passion burns into small pecks until he eventually breaks away. I fight to keep my eyes closed. I don’t want this moment to end—don’t want disappointment or regret to radiate from those steely hazel eyes, because there’s no way I can pretend it meant nothing when it meant way more to me than I want to admit.
“You okay in there?” His voice is light, but there’s humor lining it.
“I am. Just…waiting…”
“For what?” He brushes his thumb along my lower lip, and my eyes flutter open, no matter my fight to keep them closed. I search for the expression I fear to see, his eyes, I can stand here and stare into his eyes for—
“What are you waiting for, Casey?”
“To be reminded that this isn’t real.”
His hand is still snug at my lower back, his thumb stroking along my skin. “Do you want this to be real?” I do. Does that make me foolish? Could a guy I’ve done nothing but terrorize since meeting me actually feel the same way for me? “Hey.” He tugs on my waist, pulling my attention away from my negative thoughts. The door to the music room opens, and we’re interrupted as Herman walks in.
“I see you’ve found my museum.”
Jim lets me go—and poof! Saved from answering that silly question by the Addams Family. Do I want this to be real? Ha! A guy I just met? Want a relationship with? Wait, who said anything about a relationship? My eyes whip to Jim. Do I want to date him?
“Yeah, this is unreal. All these musicians have been here?”
“Of course. The house on Bunker Hill is a legend. Many famous rock stars, actors, and actres
ses have dined and partied here. Sometimes I forget who all we’ve entertained.” Entertained wouldn’t be my word choice. How about lured in, tricked, slaughtered and turned into viewing art for his head gallery.
“You okay, Ms. Casey?” Herman asks, and I nod a million nods a second.
“Totally, Gomez.”
Jim’s brows shoot up, and I raise my shoulders in a what? shrug. His lips curl against his will, and he faces Herman. “She meant, wow impressive. She’s had a little too many of those shots. Slurring her words and all.”
Nodding, Herman raises his arms and claps his hands together. “Well, I must inform you, it’s time to play some games.”
Great. More games.
’Cause the one I’m playing with my heart isn’t risky enough?
Casey
When we head back to the main room, everyone is trashed. Katie, in her drunk made-up language of can’t-understand-a-word-she-says tells me Jason and June left. June was festering a dinosaur in her head, which I translated to not feeling well.
Their other guests have disappeared as well. Herman makes an announcement for us to follow him, and I lean into Katie as we all walk down another dimly lit hall. “Where exactly are we going?”
Katie wobbles into me, spilling her glass of wine down her shirt. “Aw, shmit.” Jesus. I grab her glass so she doesn’t spill any more and chug it, because darn it, 1943 was a good year. “Hey!” She swats at me and falls into the wall. Jerry saves her and tucks her under his arm, while Jim takes her place and walks beside me. His closeness is like a match setting fire to my crimson cheeks. I keep my attention forward so I don’t make eye contact with him. I hope he forgets about that kiss and never mentions it ever—
“Are we gonna talk about what happened back there?”
…again.
“What? The spill? I know. Who spills three-billion-dollar wine? She really needs to get—”
“The kiss.”
Dang it.
“What about it? It was just a—”
“It wasn’t just a kiss to me. It wasn’t for you either. I felt it. You did too—”
He abruptly stops talking when I trip and fall into the wall. “Shit, you okay?”
Nope!
“Yeah, fine.”
“Here. Let me help you.” He takes hold of my arm and guides me as we come to a short set of stairs leading us to a back door outside. The night sky shines down on us, and we all look around, curious to where we’re being taken.
“Okay, so this ‘mystery murder’ is cool and all, but where are we going?” Poppy chimes in as we come to a large encased structure. I start assessing my surroundings. My creeper radar is starting to activate.
After slamming the rest of his beer, Mick asks, “Cool. What is this, some sort of bunker?”
Herman makes an about face, placing his palms together. “You are exactly correct, my hecatomb.”
Mick nods in excitement, while I try to spin the in-house dictionary inside my brain. Hecatomb…hecatomb…
“Wait…doesn’t that mean, like, sacrifice?” Katie asks.
I knew it! Well, not really, but that word sounded nothing like friend, pal, homie, or comrade. He’s going to sacrifice us all! Like cement being poured in my shoes, my feet stop with not a chance in hell of being moved.
“What’s wrong?” Jim halts with me, attempting to press his hand to my lower back to keep me moving.
“What’s wrong is this is where we all die,” I whisper loudly. “He’s taking us to an enclosed bunker with no windows and probably no air, and I bet once the doors close, they never open. Spikes come out of the walls, and we all—”
“Case,” he coos to calm me down, “relax. Nothing’s gonna happen. A bunker is basically another name for a game room.”
I stare at him. “Bull patootie.”
His shoulders rise and fall in a carefree shrug. “Totally. It’s an old military hideaway where soldiers hid weapons waiting to kill people.” My mouth falls to the ground. “But we’re good! No one’s gonna kill us. That’s just crazy.”
Foolish man. Little does he know, the person who says that is always the first to die. I’ve seen this scary movie. I know for a fact I live because I see what’s coming. But all my friends? RIP. Goners. One of them might as well say they’ll be right back.
Jerry sticks his head through the open entrance way. “Looks cool. Gotta take a piss first. I’ll be right back.”
NO! I love Jerry! He’s my favorite! He’s been my coach through so many important milestones in my life! He fired me up at my first bull riding competition at our favorite bar, then encouraged me to fight through the pain when I broke my arm flying off. Trained me for the local fair’s annual hot dog eating contest, which is a lot harder under the pressure of a crowd, then motivated me to sign up for the pie eating, when I barfed all over the contestant next to me and got disqualified. So many times! The hot pepper eating contest on Taco Tuesday, the Oyster eating competition… ew that one ended real bad.
I shiver at the memory.
I reach for Jerry’s arm, but Jim stops me. My head whips in his direction, my eyes shooting murderous daggers at him. He may not care that Jerry’s about to die, but I do. “Babe. Chill. Remember, if anything feels off, I’ll make a scene and get us all out of here.”
He may be an expert on music, but he sucks at scary movies. He has no idea that line never works in the end. I huff out a huge frustrated gust of air and fall into line with the rest of my insane, soon-to-be-goner friends.
Herman steps across the threshold of the cement blockade and flicks the light switch, illuminating the large, rectangular space. I still refuse to move, but peek my head in, my eyes adjust to the walls splattered in strange paintings and an odd array of gigantic cardboard heads of one man’s face being used as dart boards. The center of the room holds a large cement island. A pub table littered with random treats sits in the corner, and off to the side is a mini fridge with a state-of-the-art surround sound stereo system.
Okay…so maybe it’s not a kill room.
Slowly, but cautiously, I pick my feet up one at a time and walk into the room. My guard is still way up, and if need be, I’m prepared to use the fighting skills I learned from The Karate Kid.
“This is an…interesting place ya got here,” Mick chimes in, heading straight for the mini fridge to snag a beer. He tosses one to Jim and cracks open another. “Gotta ask. What’s the story behind the dartboard? Gonna assume no love lost for that poor chap?”
We all join in, our focus on one specific large cardboard head half mutilated by darts. As I tilt my neck to the side, I swear the eyes are stabbed out.
“Ahhh, that… He is what you would call an enemy of sorts.”
Yeah, that’s not disturbing at all.
Confusion masks Poppy’s previous carefree expression. “Hmmm…yeah…why again do you have a bunker in the back of your house?” That’s right, Detective Poppy. Get the answers we need. My eyes stay trained on her. If anyone can sniff out a murderer, it’s Poppy.
“Because they are magnificent. The history behind them. Who would not want a creation of this magnitude in their possession?”
I can’t help it. I raise my hand. Jim throws it back down. Herman continues. “Secret buildings built for their enemies. A space enclosed by cement and rock, thick enough that not a single soul on the other side could hear them if they screamed for help. It was said they built these with the intentions of luring in their prey to these small dungeons in order to obtain useful information.
“Uh…and why would they want to do that?” Good, Poppy. Keep it up.
“Because it is amazing how much you can obtain when in duress.”
I watch Poppy’s eyes enlarge just enough to know she’s not down with that answer. “Okay…I’m gonna need a better explanation. Otherwise—”
“They make excellent game rooms.”
I tug at Jim’s shoulder. “We should probably get going,” I say, faking a yawn.
H
erman waves his hand through the air at the amenities. “And miss the best part? Do you not have the urge to indulge in all the luxurious things in here? Come, enjoy some desserts. My wife has personally made her specialty brownies. They will bring you to a whole new level of euphoria.” He waves to the table filled to the rim with desserts. Jim’s eyes light up and he takes a step forward to reach for one, but I slap his hand away. God knows what’s in those. Probably poison or roofies or…eggs and brownie mix, you weirdo, chill out. “I have researched what your kind plays and have fulfilled the wishes of entertainment for you.”
That’s where he loses Katie. “Our kind?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “As in, humans?” Jesus, this is becoming too much for me. I’m about ready to dislocate Jim’s arm just to drag him out of here.
“Yes, the floppy, flip—”
“Flippy cup.” Mick’s eyes brighten with excitement.
“Yes, Flippy cup. The bunker holds the perfect table. I shall supply the red cups. You play and enjoy.”
And that’s all it takes for Mick and Jim to light up like Christmas trees. Herman reaches for a thin remote off the cement center island and points it toward the stereo. Old school rap music booms through the surround sound speakers tucked high in the corners, and Mick wastes no time shaking his ridiculous hips to “Picture me Rollin” by 2Pac.
My eyes search out Poppy, knowing she’s not down for this. She’ll rein her husband in, because she’s smart. We’ll put our foot down and everyone else will have no choice but to follow. When our eyes lock, they’re not gleaming with the same determination. Her shoulders go up and down. No way. “No, you take that shrug back,” I say. She doesn’t reply and takes her place next to her husband.
I turn to Katie and get the same reaction. “What? Since when did you become no fun?” she says and follows Poppy because she sucks too.
Lake Redstone Page 11