When I stare at him, contemplating my reply, he adds, “Last time didn’t cut it, Vic. I need more.”
It’s good that I have one hand placed casually on the wall beside him and the other steadied under his own because I think my knees are getting weaker. Last time started with an evening walk that ended in a cozy little café somewhere in the very early hours of the morning. We talked for hours, and our immediate connection and the platonic intimacy we shared left me too unsettled for my own good. I just couldn’t get him out of my thoughts after last time.
“Ricky,” his name comes out a little hoarse. “I don’t think that it’s a good id—”
“Yo, Rick, we’re on. We’re opening with The Gaslight Anthem cover, right?” Kevin, Ricky’s band member, interrupts the moment.
With my hand still under his, attention fully on me, he says, “I’m coming.”
I’m coming. Oh boy, is it hot in here or what? When I step away, pulling out my seized hand, he quickly captures it back.
“One drink, Vic.” He squeezes my hand and follows his band member’s steps, not giving me a chance to reply. Leaving me yet again very much unsettled.
Playing with Fire Is What I Do Best
I climb up the raised stage at Poison, heading toward Kayla at the drums first. Giving her a friendly hug, I whisper the last-moment change in her ear. She raises her eyebrows in question, and I tip my chin, signaling humor me. She shrugs in response and mouths, “Sure.”
Walking over to Kevin, I inform him about the last-minute decision to switch things up a little. He nods with a guitar pick between his lips, murmuring, “Cool.” Dave, our new bassist, steps over, tilting his body to hear what we’re saying, and tips his chin in confirmation.
I walk over to the center of the stage next and lean on the high stool, parking my heavy boot on the footrest ring. I glance at the crowd. Poison is packed tonight. I clear my throat, cradle the guitar with one hand, and adjust the standing mic with the other.
“Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming out tonight.”
We get a few claps and a couple of whistles. We have a small and dedicated group of followers. After all, we usually only play small bars. Luckily, Matt, the owner, lets us perform regularly, and it seems like more and more locals are responding to our music. We mostly do covers with the occasional original written by Kayla. Besides being a virtuoso drummer, she’s also a fantastic songwriter and a great human all around. I might be the lead singer of this band of ours, but Kayla is the glue that holds us together.
“We never played this one before,” I say into the mic. My fingers trace the thin necklace around my neck, and I send the crowd a teasing hint of a smile. “But I think you might know it.” And by crowd, I mean the stunning blonde sitting with her friends in the booth in front of me. The same one who has a permanent residence in my mind. Victoria Nielsen.
I crane my neck to look at Kayla; she salutes me with a drumstick. Turning the other way, I cue Kevin, prompting him to pull the guitar pick from between his lips and strum the opening bars. I grab the microphone with both hands and tilt it toward me. “We’re the Broken Chords, and this is Forever.”
Training my eyes on Victoria’s, I lick my lips and begin, “Playing with fire is what I do best, give me that flame, baby, the slow burn.” I let the music wash over me, the rhythm fill me up with something unexplainable as my eyes bore into Vicky’s. She doesn’t avert her stare, holding mine just as intensely. Something is happening inside me as her cheeks color the hue of pink apples. And I go on, “I’m yours now. Forever, baby, is too long a time.” We’re covering one of the Tyler Lee Adams’ hits, but I’m giving it my own interpretation. It’s a slower, raspier, grittier version, and it looks like our audience is eating it up. People move to the music, and more than a few phones are pulled out, capturing our performance.
As I end the last chorus, Dave leans into his amp, easing the bass, signaling for Kayla to slow it down a little. I close my eyes and gently move with the music, playing gently till Kayla and the guys wrap up with the distinct four last beats slower till fade-out. When I open my eyes, it’s to the entire audience on their feet, clapping. A few new faces are in the crowd tonight, which adds a little surprise to the overall reaction. I let out a startled chuckle, dropping my eyes to my mic. Whoa. I’m taken aback. This has never happened before, never like this. We’re not playing in an arena; it’s a small local bar, after all. The live performance is a nice addition, but I don’t believe it’s the main reason patrons frequent the place. I turn my head back to look at my bandmates, and they all have the same surprised, delighted expression. It’s a fucking standing ovation, our first ever. Not gonna lie; it feels damn great.
Amid the surreal moment, I notice a get-going vibe from Victoria’s table. I can’t leave the stage now, not with everyone looking at us and clapping, not to mention we’re up for a few more songs tonight. I catch Anna’s eyes and gesture with my head at her sister. Anna taps Vicky’s shoulder and whispers something in her ear. When Vicky turns to look at me, I hold my hands steepled together and mouth, “Stay.” She holds my stare for a few beats, then tilts her head to say something to her sister. She shakes her head at me but sits back down; I reciprocate with a pleased, thin smile.
On paper, Victoria and I are worlds apart, but we have this connection, an inexplicable intense and intimate one. The one time we spent together was one of the best nights I’ve ever shared with someone. And it was purely platonic. Not even a single kiss. Though the thought did cross my mind more than once. A kiss . . . and much more. I just know if she had come to New York, something would have happened. Something fucking epic.
We cover a few more songs, and not long later, I cap the set off with a fan favorite, a cover for the Gaslight Anthem’s “The Sound of 59.” I take a swig of water and end the session with, “Thank you! Matt is waiting for you at the bar. Take it away, Matty!” I slightly bow with a side-smile. “We’re the Broken Chords, good night!” Pushing my hair away from my face, I press my hand to my heart in gratitude as the small audience showers us with enthusiastic applause. I send them a smile, turn to gesture with my hand at my bandmates, then join the crowd by clapping for Kayla, Kevin, and Dave.
I’m beat, sweating, and high on endorphins when I step off the stage and walk over to Victoria, who’s sitting alone in a drop-dead, sexy skirt suit, waiting for me. Vicky stands up when I near her. “Wow, you guys killed it tonight. I think I liked your cover of Tyler Lee’s song better than the original.”
I drop my chin, my lips pressed into a smile. Her appreciation makes me feel a few inches taller. “Thanks.” I lift my eyes to hers and scratch the scar high on my cheek. “Hey, do you mind having that drink at my place? I—”
Vicky doesn’t let me finish the question. “Yes, I do mind.” She holds my stare, ever bossy.
My lips tip at the side. Her need to always set the pace, always have it her way—I find it incredibly attractive. I let her take the lead . . . for now. Call it a tactical ploy. I’m still smiling when I say, “Honestly, I need a shower. I’ve been sweating up there like a—”
“My place then,” she concludes.
I chuckle. “Babe, I don’t have another set of clothes here.”
She drops her hand to her waist. “A, I’m no one’s babe. B, You’ll manage—or, you know, we can drop the whole thing—”
“Your place, then.” She’s doing a shit job of hiding her satisfied grin. “You have your car here?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “I’m going to grab another helmet.” I squint my eyes at her. “Don’t. Move.” I enunciate each word.
In response, she wiggles her ass a little, pretending to move, a wicked smile dominating her lips. I shake my head, smiling to myself, thinking how I’d take great pleasure in smacking that sassy ass into complete subordination.
I get an extra helmet from Kev, collect Vicky, and we head out. Vicky eyes the bike in assessment, then sends one long, smooth leg over and straddles the vehicle.
Her skirt rides up, revealing a garter belt. I physically react to the sight of her with her legs spread a little, revealing the black lace belt high up on her thigh, lips slightly parted, and a couple of tendrils of blond hovering over her cheek. With eyes trained on Vicky, I send my hands to brush her hair back from her face and help her put my helmet on. It’s the safer one, and if I’m being honest, I like seeing my helmet on her head. Better leave this thought unanalyzed. She grins at me, and I tap her visor down, chuckling to myself. I climb on the bike and put Kevin’s spare helmet on, starting the engine.
Vicky holds on to me, and we take off. Having her pressed against me, the night chilled bite, the open road, I could ride like this for hours.
At a red light, she leans closer, and I cover her hand that’s on my stomach with mine. “I don’t think you need a shower,” she says out of the blue.
I turn back a little, flipping my visor up, and look at her in question.
She shrugs, lifting her own visor. “I like the way you smell right now.”
I cock my head under the helmet and smile at her; she grins back, then gestures with her chin at the stoplight, “It’s green.” I squeeze her thigh before letting the clutch out and rolling the throttle, shooting us forward with a mechanical roar.
“If you still want to take a shower, you can go ahead,” Vicky says, unlocking the door to her apartment. She deposits the key in a ceramic plate on a massive chest of drawers just beside the entrance. She grins at me from over her shoulder. “But I really don’t think you need to.”
My lips twitch at the corner as I set my helmet down next to hers on the robust furniture.
“I’m just going to change real quick. You can open one of the bottles in the wine cooler in the kitchen,” she says and disappears down a long hall.
I’m familiar with her place. I’ve been here once before with a group of friends for a housewarming thing but never alone. I head to the kitchen, admiring the cool space, clean-cut and modern, quite in the same vein as my den. I grab a Rioja from the wine cooler and uncork it, letting it breathe. Hearing the sound of nearing footsteps, I say in the general direction of the kitchen, “I’m starving,” and walk over to the fridge.
“I’m not hungry, but we can order something if you want,” Vicky says from somewhere behind me.
“Yeah.” I reach for the fridge handle. “But I need something to tide me over till food gets here.”
I hear her murmur, “Good luck with that,” as I open the fridge.
Jerking back from the mushroom cloud assaulting me, I exclaim, “The hell, Vic?” I glance at her, finding her rolling her eyes. Eyeing the grisly crime scene in front of me, I say, “I’d never guess I’d need a hazmat suit to open a fridge, especially in your place.”
Vicky counters, “Chauvinist.”
I shake my head, unable to take my eyes off the open appliance. It’s one of those occurrences when even though you’re looking at something entirely disturbing, you can’t stop taking in the horrors.
“No, babe,” I say to the rotting whatever it is I’m looking at amid all the oil-stained takeout containers. “It’s not because you’re a woman. Your place is damn immaculate, and this—this is where things go to die.”
“Stop being so dramatic,” Vicky replies. “Things rot. Science. Moving on.”
“Science,” I murmur. “Your fridge is a fucking compost bin,” I mutter but not quietly enough.
“Is this how we are going to start our evening?” she asks.
“Arson would be a good place to start.” I shake my head. “Babe, get me a trash bag,” I say, turning to face her. I can’t hide my double take when I finally take her in. With her hip propped against the breakfast bar, Vicky stands, short-short cutoffs revealing long-long legs, an oversized sweatshirt that’s off one shoulder, face bare of any makeup, and hair up in a ponytail. Her pink toes match the light pink of her sweatshirt, her skin is smooth and fair, and she’s breathtakingly beautiful in her natural state. It’s the first time I get to see this version of her, the first time she looks her age—the prettiest I’ve ever seen her. My jaw slacks as I stare.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“I am,” I say. And then I add, “Can’t stop.”
She holds my stare, but her cheeks lightly tint. Just like the last time we were together, I get another version of her, a softer, more approachable one. A sensation that has a direct impact on my gut.
Breaking the moment, Vicky says, “Trash . . . You were asking for a trash bag.”
Shaking out of the spell, I nod.
Twisting her mouth, she takes a couple of steps to open a drawer and hands me one. I take it from her and unceremoniously swipe all the bacteria-infested content of her otherwise barren fridge into the trash bag. “Shit’s poisonous.”
Vicky watches me with a hint of a smile as I tie the bag and look at her. I open my mouth to ask, and she answers my unspoken question.
“The garbage chute is outside, to the right, the last door on the left.”
I hold the hazardous contents suspended in front of me and head to the door. I halt when she grabs my free hand. I raise my brow in question, and she stretches on her tiptoes and places a soft kiss at the corner of my lips. “Thanks, but I can take care of it myself.”
I shake my head. “Evidently, you can’t.”
She laughs briefly and drops my hand, seeming pleased with what’s happening. A different approach from what I believe business-suit-Vicky would take. She gives me a little shove out the door. “I’m getting pizza,” she calls after me.
The pizza doesn’t take too long to arrive, and I consume it even faster under Vicky’s amused stare while we talk and make each other laugh. We’re both having a great time together, just like the last time we hung out. It’s just the sort of night I want to spend with her, getting closer, learning more about her. I really don’t want it to end. Inhaling the last slice, I wipe my mouth with a napkin, crumple it into a ball and throw it in the middle of the oil-stained box that’s inhibiting nothing but a few measly crumbs.
“Impressive.” She grins at me.
My lips tip up in response. I take my drink and shift sideways on the sofa to face Vicky, who’s facing me, legs crossed with a cushion on top. “Why didn’t you want to go to my place?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, seeming genuinely unsure as to why.
“I don’t bite, you know.” I smile at her, the kind of smile that says, I do and will gladly demonstrate. I then add, “I mean, I will if you want me to.”
We trade a flirty glance. I reach for her hand that’s rested on the pillow, brushing my fingers along hers. Her eyes drop to where I touch her. “Anyhow, for the time being, you’re safe at mine.”
She lifts her eyes to mine. “How do you figure?”
“A,” I say, holding her stare, “I’d never intentionally hurt you. I like you too much.”
She rewards me with a soft, sweet smile of the kind Vicky doesn’t hand out too often, if at all.
“B, I have a roommate now, and he’s always at home.” I chuckle as an afterthought, surprised by the information I’m about to divulge. “He’s old-school . . . as old-school as they come.”
She tilts her head sideways with a thin smile, waiting for me to elaborate.
“I moved in with my grandpop. My grandma passed away six months ago. I recently found out that he’s been depressed and lonely. He’s dealing with a lot, losing my grandma, so I sublet my place and moved into his basement.” I drop my eyes to where Vicky links her fingers with mine. “At least until he gets back on his feet.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” she says. “You keep surprising me.”
I cock my head, eyeing her.
She shrugs. “In so many ways.”
I unlink our finger, watching as I run my tan, tattooed knuckles over her pale, delicate skin; the contrast is enthralling. And the touch, skin to skin, I can
feel it along my entire body. I thread our fingers together and keep them linked, slowly lifting my eyes, watching her watching our connection.
Sensing my stare, she reciprocates the contact. Holding the gaze, we watch each other. It feels like we have a wordless conversation, one that’s full of promises. My eyes burn through hers. Her lips ease into a soft smile. I’ve never seen Vicky looking at anyone this way. There’s no sass, pretense, or humor behind it; it’s a hesitant look, telling me things she’s too guarded to reveal otherwise. It feels like an invitation, a dare to break her high walls. Or at least, a dare to try.
“You know, the night we met, I wasn’t even supposed to be at Poison,” I say.
Vicky cocks her head, listening.
“I forgot something, I don’t even remember what now, and dropped by the bar to pick it up.”
My eyes run over her delicate features. “When I saw you with Kayla and the girls, I had to come over and introduce myself.”
“We met by chance,” she says, and I send her a side-smile.
I can’t take my eyes off her. Overwhelmed by feelings I have no name for, my smile widens, thinking of that quote from Casablanca, a movie my mom used to watch on repeat. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
I can’t shake this feeling when I’m with her. This woman, she’s my future. I just know it.
“What are you thinking right now?” Vicky asks. “What’s with the smile?”
I grin at her. “Do you really want to know?”
She smiles back, this time with an iota of sass.
I chuckle because what I’m thinking is insane, and the fact that I’m going to share it with her is even more mad. I narrow my humored eyes at her. “I was just thinking that a year from now, I’m going to ask you to marry me.”
Vicky bursts into laughter. Almost choking, she says, “Good one.” She wipes her left eye with her forefinger.
Grinning, I say, “Save the date.”
Vicky puts on a whole act of pretending to look for something. “Hold up. I need to add it to my calendar.”
by Chance : Poison & Wine, book 2 Page 2