Winter Love Songs

by Eliza Andrews

  She lifted her eyes, perhaps feeling my gaze upon her. We watched each other while her mouth and fingers worked against me. My breaths were already coming in short, hungry gasps; the muscles of my legs tensed and relaxed in time with Julie’s rhythm.

  “Jules,” I said, reaching for her. My fingers pressed into the taut muscles of her shoulders. “Jules, come here. Be with me.”

  She wiped her mouth with the back of one hand, but left her fingers inside me as her torso slid against mine.

  “Too many clothes,” I complained with a smile, “you have far too many clothes on.” I tugged the tucked-in edge of her t-shirt from its place in her jeans. “How is it I always end up half-naked while you remain fully dressed?” I asked, speaking as if this was something we did all the time, as if it was something we’d never stopped doing.

  “My good luck, I think,” she said with a smirk. The same answer she always gave me. She kissed my cheek, the underside of my jaw, still driving her fingers inside me.

  “Stop,” I managed to say, even though it was the last word I wanted to come out of my mouth. “You still have your fucking jacket on. I want to feel your skin on mine.”

  She pulled her fingers out of me and made quick business of stripping down to her underwear and bra, then pulled my shirt and bra off and proceeded to tease my nipples with her tongue while wedging her thigh between my legs.

  “You’re impossible, you know that?” I said, and rolled us both over, putting her below me. Roughly, I pulled off the sports bra, earning a startled, “Oww! Jesus!”, then yanked her underwear down to her ankles.

  “There,” I said. “That’s so much better.”

  I trailed my fingers up the inside of Julie’s thigh. She gasped when my index finger brushed against her clit. She was already wet. So wet. I pressed harder, making her suck in another breath.

  I slid my first two fingers down and into her; she tilted her head back, mouth falling open into a silent moan as she closed her eyes. I slid an arm beneath her neck and shoulders while I kept working the two fingers inside her. It had always been two fingers with Jules, never three. And there was something so familiar and intimate about knowing that one little fact that my heart nearly burst with love for her.

  I moved faster, harder, dipping my head to kiss her chest, neck, the corners of her open mouth.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “I love you so much.”

  So we wrapped our arms around each other

  Trying to shove ourselves back together

  We were making love

  Making love

  She couldn’t answer me; her mouth moved in an attempt to make words, but no sound came out. Until finally,

  “Fuck! Oh, fuuuuuuuuuuuuck…”

  she came. Her whole body jerked — once, twice, then relaxed. I pulled my fingers out a moment later, collapsed onto her chest, smiling against her skin.

  “Your turn,” she said once she’d caught her breath, and rolled me onto my back.

  I came a few minutes later, with three of Julie’s fingers inside me and her tongue pressed hard against my clit.

  We each arrived two more times after that, then collapsed in a tangled heap of sweaty, sticky limbs. The futon cover was damp and cool beneath us; I kept one arm around Julie while tugging up the throw blanket over us with my other hand.

  The sun had completely set some time ago, and what little light there was in the room came from the blue-white glow of ground lights around the infinity pool two stories below. How long had we made love? How long had it been since we had stopped? Was it seven o’clock, or midnight? Time didn’t matter. Time didn’t exist.

  We talked some. We talked about her break-up with Karen, about what her dogs had been like as puppies, about why she wanted to open a gym. We talked about my leg, the future of my career, the music scene in Los Angeles, the business behind making and marketing a record.

  At some point, our conversation trailed off, dissipating like steam in the dark room, and we fell asleep.

  That’s the origin of love

  Oh yeah, the origin of love

  The origin of love

  The origin of love

  19

  New Year’s Day: “New Year’s Day,” U2

  JULIE ARON ~ ONE YEAR LATER

  [ FINAL VERSE ]

  I fidgeted just inside the locked glass door, looking out into the parking lot. Helium balloons both inside and outside the plate glass window obscured my view, but not so much that I didn’t know the lot was empty.

  Maybe no one will come, I thought.

  No, that’s ridiculous, I thought next, trying to quell my own doubts. Hope invited more than a hundred people. And it’s Hope. People will come.

  Dog toenails clicked against the faux wood floor, and a wet nose pressed into my hand. I bent down far enough to rub an ear, although I hadn’t looked to see if it was Wilson or Spalding who’d come up to me.

  “If you build it, they will come. Right, guys?” I said, quoting from the only Kevin Costner movie I’d ever really liked. I glanced down. Spalding, then. I kneeled down to give him a more thorough scratching, since he was the needier of my two dogs and required that kind of reassurance.

  Though I had to admit that right now, I was the one who needed the reassurance.

  “Maybe you knew that, huh buddy?” I said while I rubbed his neck.

  He turned and licked the side of my face.

  A white car with a ride share sticker in its windshield pulled up, and I stood up in time to see Hope get out of the back seat. She waved goodbye to the driver and limped a little as she made her way to the front door. I unlocked it for her.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said after giving me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “My meeting with George ran late. He’s not keen on me overhauling the new album, but it’s like I told him — I’m done with being a pop star.”

  “What did he say about donating all the proceeds to gun control groups?”

  “Oh, that was the only part of the plan he liked,” she said, grinning. “He thinks it’ll boost sales.” She sighed, the kind of sigh someone gives when they finally sit down at last at the end of a long day. “But that’s not why I’m doing it. It feels so good to get back to making the kind of music I really love, for the reasons I love making it.” Her gaze flitted around the room, nodding her approval at the shiny new gym equipment, the stability balls I’d inflated while she’d been gone, the rows of rubber-coated dumbbells. “Everything looks great. But where’s the caterer?”

  I shrugged. “Not here. Nobody’s here.”

  She took my hand, squeezed it. “Stop worrying. They’ll come. It’s Los Angeles; no one wants to be the first person to arrive at a party. Trust me.” She frowned. “Although the caterer definitely should’ve been here by now.”

  Hope reached into the purse dangling from her forearm and pulled out her phone. “I made a playlist. What did you do with the Bluetooth speaker?”

  For a brief moment, I thought of Karen and her Bluetooth speaker. Sometimes it surprised me how little I thought of Karen, how I spent five years with her and now she rarely even crossed my mind.

  As if those five years had been nothing but a bad dream, waiting for Hope to wake me with her reappearance.

  I gestured to the corner. “It’s over there,” I said. “But I made a playlist, too.”

  “Maybe you did, but mine’s better,” she said with a wry smile. “Your playlist probably has nothing but 90s music and hip hop.”

  “But I like hip hop.”

  “Oh, stop whining,” she said dismissively, pecking me on the cheek as she crossed the room.

  I resumed my survey of the parking lot, brightening when I saw a car pull up and three people in catering uniforms get out.

  “The caterer just got here,” I said.

  “About time,” Hope said. “There — I think I got it working.”

  Something electronic crackled to life. I heard guitar, keyboard, drum, and Bono’s plaintive “Y
eee-ahhh!”

  “That’s ’90s music, too,” I told Hope as I unlocked the door for the caterers.

  “Do you want us to set up inside or outside?” the woman in front asked.

  “Inside,” I said.

  “Outside,” Hope said at the same time.

  I shrugged. “Outside, I guess.”

  The caterer glanced from me to Hope, and if I wasn’t mistaken, her eyes widened with recognition. It was something I was getting used to about having a superstar for a girlfriend. Hope smiled pleasantly and put an arm around my waist.

  All is quiet on New Year’s Day

  A world in white gets underway

  I want to be with you

  Be with you, night and day

  Nothing changes on New Year’s Day

  On New Year’s Day

  The caterer walked out, barking instructions to her two companions.

  Hope squeezed. “You’re going to be the most sought-after trainer in Malibu,” she said. “Trust me.”

  I managed a faint smile. “And if I’m not? You’re going to be my sugar mama?”

  She nodded. “I’ll make you my housewife and keep you locked away where no one else can find you. What do you think about that?”

  “I think I’ll expect chocolate bonbons every day.”

  She giggled — a light, musical sound. She giggled like that a lot these days.

  I will be with you again

  I will be with you again

  * * *

  Thanks for reading.

  Support independent authors — leave a review at Amazon.com.

  Thank you for reading my quick little holiday romance. I truly hope you enjoyed it.

  And if you did enjoy it, I want to ask for just one more minute of your time — literally just one more minute — to leave a review of this book on Amazon.

  I’m not sure if you realize how much reviews matter to independent authors like me. We’re the “little guys” of the publishing world, trying to get our books noticed despite not having the same resources as big-name authors with big-name publishing houses. Reviews are one of the things that make a difference. People read them. People make purchasing decisions based on them.

  So would you mind leaving a review? One minute, really. That’s all I ask.

  * * *

  Get access to my new books for free

  Whenever I publish a new book, I give my readers a chance to read it for free. I ask who’s interested in the new book, make a list of people who say they’re interested, and then pick anywhere from 15 - 30 people at random for a free copy. If that sounds like a good deal to you, join my Reader’s Club and stay up-to-date on everything I’m writing. Besides a chance at free books, everyone who joins the Reader’s Club gets a free short story, access to any current discounts, and occasionally free books and swag from me.

  The Reader’s Club is an email list, and before you say, “OMG, I’m on so many lists already!” I just want you to know that I don’t spam. You’ll get my series of welcome emails, but after that, you’ll hear from me about once per month at most. Sometimes less than that. So don’t worry; I won’t clutter up your inbox! Join today: http://authorelizaandrews.com/readersclub-w

  * * *

  Backstory to the Story

  [ If you’ve never read my books before, you may not know that I (usually) include a personal essay at the end instead of an Acknowledgments or About the Author section. That’s what follows below. ]

  I first started writing about Hope Caldwell and Calvin, Georgia, when I was still an undergraduate at Duke University in the late 1990s. (Wow, as I type that, I realize that means Hope has been living inside my head for more than twenty years.) I think the first time Hope and Calvin showed up in a story together was when I turned in a short story instead of an academic essay (I had a bad habit of doing that to my professors) for my Chekhov class. No, wait — it was for my Dostoevsky class. I remember now: I wanted to demonstrate my understanding of The Brothers Karamazov via short lesbian-themed fiction.

  If that makes you narrow your brow in confusion, don’t worry; I am also confused about what I was trying to do. But then again, I was twenty at the time, and pretty much everything we do at that age is confusing.

  Calvin, Georgia, is based on my own hometown of Hiram, Georgia. (Although if any of you readers are Atlantans, you’ll notice I placed Calvin north of the city instead of west.)

  Hope is loosely based on my best friend from high school, EC. EC may not realize it (and she will probably never read these words), but she influenced my trajectory from adolescence to adulthood probably more than any other person in my life. I will be forever grateful for her take-no-prisoners approach to life, and even though I’ve never been as courageous as she is, I owe what little courage I managed to cultivate primarily to her. EC was always true to herself, no matter what other people thought, no matter what the cost would be. I think I had to witness that kind of power (because being true to yourself is certainly a super power) in someone else before I could do it myself.

  So in my mind, EC has always been larger-than-life. That’s why I keep writing her into my fiction in different ways. First in my Dostoevsky class, later in the short story that I used to apply for a Master’s in Fine Arts in Creative Writing (“Hope Caldwell” got me into three schools but I never went), and now in Winter Love Songs. What better way to honor my larger-than-life friend than to turn her into a world-famous pop star? :-D

  But fame — ah, yes. Fame.

  Besides my hometown and the ever-fabulous EC, the other place this story came from is a documentary about Lady Gaga that I stumbled across on Netflix or Amazon or Hulu or some other random place on a lazy afternoon. When I watched it, I tried to wrap my mind around what it would be like to be that famous. Lady Gaga famous. I started writing a story about Hope Caldwell as a pop star immediately after watching the documentary.

  What would that level of fame do to a person’s psyche? I wondered. Wouldn’t it be a total mind-f***?

  Writing is what I do when I don’t understand something, when I want to process something, or when I have something to say. That’s where this story came from: I was trying to understand what the mind-bending effects of fame might be; I always use my writing to process heavy emotions; and I have something to say: keeping assault rifles legal is stupid.

  Anyway. That’s all I’ve got for this essay. I hope it was more interesting for you than an Acknowledgments section. :-)

  * * *

  Keep in touch.

  Well, reader. I hope this isn’t the last time we see each other. The best way to keep up with me is through my Reader’s Club (see the links above). But there’s always these other ways:

  Email: ramarshall.writer@gmail.com

  Blog: http://authorelizaandrews.com/blog

  Facebook: http://facebook.com/authorelizaandrews

  * * *

  Credits: Songs Quoted in This Novella

  (Listed in order of appearance)

  Seger, Bob. “Turn the Page.” Back in ’72, Palladium, 1973.

  DiFranco, Ani. “32 Flavors.” Not a Pretty Girl, Righteous Babe, 1995.

  Germanotta, Stefani and Khayat, Nadir. “Bad Romance.” The Fame Monster, Interscope Records, 2009.

  Saliers, Emily. “Least Complicated.” Swamp Ophelia, Epic, 1994.

  Gilmour, David and Waters, Roger. “Comfortably Numb.” The Wall, Harvest, 1980.

  Taylor, James. “Fire and Rain.” Sweet Baby James, Warner Bros., 1970.

  Clapton, Eric and Jennings, Will. “Tears in Heaven.” Rush: Music from the Motion Picture Soundtrack, Warner Bros., 1992.

  Guthrie, Arlo. “Alice’s Restaurant.” Alice’s Restaurant, Warner Bros., 1967.

  Alexakis, Art; Eklund, Greg; and Montoya, Craig. “I Will Buy You a New Life.” So Much for the Afterglow, Capitol, 1997.

  Mescudi, Scott; Stroud, Mike; and Mast, Evan. “Pursuit of Happiness.” Man on the Moon: The End of Day, GOOD Music, 2010.

  Guaraldi, Vi
nce. “Thanksgiving Theme.” A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, CBS, 1973.

  Kiedis, Anthony; Flea; Frusciante, John; and Smith, Chadwick. “Scar Tissue.” Californication, Warner Bros., 1999.

  Duritz, Adam; Mize, Ben; Gillingham, Charles; Vickrey, Daniel; Bryson, David; and Malley, Matthew. “A Long December.” Recovering the Satellites, Geffen, 1996.

  Winehouse, Amy and Ronson, Mark. “Back to Black.” Back to Black, Island, 2007.

  Michael, George. “Last Christmas.” Music from the Edge of Heaven, Columbia, 1984.

  Menzel, Idina; Anderson-Lopez, Kristen; and Lopez, Robert. “Let It Go.” Frozen (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack), Walt Disney Records, 2013.

  Mars, Bruno; Brown, Christopher; Hernandez, Peter; Reeves, Jeremy; Yip, Jonathan; Fauntleroy, James; Lawrence, Philip; McCullough, Ray; and Romulus, Ray. “That’s What I Like.” 24K Magic, Atlantic, 2017.

  Harris, Neil Patrick and Trask, Stephen. “The Origin of Love.” Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Atlantic, 1999.

  Other books by Eliza Andrews:

  To Have Loved & Lost: A new adult lesbian romance

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01M7YF05A

  Anika takes the long way home up soul mountain

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074L7NJYX

  Reverie

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078WCN762

  Paradise: A (short) lesbian romance

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07212Z4GD

  Eastside / Westside / Love

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B078WCN762

  Princess of Dorsa (The Chronicles of Dorsa, Book 1)

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07JGRCMLB

  FREE SHORT STORY:

  http://authorelizaandrews.com/readersclub

  Learn more about Eliza:

  http://authorelizaandrews.com