by Shayne Ford
“Like Nora is?” I ask, irony flashing in my voice.
He tips his head to the side.
“Yeah, Nora comes close, but no, she’s not that,” he says, serious.
My eyebrows shoot up with surprise. I can’t believe he just said that, and he’s damn serious. Good to know, he didn’t lose his head. Nora’s a wildcat after all.
“How do you know she’s different?”
It’s not like I don’t know the answer, but I want to hear his take on it.
Lifting an eyebrow, he plays a small smile.
“Listen, I started this business way before you... Music, money, women... I’ve seen a lot of women. Good and bad, and in between. I’ve only seen women like her a few times in my life, and they were already taken. That’s why I’m telling you all this.”
I take a swig of water, my eyes locked with his.
“If she’s so special, why do you pimp her to me?”
An amused smile flutters across his lips. Narrowing his eyes, he blows the smoke to the side.
“Are you fucking with me, now?” he says, chuckling. “I’ve already told you they all belonged to other men. She’s already yours. These are not the kind of women men get to chase around. They choose their men, not the other way around. They decide who they give their hearts to, and once they do, they belong to the man they pick. That’s what’s so special about them. She’s already set her mind on you. She can’t fucking breathe when she’s around you. She was about to pass out when you showed up at the studio, on Monday.”
“She doesn’t even know me,” I toss at him.
“You mean, like the rest of them do…” he says, amused.
I let out a soft chuckle.
“Let me tell you something,” he says. “Most people think that, just because we fuck what we like, we have the upper hand. The thing is, we get fucked many times. Getting laid is never the problem. Finding a real woman who wants to give more than a willing body is the challenge. ”
My smile falls from my lips. Off all people, I sure didn’t expect Ron to put this into words. I know this shit so fucking well.
“Well... it doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not looking for another headache,” I say and stop short before I need to elaborate on what ‘another’ means.
He shoots me a glance, his eyes filled with disappointment.
“Do as you wish, but I’m telling you... You only come across women like her a handful of times.”
I know his words bear truth, but the problem is, I’m too messed up right now to handle a woman like Layla. I can’t take a chance on her and screw up. I’d rather lose her before I have her than get her and scratch my eyes later on.
Before he says anything else, I pull up to my feet and walk outside.
The horse riding is great minus the endless chatter of my companion. I understand why Ron thought she’d be a great lay, but even for him, it’s the mismatch of the year.
Alma gives me the scoop on the New York socialites, the charity parties, and the hottest clubs in Manhattan.
Silent, I ride behind her, and soon, her voice becomes a distant hum.
A week ago, I was still fine, or so I thought. Perhaps, I was clueless, and maybe this shit has been brewing for a while, and I just missed the telltale signs.
Seemingly what I have right now is no longer enough.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I know I’ve done better than most people, and I was happy, for the most part. Until recently, I’ve never questioned my life, but the signs point to something different lately.
Turning a deaf ear to Alma’s ramblings, I train my eyes on the reigns, deeply sunk into my thoughts when the edge of a stare starts burning my skin, drawing my eyes to the house. A small jolt rattles my heart.
There she is.
Our eyes connect in an instant as if there's no distance between us. Her long hair blows in the wind, her eyes sparkling, glued to mine as her lips pull slightly agape.
She looks at me in fucking awe. It’s only a brief moment before she jerks back and falls into Ron’s arms. He catches her, smiling, and a shudder goes through me. The more he holds her in his arms, the tenser I become.
He pulls the doors close and glances at me, a suggestive smile stretching across his lips. He may be right, but just because she’s smitten with me doesn’t mean she’s mine.
Soon, I part ways with Alma, enter the house and walk to my room.
We’re supposed to start the recording session at eight o’clock, and for some unexplained reason, I decide to let everybody wait. That’s unlike me. I’m not that kind of star.
I work out for about an hour before I head to the shower. I spend another hour warming up my voice. It takes only five minutes to get dressed, mainly because there’s only one piece of clothing I put on.
I pull a pair of black leather pants straight on my naked body and examine myself in the mirror.
They’re molding and stretching, hugging my balls as if it’s the summer of sixty-nine. They hang low, really low, lower than that, and I could get arrested for indecent exposure.
Perfect. I smile like a jerk.
Pressing my lips together, I rake my hands through my hair and let a few strands dangle over my eyes. I spend a good five minutes ogling my body, styling rings and necklaces, examining my ass. I rarely, if ever do that. Not outside the stage, anyway. Technically this is work as well.
Hmm... Right.
By the time I rehearse poses in the mirror, flexing my muscles and thrusting my chest out, showing off my shredded abdomen and clenching my butt, I’m convinced I lost it.
I’ve never posed shirtless before, and I wouldn’t do it now either if it weren't for her. I have no fucking idea why I can’t control my impulse to play with her.
I could probably have her in my bed, wet and willing, in five minutes flat, but for some reason, I’m like a fucking mad dog, hell bent to drive her crazy.
I finally move my one man show downstairs.
As I stride across the room without dignifying anyone with a glance, I register the reactions of the two women in the room.
Alma, a seasoned huntress, examines me discreetly while Layla freezes in the middle of the room, her camera melted on her fingers.
I don’t know what scares her the most. The fact that I’m shamelessly dangling my body in front of her or the fact that she’s duty-bound to stare at me through her lens for the next half hour or so.
She can’t run and she can’t hide, which are both tempting, judging by the angst blazing in her eyes.
I step into the vocal booth and start doing my little teasing number. I hope she knows what she’s doing, ‘cause I’m not in the mood for coaching sessions, nor do I like horrible pictures, especially of myself.
Ron steps in and gives her a little nudge, and by doing so, he startles her and almost makes her throw her camera across the room. They talk to each other and look in my direction. I bear little hope it’s something good.
Avoiding any eye contact with her, I try to keep my head straight. That’s not to say I don’t sneak a glance once in a while, like now for instance, when I indulge in the enticing view of her teasingly shaped butt as she bends over the bag and fumbles for lenses.
Arched to perfection, her ass draws my attention to that little gap between her thighs. My imagination runs wild, my pants getting really tight.
Fuck.
She bends over one more time, and I swallow hard. She straightens and turns around, taking me by surprise, and I almost flick the mike off the stand.
Tall and lean, perfectly curved, she’s a walking tease. Long legs, small waist, hips made for love. Her eyes glitter, framed by her long locks, her lips pressed together as she focuses on her lens.
The skintight T-shirt molds on her full breasts and my throat tightens, so fucking dry. I have to chug a bottle of water to get the moisture back.
I'm supposed to sing, for fuck’s sake.
Seemingly, I’m not the only one who’s a mess. Beads of sw
eat glimmer on her lip, her camera shaking in her hand.
She needs a towel to wipe off the sweat from her face, and a good fuck to get those jitters out of her. She finally pulls herself together, catches her breath, positions herself and starts snapping pictures.
Few minutes in, I close my eyes and start singing, managing to relax. As my voice carries the tune, the unusual feeling that came to me the first time I saw her, hovers over me again.
I feel her close, breathing slowly, her heart pumping against her chest, her lips trembling, the beads of gleaming sweat trickling down her brow. I can almost feel her breath fanning over my body.
Slowly, I start moving. Shifting my weight from one leg to the other, I cock my hip, slightly tilting my head back. Then, I curl one hand around the microphone and grab the stand with the other.
The music flows through me as I envision her pressing the shutter, running her eyes over my body, observing me. The pull between us feels so real, I start to get hard.
Fuck.
Good thing, the music stops. It was either the song or me. The lights turn on, pulling me out of the trance.
A bit lost, she scurries back to her corner, and if I know anything about body language, she’s not animated by the idea that we’re done.
Ron walks to her, and makes it official and judging by her expression, a dungeon of despair is her new home.
The more he talks, the more obvious it becomes.
Blinking back tears, she nods to him, and as I fish for a shirt, a small crisis ensues in the corner. The wind pops a door open, spraying rain on her face. She smiles. A sad smile. And fuck me, don’t I know that kind of smile. I can also tell tears from rain.
Ron fixes the door and turns to her.
She looks at him, her eyes sparkling, soft and nostalgic, and I wish I knew what makes her so sad. He brushes off her tears and talks to her as she struggles with her emotions.
Her mouth opens and closes a few times, her chin quivering. She lowers her eyes, lost in his arms, the sight of them together, making my stomach flip. Again.
He hugs her and strokes her hair like you’d to a little girl, and in all fairness, she looks like one. Even sad, she’s beautiful.
And then, I realize. He talks her out of me, and it looks like it’s working. She packs her stuff, and leaves the room, without a glance in my direction.
I grit my teeth.
I can thank my big mouth for pushing her away. I have to stop talking with Ron about women. Although, he probably did the right thing, killing her hopes. I would’ve done the same.
Who knows? Maybe, it’s for the best.
I go back to the vocal booth, and try to forget about her.
Hours later, James and I are the only ones left in the studio. It’s close to midnight, and we’ve been recording the same track for the past half hour. As I get ready for the last take, the door opens, and Layla enters the room.
She strolls to the far corner, sinks into the couch and looks out the window. Not a glance in my direction.
I keep my gaze on her for a few moments. She ignores me. I signal James and start to sing.
Leaning back against the couch, she closes her eyes and listens. At least, I hope she does.
I motion to James one more time. He kills the song before it ends and I walk out of the vocal booth. Her eyes flip open.
Quickly, she shifts her focus away from me.
I make a beeline for the kitchen, grab a couple of bottles of water and stride to her. Her gaze is pinned to the starry sky outside.
Quiet, I stop next to her, stretch my hand out and turn my head to the control room.
“I’ll do it one more time. Give me one second,” I say to James, loud enough to grab her attention.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice her looking up and then at the bottle I hold out for her. Hesitant, she slides her fingers over mine, the warmth of her soft skin seeping into mine.
I let the bottle slide and stroll away, evading her eyes.
Back in the booth, I furtively steal a glance at her. Her eyes start burning, coming back to life. She’s texting feverishly.
Suddenly, she raises her eyes. Faster than her, I look away.
Moments later she tears off the couch, throws me one last glance, opens the door and runs upstairs.
I grin.
“What’s wrong with you?” James asks, smiling.
“Nothing,” I say, laughing softly.
9
As soon as we finish recording the last vocal track, I grab my stuff, sneak out of Ron’s house, climb into my car and drive west.
I can’t have myself bumping into her in the morning.
Everybody's better off if I stay away from her. I wouldn’t sleep anyway, knowing that she’s in the room next to me and only a wall between us.
A few hours later, I cruise the streets of a deserted Manhattan. It’s early Saturday morning, a chilly foggy day. Most stores are still closed, and the traffic is light.
As I drive downtown, sadness claws at me. The empty, cold streets resonate with me. I can’t wait to fly back home.
Half of my day goes by tossing and turning through a semblance of sleep. I spend most of the evening alone, listening to music and working on a couple of songs.
On Sunday, the band meets after lunch. We go over the songs for the acoustic VIP event scheduled in the evening.
We’re playing a small club, the show consisting of two sets, a mix of new tunes from the upcoming album and the most popular songs from the last one.
As we get closer to the start of the first set, I give Steve specific instructions to keep women away from me. A friendly crowd greets us as we walk on the stage. I scan the room for familiar faces, looking for one in particular.
Perched on a bar stool not far from me, having one drink too many, Layla tries to get used to her snuggly fitted dress.
I set my guitar and the microphone, and slide into a chair, my eyes flying to her.
The alcohol works wonders. When she’s not busy sipping her drink she stares at me unabashedly. I pretend I don’t notice. She shifts into her seat, and my eyes run down on her.
The front zippered, black dress and the high heel boots do her justice. She’s new to this game–– I can tell, and she’s still guessing, but she’s learning fast.
She crosses her legs, and straightens her back, her hand brushing her hair to the side. Her lips draw my eyes like a magnet.
Half of the people at the nearby tables, turn their heads, checking her out from time to time. Men and women. She struggles with her nerves, the effect of the alcohol, and the unexpected attention coming from those people.
Her fingers clasp on the zipper. She lowers it a few inches and fans herself. Busy with my microphone, I crush a grin. If I know anything about women, she's not only nervous. She’s also turned on.
Her eyes burn like torches.
I blame it on the alcohol, mostly, but if this is what I think it is, a volcano simmers in her blood.
She motions to the bartender who brings her a glass filled with ice and water. She tosses her drink back. The water puts some sense into her. She’s still ogling me, just not overtly.
I start the set, and as I sing the first tune, she shuts her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. I do my best to work the room, my gaze coming back to her from time to time.
Stay. It’s just another day
I’ll come for you. Don’t fade away.
The world is not your friend
If darkness draws the end
Stay. You’re not alone
And in my heart, you’ll find your home
Stay. It’s just another day
I’ll come for you. Don’t run away.
As I sing the chorus again, she flips her eyes open, the moment we connect our gazes my heart jolts in my chest. She looks at me, surprised, her eyes gleaming with fire. Nervous, she shifts in her chair, and I pull my gaze away.
I’m almost through with my first set when I check on her a
gain. She’s throwing desperate glances across the room, looking for Ron and Nora, and then I know why.
Not far from her, a man studies her ready to feed her a pickup line. She turns her back to him and slumps into her seat.
The clues are everywhere, yet he decides to give it a go, anyway. Undeterred, he pushes out of his chair and makes a beeline for her.
Then, something else catches my eye.
No. It can’t fucking be.
Sweeping the room with angry eyes, Lana paces to the bar. How the fuck did she get in? I thought I was pretty clear. Nobody was supposed to give her a VIP pass.
She cranes her neck out as if she looks for someone, but I know better than that. The fact that she’s in such a hurry to get to the bar tells me she’s caught sight of my little obsession with Layla.
I skip the last song and end the first set early. I don’t have time to get off the stage as all the signs are pointing to what is about to happen. I turn to the backstage and motion to Steve.
Mouthing Lana’s name, I point to Layla. He sticks his head out, barks something in his headset, and rushes off the stage. He dashes to the bar, cutting his way through groups of people. The bouncers head in that direction as well, but Lana’s too close.
The sucker who wanted to hit on Layla a moment ago gets tossed to the side and plops onto a table as Lana’s fist crashes into Layla’s shoulder.
Her hand curls around Layla’s neck, pulling her off the chair. Layla loses her balance, bumps into Jesses’s back whose glass hits the counter, his drink flying on his date’s dress.
What a fucking mess!
All in all, the noise of broken glass, curses, and Lana’s screechy voice, make more of a show than what Steel’s performance on the stage. I wish I could laugh, but fury claws at my chest and neck.
As the shit goes down and people get entertained, I have to stand here and watch everything, cool as a cucumber, pretending nothing happens, other than of course, a cat fight at the bar.
Everybody screams, but nobody as loud as Lana and from all the words, ‘bitch’ comes out of her mouth most often, and she’s not talking about herself.
Clutching the bar with one hand, Layla fights Lana’s grip with the other until Steve finally pulls them apart.