by BB Miller
“It’ll die down, Matty. It’s always mental right after a show.”
“And yet you want to go buy sunglasses today of all days. Why not just order them online like everyone else?”
“Because I’m not like everyone else.”
I let out a laugh. “No shit.”
He throws his arm around my neck as we duck into the next store. “You love me, Grasshopper. Think about how dull and boring your life would be without me in it.”
The thing is, he’s right. Not that I’d ever tell him that.
“You wanna get high?” It’s Hades’s voice, taunting me from his perch high atop the swing set in the park. I’m curled up inside the faded orange tube slide, trying to keep warm. Gunfire in the distance reminds me just how far away from the days of playing at the park I really am.
Despite me dealing drugs, I don’t do them. Hades and his crew use me to get them, though. And even with promises of food to eat when I score their meth, I eat dinner out of a garbage can.
I try to sneak away from the park when I think they’re asleep, but one of them catches me. I can’t get away, no matter how hard I try, and they drag me back under the swings to beat the living shit out of me.
Bolting up in the bed, I’m drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs. My heart races as I reach over to find the light on the nightstand. A warm glow blankets me while I search for my cigarettes and try to shake off the nightmare.
With shaking hands, it’s a struggle to get a cigarette out and light the damn thing, but that first drag seeps in and slowly starts to calm me. I wonder if there’s ever going to be a time when I don’t think about the years of neglect, of living on the streets, of feeling unworthy.
Glancing out at the darkened sky, it’s easy to imagine myself still out there—running from the cops, seeking shelter under a freeway bridge, always being bone-tired. I sometimes have to remind myself that’s not me anymore. But my success is still something I’m not sure I really deserve.
Blowing out a long puff of smoke, I finally push off the bed and stumble to the bathroom. Flushing the cigarette, I fill a glass with water. I down it quickly, repeating the process a few times before dragging myself back into the suite, knowing I’ll be up now for hours. Insomnia, one of my best friends, is also a bitch.
The bright pink lace of Tess’s bra catches my eye. The cleaning crew has folded it neatly, setting it on the computer desk by the window.
Quietly, it taunts me, begs me to pick it up, so I do. It smells like her, fresh and crisp. The lace is silky against my rough hand. Being with her last night helped me forget, at least for a little while.
Turning the bra over, I see the tag on the inside, and before I know it, I’m typing Wacoal into the search engine on my phone.
Rows and rows of images flood the screen, none of them as enticing as the hazy memories of Tess. I’m fully aware there are a million things that could go wrong with what I’m about to do, not the least of which is what Sean said this morning. This could blow up in my face and cause tension within the band at a time when we’re just hitting our stride again.
I can’t seem to stop myself. At the very least, Tess deserves to have her tempting piece of lace returned, and maybe just a few more items added to her lingerie collection that she might enjoy. I know this is a distraction, a way for me to try to keep the memories buried.
Typically, I’d head out to the nearest club, or hell, even just downstairs to the bar, and get distracted by some nameless woman who would be all too willing to fulfill her rock-and-roll fantasy. That’s been my blueprint for as long as I can remember. For once, I don’t want a nameless woman. For once, I know exactly what I want, and Tess Baker doesn’t have a fucking clue what she’s in for.
Tessa
What the hell was I thinking?
Shaking my head, I put the kettle on and tug my robe closer as I continue my mental berating. I never drink so much that I can’t remember what happened. Never. Of course, I never drink tequila either—not since that unfortunate night that resulted in me skipping naked across the field at Stanford Stadium at two in the morning with the rest of the debate team. Senor Tequila and I are not friends.
It’s not as if I’m a prude. I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands and have lived to tell about them. But this time … I rub a hand over my face in despair. The walk of shame felt even more shameful yesterday morning as I slunk my way out of the Fairmont and down to the transit station to catch the M line home. To hook up with him, of all people … that scruffy, egotistical asshat.
I’m smarter than that, damn it! I’m a freaking Stanford grad, for Christ’s sake!
I can’t deny that I’m attracted to him, despite the current state of his hair. Why on earth he ever thought a Mohawk was a good idea, I’ll never know. Tall and broad-shouldered, with classically blond hair and blazing blue eyes that see right into my soul, Matthew Logan is the epitome of bad-boy hot. Even more, there’s this … something … a determination and beauty in his movements that captivates me. And the way he plays on stage—he’s amazing. Fingers flying over the strings while he stalks around the stage, he is an equal and integral part of the juggernaut that is Redfall.
When he snarled at me in the boardroom before the show, he was so infuriating! Infuriating and provocative, and so damn full of himself. He practically dared me to go with him after Parker’s concert, so of course I couldn’t back down.
Damn my pride.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I will myself to remember. The limo ride is clear—mostly—and the visit to the club. Who would’ve expected that behind that nondescript front door not far from Fisherman’s Wharf was a place like that? I’ve been down that street a dozen times, and I’ve never noticed there was a strip club there, which I guess is the point.
The rest is fuzzy. I can remember looking out a window at the city lights upside down as my head hung over the edge of … something. A couch, maybe? I cringe, thinking of the spent condom wrappers I had to step over in my rush to leave the suite before he woke up. Disgusting. At least we were safe. I just wish I could remember!
I groan and pluck the whistling kettle off the gas burner to pour myself a steaming cup. Quickly dunking the tea bag several times, I breathe deeply as the distinctive scent of Darjeeling permeates the air. Tea has always been comforting to me, and I need some comfort this morning.
Enjoying the warmth of the cup in my hands, I curl up in a corner of the sofa, staring out at Lake Merced, just visible through the fog. I love my home. Nestled between the San Francisco State University campus and the San Fran Golf Club, it’s my little piece of heaven. The door opens and I look over in surprise. “Did you go running or something?”
“I wish. A server block decided to crash. Just the way I like to start a Monday,” my roommate explains with a grimace. At almost six feet tall with a glowing, coffee-colored complexion, Jada Harris is a striking woman. A mutual friend introduced us about a year ago. Jada, an IT network engineer for SFSU, owns our condo and had been looking for a roommate to offset expenses. We hit it off over coffee, and I moved in the next week.
“The water should be still hot if you’d like tea,” I offer, and she smiles gratefully and heads into our open kitchen. “I thought you normally worked remotely on stuff like that outside of business hours.”
“Normally I do, but …” She sighs and busies herself with tea making. “Tito panicked and called me in. It’s a long story. My plan is to go back to bed for a few hours and go in around ten.” She steps around the breakfast bar and gives me a curious look. “Aren’t you going in to work? You’re normally in the shower already by now.”
“Yep. Just moving a little slow this morning,” I say, plastering on a smile and standing. “Are we still on for the movie tonight?” We’d been planning on going to that new period drama with James McAvoy for weeks.
“Wouldn’t miss it!” She smiles tiredly. “But for now, I’m hitting the sack. Have a good day!” With a little wave, she
disappears into her bedroom. Knowing I’ve got to get moving, I retreat to my own room and head to the bathroom. One of the awesome things about Jada’s two-bedroom condo is that we each have a full bathroom.
Looking balefully in the mirror, I gingerly prod one of the myriad of hickeys that pepper my throat, chest, and boobs. Jesus, I look like I went ten rounds with a hungry pit bull and lost. Fuck. What kind of a psycho leaves marks like that? I’m going to have to wear a turtleneck, and I hate turtlenecks.
Closing my eyes, I get a sudden memory of a pair of intense blue eyes hovering over me, with silky blond hair flopping over a broad forehead. I suck in a sharp breath as a shudder of desire racks my body. My mind may not remember everything, buy my body obviously does. Damn it.
I turn on the shower and take a deep breath. It’s just another day, Tess. Pull yourself together.
Two hours later, I paste a bright smile on my face and say hello to everyone as usual, as I make my way down the hall and to my desk. I fire up my computer and let my morning routine lull me. Thank God Abby, my boss, is taking a few days off. She’d take one look at me and want to know everything.
However, because she’s not here, I probably won’t be hearing about my job application anytime soon.
Abby Walker, executive director of What’s Your Dream, has never treated me as just an assistant, and it’s something I love about working with her. She’s always included me in her decisions, and I know as much about our dream fulfillments as anyone else on the team. With Abby’s encouragement, I threw my hat in the ring for the open position of giving director. It’s a stretch for me, but, damn it … I want it.
With a shudder, I recall the conversation I overheard where Kennedy Lane had handed our former giving director, Nadia Baskov, her ass, calling her out on her unprofessional behavior. Following that was the board meeting during which Nadia had thought she was going to expose Abby’s relationship with Kennedy but only managed to make a fool of herself. No one was sorry when she handed in her resignation, but it left What’s Your Dream in a lurch.
I want to fill her spot. I’ll miss working so closely with Abby, but I’m ready for more responsibility. And she’d certainly never have to worry about me using some poor kid’s dream as a chance to hop in the sack with a client.
I slump with the reminder; no, apparently I sleep with them only after the dream has been fulfilled. Brilliant.
“You look nice.” I look up to see April Morrison, communications director, peering at me over her stylish glasses.
“Thanks,” I say, my smile faltering. To hide my hickeys, I paired my one and only turtleneck—black—with a matching skirt, belt, and heels. With my black hair and dark eyes, I probably look like a dominatrix.
I need to go shopping at lunch.
“Since Abby is out, how would you like to sit in on my meeting with Nintendo at ten thirty?” She looks at her iPad and taps something. “I could use some backup.”
“Sure.” I look at her in surprise. “This is for the Jacobson dream?” Mary Jacobson is a thirteen-year-old from Sacramento with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Her only way of relaxing during her chemo treatments is to play video games, and her dream is to work with Nintendo on an idea she had for a game.
April nods, smiling a secret smile. “Yep. And Ralph will be dropping by for lunch afterward. You should join us.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I cock my head at her unsubtle dropping of the chairman of the board’s name. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she says innocently, which only makes me more suspicious. April doesn’t do innocent. “See you at ten thirty.”
I find out what she was hiding about three hours later. Our Human Resources manager asked to see me and offered me the giving director position. Effective immediately! Breathlessly, I float down the hallway to my desk, my face aching from my perma-grin.
My smile gets impossibly wider when I see the giant bouquet of flowers on my desk. Eagerly, I check the card and laugh. Abby! She knew exactly what was happening, of course. Smiling fondly, I stick my nose in a blossom and inhale the delicate fragrance. I feel like I could open a window and soar across the city like Tinkerbell … or like Tinkerbell’s evil twin, considering my all-black apparel today.
Just when I thought the day couldn’t get much better, the meeting with Nintendo had gone swimmingly. Thanks to my obsessive note-taking in every meeting I attend with Abby, I was completely up to speed with everything that had been proposed already and could participate as an equal. Lunch with April and Ralph Shepherd, chairman of the board of directors, had been interesting. He’s a lovely man, but I felt like I was being evaluated. Now I know why.
“Hi, Tess. Nice flowers.” I look up to see Jeff from the mailroom standing in front of my desk with an enthusiastic smile on his face and holding a large rectangular box. “I’ve got a special delivery for you.”
“Thanks!” I take the box and eagerly look to see who sent it. FedEx overnight delivery? I bet it’s from my parents—Abby probably gave them a heads up. This is likely one of those inspirational posters my mother’s so fond of.
Absently, I flip the package over, looking for the pull tab on the box, as Jeff chatters away. “Actually, I’m glad I was on call when this came in. I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you.”
“Really?” I finally find the tab and rip it down the side of the box. I glance up, surprised to see Jeff still standing there, shuffling his feet like an excited puppy.
“Do you think you’d want to go get some coffee sometime?”
“Oh, um, sure. That would be great,” I say, distracted by the mystery of the box. I finally loosen the lid and lift it so I can peer inside.
Holy shit!
Quickly slapping the lid back down in alarm, I clutch the large box to my chest awkwardly and look up to meet Jeff’s curious gaze. “Uh, thanks a lot, Jeff. This is really for Abby, so I’ll just put it in her office,” I stammer, backing away from him and into Abby’s empty office. I say from the doorway, “Coffee would be great sometime. Thanks!” Giving him a bright smile, I quickly close the door and retreat to my boss’s sofa, placing the box on her coffee table. Slowly opening the lid again, I sift through the contents with growing dismay and anger. This definitely isn’t from my parents.
Underneath a layer of fancy tissue paper lies more lingerie than I could wear in a week. Lacy bras, silky underwear, and even a satin nightgown that looks like it would feel glorious against the skin, all in my size. And right on top is a replica of my favorite hot-pink lace bra, the one I left behind in my haste to escape Matt’s suite.
“That … that … presumptive ass!” I finally sputter. What in the flaming hell? Who does he think he is? And he delivered all this to me at work? Where anyone walking by could’ve seen what was in it? What if the obliging Jeff had decided to be helpful by opening the damn box for me? God!
I stare at the contents, mystified. We had one night together—one! That’s it. Done. Finito. Why would he do this?
A spot of plain grey cotton nestled amongst the lace and ruffles catches my eye, and I tug it free. A Redfall T-shirt—of course. But it’s the note that flutters to my lap that makes me laugh in spite of myself.
Thought you could use this. It’s far more fashionable than that rag you wore the other night.
To provoke him, I’d purposefully worn a Landon Ravine shirt at Parker’s concert. It worked. Matt’s eyes had almost bugged out of his head when he’d seen it, and he griped about it all night. He despises Ravine.
I drum my fingers on the box lid while I contemplate my next move. He obviously thinks he’s won our war of wills, and this is his way of flaunting his victory … like spiking the ball in the end zone.
Well.
With a huff, I close up the box and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. If he thinks I’m going to let him have the last word, he’s sorely mistaken.
Game on, buddy.
Matt
MY VICTORY MOTORCYCLE is keeping me busy, and I ne
ed that right now. My thoughts over the past few days keep drifting back to Tess—her smooth silky skin, her sarcastic mouth, and the delicious curve of her spine. It’s fucking torture.
Wiping my hands on the greasy towel hanging from my back pocket, I look up from the motorcycle, grinning at Tom Logan as he stands with his arms folded across his wide chest. It’s a welcome break from my brain that won’t turn off.
Dressed entirely in black as he typically is, his leather vest is open to reveal a well-worn Redfall T-shirt. Before we made it big, it would’ve been Zeppelin or Pink Floyd. It’s hard not to feel a surge of pride seeing him wearing it.
My garage is a far cry from my adopted father’s modest one on the outskirts of South Central LA, where he taught me everything I know about bikes. As a teenager, I thought it was torture. What I know now is that Tom was saving me, hour by hour, day by day, bike by bike.
He didn’t have to do it. He could’ve just as easily left me on the streets and forgotten about me. Worse, he could’ve turned me into the cops.
For whatever reason, he didn’t do any of those things.
That night when he found me trying to steal his Shelby, he took me to the group home he worked at, and he didn’t leave my side. He stayed up with me all night as I bitched and complained.
He did something no one else had ever done up to that point. He actually listened to me. He didn’t pass judgment, didn’t tell me all the ways I was screwing up my life. He didn’t feed me lines about wanting to change me, or paint some all-American-family picture where I’d fit in, with cozy dinners around a table every night, and people who actually gave a shit about me. I think that’s how eventually, over the next several years, he grew to be the first adult I actually respected.
It wasn’t easy. I’ve lost count of the number of times he dragged me back to the group home from the streets after curfew. I had finally found someone as stubborn as I was.
On one of those nights, after a back-alley fight that left me with a scar on my ribs, he took me back to his small garage. I was in pain, and the last place I wanted to be was around anyone. But when he opened that door, I was awestruck. I stood there gaping at the monster of a bike in the middle of the dimly lit garage, and at the rows of tools all neatly aligned on the beaten-down tables that bordered the space.