The Way It Hurts

by Patty Blount

  “Uh.” I blinked. I had no idea how to respond to that. I grabbed a strawberry of my own, took a bite, and felt immediately better. “Where did you get these? They’re amazing.”

  “The chocolate shop off Main Street, near the theater. Wonderful, aren’t they?”

  Wonderful didn’t come close.

  “If you were a tad bit older, I’d pour you a shot of whiskey in that tea.”

  I stared at her. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  She smiled and gave me the nice-try look. “Now then. Tell me from the beginning everything that happened.”

  So I did. We drank our tea, finished the strawberries, and I told her everything: the band and the Beat and all the crappy insults and put-downs I’d had to deal with just because I posted my opinions.

  “And these insults…you’re certain they were from Elijah?”

  “Um, well, no. Only the one about making me scream. Oh, Etta!” I buried my face in my hands and sobbed. “I really thought he was great. But he’s just—he’s just—”

  “A man. The question is, how will you use this information?”

  I lifted my head and stared at her through my tears. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Kristen, my darling, whether this Elijah is great or not is not the question you should be asking. You now know something about him—how can that something help you get what you need?”

  “I don’t know what I need!”

  “Of course you do.” She repeated with a subtle eye roll. “You were heartbroken about your summer program rejection. What if you created your own summer program? What if you accepted Mr. Hamilton’s indecent proposal?” She leaned in closer. “And what if screaming in his rock band is just the sort of unexpected something extra that you need on your conservatory applications?”

  I rocked back in my seat. Could I do that? Could I hide the crack in my heart and pretend this is just my next role? Yeah. Yeah, I decided, I could. “I guess I could call him.”

  Etta gasped. “Oh, no, you will not. You will wait for young Mr. Hamilton to come to you, begging. When he does, and he will, you’ll agree to sing in his band and then you will capture all of his fans with one simple technique that has endured through the ages. It’s called sexual competition, darling.”

  I choked and then quickly looked around to make sure Mom and Dad hadn’t possibly heard that.

  Etta patted my back. “It’s not what you think,” she said, waving a hand. “The concept is quite simple, really. Despite it being the twenty-first century and all, it’s just that people—especially men—cannot believe women can do anything as well or, heaven forbid, better than they can. You turn this into a competition like that, and people who don’t even like this sort of music will fill seats just to see who wins.”

  My eyes widened. If I did this, I could really give Elijah Hamilton’s fans something to talk about—and maybe, with a little luck, that something might involve revenge of all sorts of unspeakable agony.

  A slow grin spread across my face. I raised my teacup, and Etta clinked it, a matching grin on her face.

  7

  Elijah

  @BryceG: WTF @Ride_Out? You got BroadwayBitch on her back? Sweet. #CatCall

  @Ride_Out: @BryceG: On her back? Hell, gonna have her on her knees. Wait and see. #CatCall

  SHARES: 6 LIKES: 22

  Shit. I seriously messed things up.

  Today was Thursday. I didn’t get around to accepting Kristen’s friend request until yesterday, and she’d sent it on Saturday.

  And I hadn’t heard a word from her.

  I didn’t know much about girls. But I knew this: you don’t keep them waiting. And I damn well couldn’t tell Kristen why I’d kept her waiting. I laughed, imagining that conversation. Oh, yeah. Sorry about not getting back to you. My friend, Sam, was acting like a total girl, and I had to reassure him that he was still number one in my life. You know how it is.

  So after school on Thursday, I cut my last class and booked it across town to Bear River High School North. When the bell rang, I waited—not patiently—for Kristen Cartwright to appear at the main exit so I could convince her to give me—give us—a shot.

  A couple of freshmen gave me the eye as they went by, and I realized I was still laughing. I quickly shuttered my face and tried to look like Elijah Hamilton, Rock God. I thrust my thumbs in my belt and leaned casually against a rail, hip cocked like I was too cool for school. I worked hard on my rock god rep so nobody could see the sweat rolling down my back.

  Students walked out the main exit and down the stairs to waiting buses. I studied faces and skidded to a sudden stop. What the hell did Kristen Cartwright look like out of her cat costume? Was she a blond or a brunette? Was her hair long or short? The only things I remembered about her were those kissable lips and that seriously awesome rack—

  Whoa.

  Speak of the devils.

  The same awesome rack just walked out the exit. She was with some other girl, whose eyes practically exploded out of her face when she got a look at me.

  I tensed up and waited for Kristen to spot me. When she did, I could tell I was definitely in some deep trouble by the way her spine snapped up straight. She was a blond, and her hair fell past her shoulders in a silky curtain. She wore bright red boots with jeans and a North sweatshirt.

  Kristen Cartwright liked to be noticed. Why else would anyone wear red boots?

  She met my eyes and then walked down the steps and right on by, her friend glued to her side.

  I laughed. Okay. Game on. Let the chase begin. I pushed off the rail and caught up to her in a couple of strides. “Hey.”

  She made a sound of some sort, halfway between “Hi!” and “Drop dead.”

  Thinking fast, I blurted out, “I have a present for you.” I didn’t. Not really. Shit. Now I had to improvise.

  Another sound, this one louder. “Would you like me to tell you what you can do with this present?” Witnesses to our game laughed, and I suddenly found myself losing patience.

  “Look, you’re pissed off, and I get that. But I meant what I said at the show last weekend. I want you to sing in my band.”

  She stopped walking and turned to face me, her hair lifted by the breeze. Ignoring her friend and the rest of our audience, she curled her lip in a sneer that told me just what she thought of my band. “Oh, really? Because I heard all you wanna do is make me purr and scream.”

  My jaw dropped. What in the actual fuck was she talking about? “Uh—”

  Her hand shot up. “Don’t even.” She tugged out her cell, tapped some buttons, and shoved it in my face while her friend skewered me with a disgusted look. I jerked when I saw the #CatCall tweet stream, starting with my wanna hear her scream post.

  Oh, crap. Yeah. I’d seriously fucked up.

  She stuffed the phone back in her pocket and started walking away. No. What she was thinking was wrong. I’m not that much of a dick. “I said hear, not make!” I called after her.

  She halted, turned around, and shot out a hip. “Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal.” I caught up to her. “I was talking about heavy metal screaming. It’s a kind of singing style?”

  A tiny crease formed over her brow, but she hadn’t run away, so maybe, just maybe, I still had a shot.

  “I know what it is.”

  I had a feeling that was a lie, but I let it go.

  “I think you’d be able to do a great metal scream.”

  “So…you’re saying you didn’t mean that tweet in the pervy, sick, misogynistic way it sounded?”

  Uh, misogynistic? Holy shit. I held up both hands. “No!”

  “Then why did you post my picture?”

  I was so busted. “Okay. Yeah. I posted your picture because you’re like…well, hot. And I kind of wanted to—”

  “Exploit
me,” she finished for me.

  Aw, hell. “Yeah. I guess so.” I hung my head. “I didn’t really think about that. But I didn’t lie to you. I still think you have the most amazing voice I’ve ever heard. I just really want to hear you sing in my band.”

  She smirked. “No offense, but I hate rock.”

  “Yeah, and I hate show tunes. Doesn’t change anything.”

  While her friend kept making impatient sounds, Kristen crossed her arms and studied me, her head angled like she was trying to get a glimpse of the real me through my nostrils, open mouth, or ears. “Why?”

  I opened my mouth then closed it. “Why what?” Hadn’t we just covered this?

  “Why me?”

  “I told you. Your voice completely blew me away. I really want to see what you can do with hard songs.”

  Blue eyes narrowed to tiny pinpricks. “Hard songs? You don’t think ‘Memory’ is a hard song?”

  “Kristen, the bus is gonna leave without us.” Her friend tried again to get her moving.

  Aw, hell…were girls always this much work? I renewed my commitment to not date and tried to explain. “Hard rock songs. The genre,” I clarified, praying for patience. It worked. Her eyes went back to their normal size, and she waved a hand.

  “Okay. So you want to hear me sing hard rock so badly, it takes you a week to accept my friend request?”

  Sam so owes me for this. I should have responded the second she sent her request, but I didn’t want him to think I was whipped. And then, Anna had a meltdown that sucked me into the vortex, and I just forgot. “I had some stuff going on. Doesn’t mean I changed my mind about you.”

  She sucked in a cheek and rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. Stuff. Of course.” She turned and started walking again. In a few more yards, she’d reach the bus that idled in the parking lot, and I’d lose this opportunity.

  “My sister is… She has special needs,” I blurted out. Shit. I hadn’t planned to tell her that. It just…I just…fuck! What was it about Kristen Cartwright that made me forget all my moves? Girls usually bought whatever line I sold them but not her.

  She halted in the middle of the parking lot, ignoring a horn that honked at her. With wide eyes, she stared at me, lips parted in an O of shock. “Seriously?”

  “Kristen, come on!”

  Impatient, she waved at her friend. The girl growled in frustration, spun on her heel, and climbed aboard the bus, leaving Kristen and me alone. Finally.

  My face burned, but I nodded. “Uh, well, yeah. Kind of messes up the family dynamic, you know?” Of course she didn’t know. Why the hell did I say that? My face burst into flames, and I decided now would be a very good time to retreat. “Uh, fuck. You know what? This was a bad idea. You should just stick to your show tunes, and I’ll head back to the wrong side of the tracks you obviously think I come from, and we’ll just forget the whole thing.” I turned to go, panic rising like the tide. I wasn’t sure how the hell we’d get the county festival gig without Kristen to appeal to the general public but whatever. I’d find a way to make it happen without her because there was no way I could look at this girl and just take it when she looked back at me with such an expression of disgust on her face.

  “What about my present?” That powerhouse voice shouted after me, freezing me where I stood.

  Slowly, I turned, trying like hell to force my face back into its rock god sneer. I went with the first thing that came to me. “I was writing you a song.” Okay. Yeah. This could work. I could rhyme on the fly. But then, both of her eyebrows shot up, and a goofy smile spread across her face. Uh-oh. Rewind! Rewind! “Not a song to you, like a dedication or something. Just one for you to sing. With us.”

  The smile dimmed back to a normal level, and I breathed easy again. Didn’t want her getting the wrong idea. She was off-limits.

  No matter how amazing she looked when she smiled.

  Or how good she looked in those jeans.

  “Okay, let me see it.”

  “What?” I blinked.

  “This song. Let me see it.” She snapped her fingers at me and held out a hand.

  I laughed at her. “Can you read sheet music?” She gave me the side eye, but before she could retort with some other sarcastic dig, I held up both hands. “I’m just asking.”

  “Fine. Yes, I can read sheet music.”

  “Okay.” I took out my phone and showed her a melody I’d been working on. I watched the emotions and reactions play over her face. Her lips twitched, and her breath caught. A moment later, I swear her lips moved. She was humming silently to herself.

  I almost pumped my fist in victory.

  “Wanna hear it, done hard?”

  She let out a sigh and handed back the phone. “I guess so.”

  I tapped some buttons, and my guitar strumming played out, tinny and thin. The parking lot was almost empty now that the buses had pulled out, but I’d have sung for her even it was packed. I sucked in a deep breath and prayed I didn’t fuck this up.

  Born on the stage with mics in our hands.

  You and me.

  Strangers in the same land.

  Kristen bopped her head to the beat, so I took that as a sign to keep going. I sang her the chorus.

  We can make this work.

  Heads. Tails.

  Passing. Fail.

  Two sides of the same damn coin.

  Sing. Play.

  Writing. Pray.

  Baby, let’s get our forces joined.

  We can make this work.

  The guitar riff ended, and I shoved the phone in the pocket of my jeans, my face burning. “Okay, so it’s not my best work.” Still it wasn’t bad for spur of the moment.

  “Is that it?”

  She wants more! Yes! Inside, I was cheering. But outside, all I did was flash her my best wicked smile. “I always leave ’em wanting more.”

  To my total surprise, her face went red, but she didn’t back down. “Spare me the TMI on your sex life and stick to music, okay?”

  I almost choked on my own spit when she said sex. “Fine. What did you think?”

  She shifted her bag to the other shoulder, and I hid my smile. The bag had a Cats logo on it. That was pretty damn dedicated. Then again, maybe that wasn’t a bad idea. I could have Ride Out bags printed to hand out at our shows.

  If we ever got any more, of course.

  She nibbled a fingernail painted blue and looked up at me from under her lashes. Damn, those lips were hot. “Okay. It was good. Really good.”

  A distinctly shocked note was entirely audible in that response. I crossed my arms and got ready for battle. “Awesome. Next question…why are you so surprised? I told you I was in a band.”

  Amazing lips parted in a laugh that was ten times better than the smile—or worse, depending on your perspective. “Yeah, you did. It’s just when you said hard rock, I expected pentagrams and black candles and howls.”

  “We do that kind of stuff too. The howls, I mean,” I quickly added when her jaw dropped. “Not the pentagrams and black candles.”

  She looked a bit reassured to hear that but then shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “No problem. I can teach you.”

  She smiled at me like I was a four-year-old who’d just learned to tie his own shoes. “Let me rephrase. I meant I won’t do that. I won’t ruin my throat for your band.”

  Her hand crept up to her throat and rested there, and my eyes settled on the pulse I could see beating just under her fingertips. I licked my lips and nodded. “So noted. But just so you know, metal screams and death growls won’t ruin your throat when they’re done right. There’s a technique to it, just like learning any other extended vocal technique. Plus, not every song needs a metal scream.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, obviously surprised at my knowledge. Silence extended between u
s, and just when it got awkward, she asked, “So do you, um, write your own music?”

  “Oh, sure. We have a ton of fresh stuff now. We’d love to cut a record, but for that, we need interest.”

  She flashed me a wide smile, full teeth, and my brain went dead for a second. “And that’s why you need me.”

  I tried not to kink up at that. “I want you, Kristen. Never said I needed you.” Let her take that however she wanted to. That sexy little flush was crawling back up her neck and into her cheeks. Damn, this was fun.

  “Oh, you need me, Guitar Hero. You just don’t know how much.” She took off, leaving me standing there with my mouth open. She’d walked a few yards away and then called out over her shoulder. “I’ll give you a chance. Message me details. I guess you want me to rehearse?”

  “You know what they say.” I had to have the last word. She rewarded me by walking backward, waiting for me to tell her what the mysterious they say. “Try before you buy.” She laughed and turned back, giving me a most excellent view of a most excellent ass striding away on bloodred boots.

  I watched that ass sway and suddenly remembered my manners. “Hey!” I called after her. “Can I take you home? I mean, I made you miss the bus and all.”

  She spun around and shook her head. “Don’t push your luck. I’ll just grab the late bus.”

  And with that, she turned and strode back inside the school, leaving me alone in the parking lot with this urge to finish writing that lame-ass song I just made up.

  • • •

  Early Saturday morning, Mom and Dad took Anna to her therapy appointment, so I dragged my ass out of bed to open the garage for Nick and Sam. I hadn’t heard from Kristen Cartwright.

  Would she show?

  A girl like her probably had a dozen guys chasing after her. Then again, she seemed like the type who wouldn’t turn down a good challenge.

  I tossed down a bowl of soggy cereal, brushed my teeth, tied my hair back, and returned to the garage. The warm red hoodie I tugged over my head kind of reminded me of Kristen’s boots. It was spring, and even though I wasn’t a fashion designer, I did notice that the flip-flops hit the scene as soon as the snow season ended. And yet, Kristen still wore her boots. There was a story around those boots, I was sure of it. I should write a song. Hmm. Maybe something like this: