by J. Saman
Lame. That’s so freaking lame. Grow up, I want to shout at her. Why does this feel like high school? I mean, she’s practically feeling Jameson up just to prove…what? That she fucks him? Please. Like I didn’t already know that.
Her hands are running up and down his arms, squeezing his huge, man muscles and petting his chest like he’s made out of cashmere. Her big eyes lock on his face, and really, Jameson just looks uncomfortable at this point. “I’m not sure I have the time right now, Saylor. I have a lot going on with soccer practice and studying.”
“Did you really grow up together?” Matt asks me, mercifully diverting my attention away from the two love birds, while they continue their back and forth.
“Yep. Same town. I’ve known him since kindergarten.”
“That’s cool, I guess.” He shifts his weight, looking over at Jameson, who is still engrossed with his hag, and then back to me, indecision on his face. “I meant what I said about working with you. I know we could write something amazing together. Maybe we could work on my sound and see what we come up with?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “You have a really good voice and a lot of range. I think there’s a lot you could do.”
“Awesome.” He beams. “Can I grab your number? We could meet up and talk about it over coffee or something.”
“You ready, Lee?” Jameson interjects, his tone sharp, his eyes hard with something unspoken behind them.
My head whips in his direction. “Uh, sure. Just give me a sec.”
“Lee?”
“It’s a nickname,” I supply, adjusting my heavy bag and wrapping my arms around my chest.
“It’s a term of endearment. Something just between us, if you know what I mean.” Jameson winks at Matt, before his playful expression deviates and he stares him down. Something I don’t quite understand passes between them. Matt shakes his head, a small frown marring his handsome face before it’s gone just as quickly.
Matt pivots to face me fully, his dark eyes sweeping over me like he’s trying to figure me out. Saylor is gone, and now it’s just the three of us standing here, which is getting awkward as an unspoken hostility begins to build like smoke from a fire. “Go ahead,” Matt says coolly before his stoic mask transforms into a broad smile, aimed directly for me. He steps into me, closer than I expect, considering I hardly know the guy. “I’ll get your number next class.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.” I step back and Jameson maneuvers in next to me. Matt shakes his head and walks off, and I find myself looking up at a very satisfied Jameson.
“I’m thinking lunch and then some outdoor studying. I’m starving, but I have all afternoon. What about you?”
What just happened? Why did that have the look and feel of a pissing match between Matt and Jameson? I can’t imagine that being so, since Jameson just practically set up a date with the poison princess right in front of me. And more to the point, why do I care about either of those two things? Jameson is free to do whatever he wants with whomever he wants. But even as I force myself to think, and possibly believe that, I’m struck with the bitter taste of jealousy.
And I do not like it.
“I want a salad,” I say, forcing those thoughts far from my brain and consciousness. “The one that has goat cheese and all those chopped vegetables in it.”
“Of course you do. I’ve never seen a woman eat more vegetables than you. You’re like an adorable little bunny rabbit.” He takes my heavy bag from my shoulder and puts it onto his, since all he has is his standard notebook and chewed up pen. “Come on. Before another asshole tries to join us.”
I let out an incredulous scoff. “You’re the one who just set up a fuck date with Evil Barbie.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Lee. It’s why she stormed off in a bitchy huff. If you hadn’t been playing footsie with the guy who is only interested in using you for your musical talents, you would have seen that.”
I peek up at him, squinting against the intrusive sun as I take in his profile. I wish I were taller. I’m not short, but Jameson has to be well over six feet. He’s a good six or seven inches taller than I am and that makes my not-so-casual observation of him difficult as we walk.
“I don’t care if that’s what he’s after. He pretty much told me he wanted my help on his sound.”
“You can’t really be that clueless.”
I bump my hip into him, but of course the brick of a man hardly misses a step. “You just told me that’s all he’s after,” I bark, growing more exasperated with him by the second. “And why did you tell Saylor no? I saw your tongue down her throat, like, two weeks ago.”
“Keeping tabs on me, baby?” I roll my eyes at his cocky smirk and he taps the tip of my nose with his finger like I just answered my own question. “Because Saylor is starting to develop expectations, possibly an attachment, and that’s the last thing I want.”
We make our way to the edge of town where there’s a sandwich shop that we frequent. It’s one of the only places in town that has anything vegetarian. Southerners are not known for avoiding meat. I get a lot of puzzled expressions when I ask them to alter my food to make it vegetarian. It’s like I’m speaking in Russian. They just can’t wrap their heads around it.
“From her?”
“From women in general. At least for now. I’m young and I like having fun.” He glances down at me, one eyebrow raised as he guides me around a couple standing in the middle of the sidewalk peering into a store window. “Don’t pretend you don’t feel the same. I heard you telling Cane something similar.”
He opens the restaurant’s door for me, holding it in such a way that I have to duck under his arm to enter. “I’m not judging. Just curious.”
We move to get in line and he throws his arm around my shoulder. Just like that. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to touch me, to hold me in such a way. Butterflies. Dammit all, I have excited butterflies like a small child about to go on her first roller-coaster. Did the guy not just tell you that he doesn’t form attachments? That he likes his fun? Are you not in the exact same mindset, foolish girl?
“You’re the only girl who doesn’t irritate the shit out of me in under twenty minutes. Saylor is pretty, but there’s not much to her other than her bitchiness. I’m not against monogamy or girlfriends, I just don’t have much desire for that yet.”
“I get it. I’m sort of the same. I like my freedom. I like having fun. I had Charlie for most of high school and there was a guy I was seeing at NYU for a bit. But like you said, we’re young. I don’t want to feel guilty about spending so much time on my music or hanging out with my friends or going to California for my internship this summer.”
Jameson pulls me in closer to his side and just…holds me there. He doesn’t say anything else as we move and shift up to the front of the line. And when we get there, he orders for me. Not in a macho, asshole way. He just does it, and he remembers that I want the dressing on the side and don’t like raw onions, so he has them hold them. And he makes sure they don’t put any chicken on it.
I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t want a boyfriend. I really don’t. But still, there is that part of me that loves that he turned Saylor down. And none of that has to do with her attitude and blatant disdain for me. Then there’s that whole scene with Matt. The more I think on it, the more I know Jameson was trying to get him to fuck off. But why? Why be a dick like that if you’re not interested?
Is it a territorial thing? An alpha ‘I don’t want her but I don’t want anyone else to have her either’ thing? I don’t know. But I do know it’s not the sort of thing I can bring up. Mostly because it will change our dynamic and I’m not sure I want to do that. And really, what would I ask? Some questions are better left unanswered. Some truths better left unsaid.
He leads me over to a table by the window and I stare out at the lunchtime rush. “I don’t want to study today,” he says, his voice distant as he also stares out the window.
“We don�
��t have to. It’s not like we have an exam or anything this week.” Or next week for that matter.
He nods, but his gaze doesn’t deviate. “What do you want to do instead?”
I smile and with that smile, I realize this could turn bad for me. Because I’m smiling that he still wants to hang out even though we’re not studying. I’m smiling because I don’t annoy him the way other girls do in under twenty minutes. I don’t even seem to annoy him after hours together, because he keeps coming back for more and always gets that frowny face when we say goodbye. This smile is dangerous, and I force it from my face, before it does something stupid like turn into feelings.
Then he turns to me and says, “Whatever you want. Like I said, I have all afternoon and I’d like to spend it with you.”
And just like that. My smile is back.
Chapter 4
Lyric
* * *
“Where are you going dressed like that?” my suitemate asks. Her obvious disdain for me, as well as my outfit, should be off-putting, but it’s not. I feel bad for her. She’s the type of girl who eats her feelings in the form of her hair and fingernails. She wears all black—sort of depressing if you ask me—has dyed black hair, thick black makeup, and too many piercings for me to count.
Honestly, I dig the goth look. I think it’s pretty rad and if I had the ability to pull it off, I might do it a bit more. But this girl is a downer. I mean, there’s a reason she’s a junior and voluntarily living in campus housing. She’s sort of a nasty, bitter bitch. But I think that’s all a big coverup. I think she might just be a sad girl.
“I’m going out to a bar and then a party with my friend Cass. You want to come with us?”
Daria stares at me like I just asked her if she wants to be bitten by a venomous snake. “You do understand that guys drug girls at those parties.”
“Not all of them,” I say in jest. But she’s not laughing, and I wonder if that happened to her. I finish applying my mascara while she watches. We’re in my room. She came in uninvited and watched while I changed my outfit twice, did my hair, and now while I finish my makeup. I don’t get her fascination, but it’s there. I’d love to help this girl come out of her shell of darkness. “I’ll be super vigilant about holding onto my drinks,” I promise, and I mean it. Bad shit does go down at college parties and I didn’t mean to downplay that with her.
“Are you going to bring a guy back here for sex?”
Hmmm… how does one answer that question? Especially since it’s none of her business who I fuck and where I fuck them. “Maybe. But if I do, I assume you won’t be in my room, so it really shouldn’t bother you.”
“I’ve seen you with Jameson Woods.”
Here we go.
“Yup.” I catch her eye in the reflection of my mirror as I apply my red lipstick. I love red lipstick. It’s just…hell, it’s so fun. And I don’t care what anyone says, whenever you wear it, you feel pretty, desirable, and sexy.
“He sleeps around.”
I shrug. I don’t care that he sleeps around. I mean I do, but I try really hard not to. We don’t have that kind of relationship. We’ve become friends who flirt. And friends who flirt rarely cross that magic, irreversible line. Mostly because they like flirting. They also know sex will destroy whatever good thing they have going. Jameson wants me to study with him, even if he really doesn’t need me the way he thinks he does. And as my lovely suitemate, Daria pointed out, he sleeps around. And because he sleeps around, he’s not looking to sleep with me.
You only sleep with your fiends if you want to make them more.
In the months that Jameson and I have been friends, I know he does not want to make me more.
“You’re wearing a dress.”
“Yup.” What I really want to say is, aren’t you a perceptive little thing? But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut, because like I said, I think she’s just sad under her layer of bluntness. I am wearing a dress and she did state the obvious. My dress is short. Mid-thigh and a deep purple with these fantastic cutout lines in turquois. My shoes for tonight are also purple. I’d call them hooker heels, because they pretty much are, but I feel like that might be selling the exorbitant price of the shoe short.
My mother likes to dress me as she would herself if she were twenty-one. Every week—seriously, every freaking week—I get a new box. Last week it was the shoes that match the dress I’m wearing tonight. The week before it was a psychotically expensive purse that I’ll more than likely never use and will either donate to a charity to auction or give to my sister.
“When you bend over, I can see your ass.”
“Good to know. I’ll try not to bend over too much then.”
Daria blows out a frustrated puff of air. She’s sitting on my bed and I sort of wish she weren’t. It feels too personal for a woman who continuously criticizes me. “I think you’re making a mistake in going.”
Closing up the tube of lipstick, I tuck it away into my purse and smack my lips together. “Why’s that?” I ask, spinning on my still-bare feet to face her. Her eyes are down, staring at my orange comforter. “Did something happen to you at a party?” I ask gently.
“No,” she says quickly and then goes quiet. I walk over to her, keeping my distance, but letting her know that she can talk to me. “You’re the only person here who doesn’t call me a freak and I’d like to spend more time with you.”
Well shit. “I don’t think you’re a freak at all. Why do people call you that?”
She shakes her head, her eyes still down. “Because of the way I dress and because I’m bisexual.”
“Well, they can eat a dick when it comes to how you dress and who you like.” She doesn’t say anything or even really react and I wonder if it’s because she said she wants to spend more time with me. Maybe she’s waiting on my direct answer to that? “I’m cool with hanging out with you, Daria. But you know I’m not gay, right?” She nods. As long as she knows. “Do you wanna go out for brunch with me tomorrow when I’m super hungover and needing greasy food?”
“Will you bring Cassia?”
Now I’m starting to get it. “You like her?” A very reluctant nod. “Can I ask her if she’s into that?” A more reluctant nod. “If you change your mind about coming tonight, call or text me. I don’t give a fuck what you wear or how you wear it.”
She smiles and it’s the first time in the history of the world that’s happened between us.
“Not tonight. Maybe another night.”
“Okay. I’ll ask Cass if she’s into girls. I think she might be, but don’t quote me on that yet.”
“Thanks.”
I take that as a victory and leave to meet up with Cass, who also doesn’t like parties but is learning to appreciate the horror show they are. I go for the spectacle. I don’t go to rub my tits up against some willing guy. I don’t go to get trashed on nasty, cheap beer. I definitely don’t go to dance to horribly mixed trick-hop bullshit. But I am in college. When I left NYU, I’d promised myself I’d relax my uptight tendencies and have more fun.
Tonight, Cass and I are going out to a bar first and then we’re hitting up a party at one of the large houses on the outskirts of campus. I meet her outside my dorm building and we walk—me in my freaking five-inch hooker heels—down to the main strip where the bar we want to go to is. I like Cass. In the months I’ve been in this school, we’ve gotten closer.
She’s a pianist. A talented one, but I’m trying to get her to branch out to bass guitar. She has phenomenal rhythm and a knack for hearing what other musicians are putting out and following along. She’d be killer on the bass, and I happen to know an up-and-coming band that’s looking for someone. But I don’t know how interested she is in that.
But that’s what I do. It’s what I freaking love. What I get high off of. Music. Making music to be exact. Bringing multiple instruments—sometimes even electronics—together into something that gets people moving their heads and singing along in their cars, gets them feeling s
hit they might not want to feel. Or crying. God, if I can get someone to cry, I’m the happiest person ever.
Before you think I’m a cruel bitch, it only makes me happy because you can only cry when you’re truly feeling.
I can mix together anything and make it sound so goddamn good you didn’t even know your soul needed it until I’m literally feeding it to you and you’re begging for more.
I’m in a great mood. I spoke to Melody tonight, and she’s moving in with her boyfriend. She’s in love, my father is signed up for a very limited world tour with his band and now that we’re all out of the nest, my mom is talking about going with him for once.
I may have grown up with rock-and-roll glory, but my father, and especially my mother, made sure my sister and I had the most normal of upbringings that any wealthy girls could. They put us first. Even to the point where my father put his music career on hold. Imagine that. Seriously try. You’re on top of the world. One of the biggest bands since the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, or Journey, and you meet this woman who tells you that she’s really not into the scene. Would you give it up?
Well, my father did. Without blinking an eye. He gave up the touring. He gave up the crazy production schedules and long absences from home. Groupies? Never looked at another woman again after meeting my mother. And once Melody was born, that was it. He became a daddy. My tattooed, long-haired, rock star father held our hands as he took us to school and threw us princess birthday parties. Melody isn’t into music. She’s into dance and her boyfriend. But I think my father likes that I’m into music as much as I am. Even if he’s proud of us no matter what we do.
The bar is loud and overcrowded with college kids, and there’s some ridiculous karaoke thing going on in the back.
“Beer?” Cass shouts to me as we make our way into the fray.
“No,” I scream back. “Shots.”
She shakes her head as I nod mine. She blows out a frustrated breath. “One shot and then beer.”