Alice
I invited Spencer to my home for the final fitting. For the past few weeks, I’d been going to his house and working out the wardrobe with him. But now, at the very end, he was coming to me. He wanted to see my place, so I caved in. I was cooking dinner for him, too.
To keep the evening from seeming romantic, I asked him to bring the dogs. By now, Candy and Cookie had become accustomed to me, so I figured they would be comfortable here. Spencer was also bringing Pete, per my request. The more company, the better.
Much to my dismay, I thought about Spencer day and night. I touched myself in the shower and imagined his hands on me. I rolled around in bed and fantasized that he was deep inside me. I did all of the breathless things that women did when they were consumed with a man.
I shook away those feelings and focused on the Mexican-style coleslaw on the counter in front of me. I made it look festive, with red and green cabbage, fresh corn directly from the cob, black beans and diced peppers. For the main course, a tamale casserole was bubbling in the oven. A pan of Spanish rice simmered on the stove, too.
Spencer was due any minute. I’d changed my clothes twice already, finally settling on a lace-trimmed camisole, a lightweight printed shrug, skinny white jeans and pink cowboy boots.
When the doorbell rang, my heart leaped to my throat, and I rushed to answer it. All three dogs were on leashes. Candy and Cookie took ladylike steps into my condo. The bulldog was his usual self, engine revved and ready to go.
Spencer held a bouquet of pink carnations in his other hand. He smiled at me. “These are from Pete.”
“Thank you. They’re lovely.” I took the flowers. The dog was already slobbering at my feet.
“I guess we chose the right color,” Spencer said.
I assumed he meant the carnations and how they matched my boots. “Yes, you did.” It was cute how he’d said “we” as if the dog had actually had been involved. But it was weird, too, because it was the first time Spencer had given me flowers. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
“You look pretty, Alice.”
“You look great, too.” He was as handsome as ever, in a slim black T-shirt, fitted jeans and black roper boots, scuffed at the toes. “I’ll put these in water.”
He let the dogs off their leashes, and man and animals followed me into the kitchen.
“Dinner will be ready soon.” I filled a vase and arranged the flowers. I petted the dogs and put a water bowl on the floor for them. “I thought we could eat on the patio since the weather is so nice tonight.”
“It smells wonderful.” Spencer stood near the stove. He lifted the lid on the rice. “It looks good, too.” He glanced up at me. “Remember when I used to live on frozen pizza?”
Now I had visions of his old apartment and eating those pizzas in bed with him. “Yes, I remember.” Every memory that pertained to him involved sex, or post sex, or something I would be smart to forget. I wished he hadn’t brought it up. But what else were we supposed to reminiscence about?
“I still keep my favorite brand around for when I need a junk food fix.”
I agonized over the deliberate way he was looking at me. “The messy kind with the cheese-stuffed crust?”
“Yeah.” He broke eye contact. “I cook a little now.” He checked out the slaw I’d left on the counter. “Not like this, though.”
I redirected the conversation. “Do you want to see the rest of my place?” My condo consisted of an ultramodern living room, a cozy den, two spacious bedrooms and two full baths.
He nodded, and I gave him a tour, with the dogs following along, their little paws tapping on the hardwood floors.
Spencer seemed intrigued by my bedroom. He glanced around, taking it all in. I’d decorated in jewel tones, with lots of shiny knickknacks. The bed was crisply made, showing no signs of my restless nights. I’d made sure of it.
“As you can see, I set up your wardrobe in here.” The clothes I’d purchased for him hung on a rolling rack, and his shoes and accessories were stacked in clear plastic boxes. “I figured you can use my bathroom to change.”
“Whatever works.” He glanced around again. “I expected your room to be messier.”
“You thought I’d be a slob?”
“No, just that things would be scattered about.”
I pulled a guilty face. “Actually, I cleaned up today since you were coming over. Normally I am on the messier side.”
“Then I had you pegged right.”
“Yes, I guess you did.” I sometimes left my bras and panties on the floor, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Did you bring the rest of your stuff for the fitting?” I asked. “Your jeans, boots and jacket that we’ll be using?” He was responsible for providing those items.
“They’re in my truck. I’ll get them later, after dinner.”
“Then let’s eat.” By now, I knew the food would be ready.
We returned to the kitchen, and I removed the casserole from the oven. I filled our plates, and he helped me carry them outside, along with a pitcher of sweet tea.
We sat at a glass-topped table. My patio offered brick pavers, a built-in barbecue and a fire ring, set amid leafy plants and a fragrant herb garden. The dogs made themselves at home, lolling on the pavement and enjoying the chew sticks Spencer had brought for them.
“You have a nice yard,” he said.
“Thank you. I rented this condo when I first got my share of the money from Mama’s songs.”
He motioned to the windchimes hanging from a wooden post. “Those are a great touch. They’re beautifully tuned,” he added, as a light breeze stirred them.
Curious to know more about his creative side, I asked, “What made you want to be become a songwriter?” I’d never questioned him about his goals and dreams in the past. But he was always so reluctant to talk about himself then, he probably wouldn’t have told me, anyway.
He swigged his tea. Was he gathering his thoughts?
Finally, he put down his glass and said, “I’ve always been good at writing, at putting words together. It was one of my outlets when I was growing up. I used to write short stories and poems. My writing got pretty dark after my mom died. Sometimes it still is.”
I nodded. He’d become known for penning the lyrics to some very famous, very tragic songs. “Do you sing fairly well? My mother used to say that it helped if songwriters could sing their own songs.”
“I wouldn’t be able to make my living as a vocalist, but I sing well enough to make my own demos.”
“What about the actual music part?” People in the industry praised him for being a brilliant composer. “How did that come about?”
“My aunt and uncle forced me to take piano lessons.” He scooped up some of the casserole. “I hated it in the beginning. My teacher was brutal, and my aunt and uncle made it feel like punishment.”
“Were you being classically trained? Chopin and Bach and all of that?”
He ate the food on his fork, then replied, “Yes, but classically trained doesn’t just mean the type of music you’re taught to play, it’s technique, too. And I was good at it, really, really good. So good, my teacher was trying to prepare me for a music conservatory. She told my aunt and uncle that I could have a career as a concert pianist, if I put my heart and mind to it.”
I tried to envision him, young and troubled, being forced to do something he didn’t want to do. “How old were you when you first started to play? When the lessons began?”
“Eleven. I appreciate the classics now. But back then, they were torture.”
“When did you change your style?”
“When I was fourteen, I saw a movie about Jerry Lee Lewis. And that was it for me. I started playing old rockabilly tunes. I loved the sound, but I was also doing it to piss off my aunt and uncle.” He laughed a little. “I’d pound out those songs first thing in the
morning, giving them a whole lotta shakin’ going on.”
I laughed, too. “And hence your days of being a bad boy began.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t just about being bad. I was trying to soothe my soul, too.”
I gently asked, “When did the drinking start?”
“It was around the same time. But even before that, I used to watch my aunt and uncle mix their favorite nightcaps. When I finally got the urge to try it, it became easy for me to raid their liquor cabinet. I only did it a little at first, though.” He paused. “Then a lot later on.”
“I guess it makes sense that you became a bartender, since you grew up in a house where cocktails were being served.”
“I suppose so. When I turned eighteen and moved here to Nashville, I got a job as a barback in a restaurant. Then later, I started tending bar at the club where I met you in person for the first time.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to talk about that night or how sinful it was. I ached in all the wrong places just thinking about it.
As Spencer fell silent, I watched him eat. He mixed up everything on his plate, whereas I was keeping each dish separate. Was I trying to control my urges, even with my food? Normally I did what he was doing, letting the flavors seep together.
Before things turned too quiet, I said, “I got ice cream for dessert. I’m not a baker. My sister is a pastry chef, but I’m no good at it.”
“Ice cream works for me. What flavor did you get?”
“I got two. Banana chocolate chip and cookies and cream.”
He smiled. “Then I’ll take some of each.”
“That’s what I plan to do, too.” His laid-back, sexy smile was making me weak. Everything about him was dragging me under his spell, just like last time.
We finished dinner and cleared the dishes, taking them inside. The dogs didn’t follow us. They stayed on the patio, but I left the sliding glass door open for them.
I served the ice cream in the living room, placing our bowls on the coffee table and offering Spencer a seat on the sofa. Before I sat down, I streamed some music, and he grinned when “Great Balls of Fire” started to play. It was the title song for the Jerry Lee Lewis movie he’d mentioned earlier.
“Great choice,” he said.
I joined him on the sofa. “I aim to please.” But not too much, I thought. I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about pleasing him in other ways.
“Will we be listening to any of Kirby’s songs tonight?” he asked.
“Not a chance,” I replied.
“Not even the songs I wrote for him?”
“Nope. I’m afraid not.” I dipped into my bowl. In some way or another, he always managed to bring Kirby into it.
“I wonder if they’ll ever make a movie about his life.”
I heaved a sigh. “They probably will when he’s dead and gone. Or maybe they’ll do it before. As arrogant as he is, he’s probably shopping his book for movie deals as we speak.”
“He stayed with me when I was going through withdrawals. He took care of me the entire time.”
I tried to picture Kirby as Spencer’s nursemaid, but it was tough for me to see him in that role. “Was it really bad?” I’d heard that alcohol withdrawal could be serious.
“It sure as hell felt bad to me. I had the shakes something awful.” He held out his hand as if to check his steadiness now. “I was sweating and sick, you know, the whole shebang. It comes in stages, and it seemed like it was never going to end.”
“How long did it last?”
“About a week.”
“You mentioned before that you’re involved in an outpatient program, but couldn’t you have checked into a treatment center, instead of having Kirby stay with you?”
“Going to a place like that would have made me feel trapped. And I like that Kirby took care of me. He made me feel valued. He still does.”
“It’s weird that the man who helped you is the same man who destroyed my childhood. Don’t you think there’s a warped sort of irony in that?”
“I don’t know. I guess.” He shifted beside me. “Maybe I should get my stuff out of the truck now so we can do the fitting.”
“That’s probably a good idea.” We were both done with our ice cream, and I didn’t want to keep talking about Kirby.
He got up and left, and I shut off the music. The dogs came inside. Cookie looked around for Spencer and started to whine.
“It’s okay,” I said to her. “He’s coming right back.”
She kept whining, so I picked her up, hoping to comfort her. But then Candy and Pete pawed at me, wanting affection, too. I sat on the floor and let all of them climb onto my lap.
Spencer returned and marveled at the sight. “Look at you.”
“What can I say? I’m the new dog whisperer.” Cookie remained with me, even though her beloved owner was back. Candy and Pete stayed put, too, determined to keep me close.
“More like the new dog spoiler. I should have hired you to be their stylist, too. You could put them in ribbons and bows. Or leather jackets or whatever.”
I got up off the floor. “I think I better stick to getting you ready for your shoot.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
We went to my room so he could try everything on. The dogs came with us, finding cozy spots to relax.
The fitting went well, with Spencer standing in front of my closet door mirror while I checked each outfit. But when we took a break, he sat on the edge of my bed, and the moment turned painfully intimate. He looked so big and broad, wrinkling a delicate corner of my bedspread.
“There’s supposed to be a makeup and hair person on the shoot,” he said.
I tugged at the edge of my camisole. “I assumed there would be. I was going to talk to them about tousling your hair for the rebel looks I created.”
“I’d rather do it myself.” He stood and moved away from my bed. “Or let you do it.”
“I guess we’ll see how it goes.” For now, I was just trying to keep my perspective. “You need to change for me one more time.” I gestured to the final outfit.
He grabbed everything and went into my bathroom.
I glanced at the dogs while I waited. Pete was leaning against a decorative pillow that was propped in a corner, using it as a cushion. The girls were curled up next to him. All three were fast asleep.
Spencer returned. The last ensemble was sporty: a plaid shirt, cargo pants and brown chukka boots. It was perfect on him. But everything was. I came up beside him, so that both of us were reflected in the mirror.
“Do you need to make any modifications?” he asked.
I gazed at him in the glass. “I got a beanie to go with it, but it’s up to you if you want to wear it.”
“Can I see it?”
I removed the knit cap from its labeled box and gave it to him.
He tried it on. “If they do any pictures outdoors, I could wear it for that.”
I adjusted the cap a little lower on his head. “I like it this way better.”
“Yeah, but don’t pull it down over my eyes. Or I won’t be able to see how sexy you are.”
“You shouldn’t be looking at me that way, anyway.” But it was too late. He already was.
He reached out to skim his thumb across my cheek, and I leaned into him, my mind spinning like a pinwheel. He moved closer, making me even dizzier.
We nearly kissed, until I came to my senses and pulled back. My hand slipped, knocking the beanie off his head.
“Sorry,” we both said at the same time. A mutual apology, for a shared mistake of getting too close.
He crammed his hands in his pockets, as if he didn’t know what else to do with them. I didn’t know what to do, either. If we’d kissed for real, what would have happened afterwards? More kisses? A desperate night of forbidden sex?<
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He frowned. “I wish I wasn’t so damned attracted to you.”
“I’m feeling the same. It’s torture.” My pulse pounded, between my legs, where I wanted him most. I even pressed my thighs together.
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’m not going to sleep for shit tonight.”
“I’ve barely slept since we’ve gotten to know each other again.” I picked up the beanie off the floor, returning it to its box. “But what do two celibate people know? We’re probably making more out of it than it is.”
“I hope so.” He shifted his stance. “But I should go now.”
He headed to the bathroom to change into his regular clothes, and I leaned against my dresser, struggling to breathe.
While I was still dragging air into my lungs, he emerged and handed me the outfit he’d removed. I hung everything on the rack, and he woke up the dogs.
We went into the living room, and he gathered the leashes. Once the animals were secure, we all stood at the front door.
The shoot was a few days away. Then this job would be over, and I wouldn’t have to see Spencer again. But how was I supposed to cope with my feelings until then?
He thanked me for dinner, and we said an awkward goodbye. He left, the dogs falling into step with him.
After I shut and locked the door, I returned to my bedroom to reorganize his wardrobe. But handling his clothes only intensified my unfulfilled ache. As I smoothed the pants he’d just worn, running my hands along the fabric, I closed my eyes.
And imagined that I was touching him instead.
Six
Alice
On the day of the photo shoot, I did whatever I could to impress Derek Jordon, the world-renowned photographer I’d been so eager to work with. Thankfully, he loved all of the looks I’d created. But I didn’t want to get overly confident.
Derek was a perfectionist, with his own unique sense of style. He sported a shaved head and a nose ring. The hair and makeup person, a chipper brunette named Nellie, was his college-aged daughter.
Spencer asked her if I could style his hair for the rebel pics. Even after our close encounter at my condo the other night, he still wanted me to do that. Nellie was agreeable. She backed away, letting me handle it alone.
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