Whatever he was thinking about, he was living it. Each breath moved raggedly, and every flit of a memory was enough to make his eyes flinch.
I watched him battle, and after several moments, his face calmed with the evolution of his victory.
When he finally came back from his place of introspection, opened his eyes and met mine, his attitude had completely changed.
“You’re right.” He nodded. Adamant. “This is my issue, not yours. I won’t say anything anymore.”
I wanted to understand, to delve deeper. I wanted an invitation to the place he’d gone so I could know why this was his issue, what made him this way. His intentions behind coming out here had been so pure, so kind-hearted, but with the help of one bad habit, it had all rolled straight into the gutter.
Before I could ask, he was gone, the sound of the door clicking closed behind him the only sign that he had ever been.
So complicated were his ups and downs, I was starting to fear that Anderson was too good an actor. All of his defining lines blurred and curved, completely disguising the shape of his personality and turning it into one, huge, soul-sucking mystery. I could lose myself in him for hours trying to figure out the differences in real and fake, and somehow, at the end of my exploration, all I found were more questions.
BY THE TIME WE wrapped filming for the day, Anderson and I were back in a routine of pithy comments and reactions. Ironically, we’d both been nominated for Oscars for our performance in Let’s Pretend That Didn’t Happen.
Small film. Limited circulation.
Hah.
“So . . . our first episode airs tonight,” I said, hoping to take our olive branch and turn it into a real relationship. Bouncing around one another was exhausting, and when I’d come back inside from our tête-à-tête, just the sight of him made me realize enough was enough.
Our dance wasn’t satisfying me anymore. Our relationship was either going to orgasm or it wasn’t, but whatever the outcome, it’d be better to find out now.
“So . . . I know,” he teased, tilting his head and settling his thumbs into his front pockets.
“Do you think it’s cute to mock me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe the mocking isn’t cute,” he conceded, “but your reaction is.”
“My reaction?” I shook my head and scrunched my face. “You mean me being annoyed?”
He smiled and popped his eyebrows.
“You like that, huh?” I asked. “Well, then you should love this!” I yelled, reaching out to swat him on the arm.
He ducked and weaved, laughing as his feet shuffled back a couple of steps.
“Alright, alright. Relax.”
“Me relax? You fucking relax!”
His laughter only loudened, echoing off the walls and concealing the sound of Larry’s entry.
“Guys,” Larry called, startling me into a running trip. My toe caught on the carpet, pealing the front of my flip flop away from my toes and sending me into a head first journey to the ground.
Anderson stepped forward just in time, scooping me up with two hands in the divots of my armpits.
“Easy there, Easie,” Larry teased, practically choking on his self-induced laughter.
“Fucking hilarious,” I grumbled as Anderson placed me safely on my feet.
“First episode airs tonight,” Larry said as I moved to stand on my own. Anderson’s hands loitered.
“Yeah, you’re about two minutes too late,” I replied, just before Anderson explained, “We already had this conversation.”
“Great. Then you won’t be surprised when I tell you that we’re having a meeting tomorrow, just as soon as the rating statistics come in.”
I elbowed Anderson in the ribs playfully before asking Larry, “Planning on firing us?”
“Not if viewers like you,” he deadpanned, looking each of us in the eye individually.
I knew the public could turn on me in an instant, but at least they’d liked me before. There was some comfort in that knowledge. As for Anderson . . . yeah, I was pretty sure he was impossible not to like.
Larry headed for the door, scooting out it with one final nod in our direction.
As soon as he cleared it, Anderson whispered conspiratorially in my ear. “I don’t think Larry likes you very much.”
“Thank you!” I nearly screamed, excited that someone else could finally fucking see it.
Laughter shook my shoulders, but it wasn’t my own, as Anderson’s jovial arms came around me, wrapping me up in a vibrating hug and squeezing. Everything started to tingle, and after only a few seconds, the pleasure overwhelmed me, forcing my eyes to close.
“Don’t invite me over tonight,” he whispered into the curve of my neck, the soft silk of his lips skimming my skin as he did.
My eyes popped open, and my body went stiff.
“I know that’s where you were going before, the direction our conversation was headed, but I’m begging you, don’t ask me.”
Tightening throat threatening to completely choke my only connection to air, I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me.
“Easie,” he murmured into my skin, squeezing me even tighter as he did. “I don’t want you to ask because I don’t want to tell you no.” He chuckled softly to himself, groaned, and then whispered nearly silently. I wasn’t even sure I actually heard the words I thought I did, but it sounded like, “I’m not sure that I could.”
“Okay,” I agreed, dumbfounded and completely vulnerable, promising, “I won’t ask,” as my head tried to talk louder than my wildly beating heart.
His arms tightened just slightly, lingering and making me long for things I shouldn’t. Just as I started to settle into it again, he pulled away, leaving me swaying in the breeze of his exit and floundering in the wake of his embrace.
For us, a pattern had started to form.
The more he pushed, the more I pulled, nearly guaranteeing myself an ending that could only be agony.
“Anderson looks good, huh?” Ashley asked as the intro of the show played on our TV. She was in charge of getting the show turned on. I was in charge of getting snacks.
Looking across the expanse of our apartment, I could see that he did. His thin green tie pointed to his eyes like an arrow and proved that the wardrobe people knew what they were doing.
But I had more on my mind than his looks, and most of it fell on the ugly side of angry.
“He looks like an indecisive, confusing psychopath is what he looks like,” I grumbled to myself as I poured a bag of baby carrots onto a paper plate. Ranch bottle: decimated.
I was still confused about how we’d parted that afternoon, frustrated by the fact that the more I saw him, the less I seemed to understand about him.
He was flirty with me. That much I knew. But every time I tried to turn the corner from flirtation to fornication—or, you know, something real—he pulled back, swearing other engagements and promises.
I mean, Jesus. I wasn’t a masochist. Eventually it would be time to stop trying. Smart money said that time was now.
Too bad I was a poor idiot.
“Stupid, irresistible jerk,” I muttered to myself, ripping a couple of paper towels off the roll with far more vigor than necessary.
“What was that?” Ashley asked.
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” she shrugged, glancing at me briefly as I approached before focusing back on the din of the television.
Settling onto the sofa, I let my eyes wander all over Anderson’s presence and tried not to get all mumbly again as I did.
“It’s crazy how busy he is, isn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“Anderson,” she clarified. “I was talking to him earlier, and today alone he had to go run, like, ten miles, work a partial shift at El Loco, and then go play some gig at a bar in Santa Monica.”
“A gig?”
“Yeah. Apparently, he plays guitar and sings at this place every Wednes
day night.”
He played a gig. Every Wednesday night.
“Wait . . . what?” This was the first I was hearing about it.
“He didn’t tell you?”
Ragged breaths racked my airway and threatened me with tears. Fucking shit. I was not going to get worked up over some guy. Especially not some guy who I so obviously knew nothing about.
“No. He didn’t.”
“Huh.” She popped her eyebrows. “That’s surprising.”
“Why?” I snapped, losing my tenuous hold on my last thread of control and throwing my arms in the air. “It’s not like we’re together or something. He doesn’t have to tell me everything about his life. Jesus!”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize I wasn’t angry with her. I was mad at myself for wanting and fantasizing about all of those very things.
“Uh, no,” she muttered looking shellshocked. “I, um, meant it’s surprising because he literally told me he was going to tell you about it.”
My chin jerked back into my chest. “Wait . . . what?!”
“Yeah,” she nodded nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that I was slowly losing my shit with a champion poker face. “I talked to him right after we wrapped for the day. He said he was going to talk to you before he left or something.”
“But he didn’t . . .”
Oh. I’d talked to him after we wrapped alright. And I’d immediately tried to invite him over to watch the show. Which he was, very fucking obviously, too busy to do.
But still. Why wouldn’t he have just told me that?
I’m not sure that I could.
Maybe he just had to leave before he could tell me? Before he could back out of a weekly obligation.
Hmm.
“Maybe we should—”
“Go see the show?” Ashley finished my sentence, mocking my attempt at innocence with the look of a knowing woman.
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“Yeah. I figured you were going to say that. Good thing I know the name of the bar and the time he’s playing, huh?”
“Well you don’t have to be a gloat-y twaintasaurus about it.”
“Twaintasaurus?”
“Twaint, the mix of twat, taint, and cunt means you’re a ho. The dinosaur part means you’re vicious.”
“So . . . you’re calling me a vicious ho?”
“A gloat-y one.”
“Do you want to go or not?”
Closing my eyes, dropping my head back, and stomping my foot, I complained, “Why do you have to hold so much power over me?”
“Are you talking to me . . . or Anderson?”
My head rolled forward, and my eyes popped open.
“You’re not cute.”
“I disagree,” she teased, smiling and speaking with a song-like lilt. “I’m the cutest of all of the cute people everywhere.”
Okay. I could admit it. She was starting to get cute.
“Let me just put on a bra,” I said instead of adding to the swell of her head.
She wagged her eyebrows and jumped up from her spot on the couch. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
“Shut up.” The only thing that would come of me not wearing a bra would be accidental strangulation. I was still young, but they were heavy, and when left to their own devices—especially in a scenario that might include dancing—everyone was in danger.
Speed walking down the hall and into my room, I dug through the pile of not-that-dirty clothes on my bed until I found what I was looking for, pulled my shirt up to a comfortable resting place around my neck, and then strapped into the flesh colored, man-made torture device.
While my shirt was up, I reached for the deodorant on the top of my dresser and swiped it around a few times per armpit. I wasn’t sure if I smelled, but freshening up was never a terrible idea.
A lot of women would have primped harder, but I was in a race with my mind, trying to get out of the apartment and on our way before I talked myself out of it.
Pushing my arms back through the sleeves of my bright pink t-shirt, I headed back down the hall and into the living room to find Ashley with the TV already off and my keys in her hand.
“I guess you’re ready?”
“Yep. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”
I scoffed. The urge to argue was alive and well, but with a well placed fist in my throat, I managed to squash it down.
Instead, I prompted, “Let’s go,” walking toward the door with efficiency and speed and snagging my purse on the way.
I hated carrying a purse, but the purse was all important.
It wasn’t money or lip gloss I was worried about.
No.
My purse was the holder of my cigarettes, and with the prospect of a guitar playing, smooth singing Anderson hanging over my head, I had a feeling I was going to need a couple.
Words swept and flowed into a melody as soon as we entered the bar aptly named Hunger Spot, magically managing to sound husky and smooth at the same time. One moved into the next with ease, but the bite of each note assured not one word would slip by without notice.
The lighting was low, appropriate for a late night spot, and the crowd was thick. My only line to Anderson was his voice, and the microphone-amplified volume of it vibrated in perfect timing with the waves of sound from his guitar.
I had apparently entered the zone, and I didn’t mean twilight. No, this was the perfect storm of seduction, and I feared that upon actual sight of him, I might pull a Wicked Witch and turn into a full-blown puddle.
What’s the melting temperature for jeans, a t-shirt, and human flesh anyway? The same for all three?
I fanned myself at the thought.
“Come on,” Ashley called from up ahead, waving me forward with urgency.
Shaking my head, I snapped out of the mental picture my brain had rendered and followed her prompt.
When I stepped forward, the sea of people parted, letting in the light from the tiny stage and illuminating the man of my literal dreams. I thought of his haunted green eyes and easy smile when I slept as much as when I woke, and solving the mystery of his personality had become my priority goal.
His fingers flew expertly along the strings of his guitar, and when the final note hung from his lips, his eyes closed. It didn’t look like concentration. Instead, it looked like he was living in that moment as if it were his last, experiencing every facet of the song and his performance like it mattered to so much more than him.
It was the kind of gut-wrenching connection that moved you. Immersed you in the music and moment in a way that a cynic like me never thought possible.
“Multitalented,” Ashley murmured under her breath, the cadence and timing of it offbeat from Anderson’s by just enough that I noticed it.
She was right. How did one person manage to master so many things?
Applause and catcalls broke out around us and made me jump as Anderson stood from his stool behind the mic stand and gave several cool-guy-nods of gratitude.
He looked slightly uncomfortable with the attention, but not enough to avoid it completely. He stayed there on the six by six foot stage and accepted the audience’s praise until they were finished before hopping down with his guitar in one hand and heading for the opposite back corner of the room.
I followed him with my eyes as one step faded into two and the muscles in his back bunched his white button down shirt with the effort.
Stuck in the land of perusal, I was surprised once again when Ashley grabbed my hand and tugged, pulling me from my spot in the middle of the room and guiding me toward the Anderson-occupied corner.
I wanted to thank her for doing what I so obviously couldn’t do myself, but after careful consideration, decided to keep it in my head. She would know by the look on my face, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the uncomfortably sentimental moment that would follow. The murmur of the crowd made it hard to hear anyway.
Right.
“Anderson!” my sister called loudly, bringing his
dark-haired head up with a jerk.
“Ashley,” he greeted as we got to him, his eyebrows rising to a height worthy of the mixture of surprised delight and equal panic marring the normally smooth lines of his masculine face.
And that was all just at the sight of her. It didn’t even look like he had noticed the Easie shaped human attached to her arm yet.
“We had to come check you out!” she explained exuberantly, chucking him on the shoulder like a guy pal. “You were great, by the way!”
Stuck back on her first words, he ignored her praise and instead questioned, “We?” as though I was actually invisible.
Had I somehow figured out how to pull that off some time in the last few weeks?
I looked down to check, but my glaringly pink shirt stood out like a neon sign.
Not invisible.
His eyes walked the line of her arm like a tightrope, skating its length and, at the same time, struggling to keep his emotional balance. His face was a slideshow, changing from one thing to the next as he first noticed my nails, then my arm, and eventually wandered through a zigzag pattern all the way up to my nervous face.
I pasted on a smile and hoped it portrayed some kind of excitement.
In the end, I think it was just a mirror image of his.
“Easie.”
“Anderson.”
“Ashley,” Ashley chimed in cheekily before smiling coyly, shaking her head, and walking away without another word.
“So I guess—”
“Ashley told me you were—”
“Sorry,” we said in unison.
Awkward.
Expelling one deep breath, he chuckled to himself and started over. And I let him. “I meant to tell you about it this afternoon, but well . . . you know.”
“Yeah,” I confirmed, smiling a genuine smile for the first time since we’d arrived. “Is there anything you don’t do? Every time I see you, you’re involved in another hobby.”
His smile faltered slightly, but he caught it before I could really investigate.
What he didn’t do was actually give me an answer.
Sensing the growing need for a change of subject, I moved on. “You were really good. Did you write the song?”
Quirks & Kinks Page 11