Touching Melody (A Forever First Novel)

by RaShelle Workman

  I smile. Kiss him softly. “Can I meet you there? I told my aunt and uncle I’d stop by.”

  “Want me to come with?”

  It’s a testament to how much he loves me that he offered. My aunt and uncle know Kyle is the one who saved me, but they’re still wary. I’m hoping tonight’s conversation will help.

  My uncle is lounging in his recliner. A wooden cane leans against it. He’s been using it to help him get around. My aunt is sitting on the couch next to him, crocheting. The yarn is baby blue.

  I can’t help but smile. If I hadn’t seen them get shot in this very living room, I never would’ve believed it happened.

  “Hi guys,” I say, leaning over and kissing my uncle on the cheek. He wraps his arms around me and squashes me to him. “Can’t breathe,” I say joking.

  Uncle John lets go. “Fine.”

  I do the same with my aunt and then sit next to her. “Whatcha working on?” The yarn is soft.

  “It’s a scarf.” Her eyes fill with tears. She sniffles and glances at my uncle.

  “Oh, Lizzie. I’m fine. Just fine.” But he reaches over and takes her outstretched hand, twining his fingers with hers.

  They adore each other. And seeing the way they are makes me want to bring Kyle around. He’s going to be in my life a very, very long time. Hopefully they will too. I want my aunt and uncle to understand how amazing he is.

  “How was your performance?” Aunt Eliza asks, going back to her crocheting. The tension is immediately thick, palpable.

  “It went well. We received a standing ovation.”

  Aunt Eliza pats my hand. “Of course you did.”

  I sigh. “Kyle played beautifully. He’s seriously so good. I can’t wait for you—”

  “That’ll be the day,” Uncle John interrupts, flipping on the TV like we’re done talking.

  Anger bubbles to the surface and I stand. “Here’s the thing. I’m in love with Kyle.”

  My aunt gasps. “No,” she says, putting a hand to her chest.

  Uncle John grumbles something incoherent.

  “Yes. He’s amazing. Caring. Sweet. Kind. Gorgeous. Sexy. Loving. Compassionate—”

  “We get it, dear. You’re smitten.” Aunt Eliza goes back to crocheting. Her eyebrows drawn together in consternation.

  I sit back down. Place a hand over hers. “It’s more than that.” She looks at me and I meet her eyes. “You used to say evil men raise evil kids, remember?”

  She balks and pulls her hand from mine. “Of course I do. It’s a fact.”

  “Maybe it usually is, but Kyle saved me. And not just my actual life, but in here too.” I press a fist to my chest, over my heart. Tears of frustration fill my eyes. I blink them away, but my voice breaks. “Without him I’m incomplete.” I turn my gaze to my uncle. “Without the two of you I’m incomplete.”

  He grumbles.

  “I need the two of you and Kyle in my life, and it would mean so much to me if you could give him a chance.” I look at my aunt. Her mouth is hanging open. “Please.” I wipe the tears that escaped off my face.

  “Alright.” My uncle gives my aunt a look, one that says, ”It’s settled.”

  “Fine. Why don’t you bring him to dinner on Sunday? I’ll make taco sushi and chocolate cake.”

  I reach over and hug her. “Thank you. Thanks. I will.” Then I stand. Because Kyle is waiting, and I’m anxious to be alone with him.

  “You want some pie? I made apple.”

  I shake my head. “Can I take a rain check? I have someplace to be.”

  My uncle rolls his eyes.

  I knock on Kyle’s apartment door. It bursts open. I notice he’s still in his tux, but the bow tie is gone and the top button is undone. He yanks me in, crushing his lips to mine.

  I want him. Need him.

  “Hi,” he says between kisses. “How did it go?”

  I giggle. “Good. You’re in. They want you to come to dinner. Taco sushi.”

  He makes a face.

  “It’s delicious,” I say, oozing sarcasm.

  “I’m sure I’ll love it.” He unzips my dress. Pushes it off my shoulders, and lets it fall into a pile at my feet. I step out of it. His lips are immediately back on mine, suckling my tongue.

  I slide his jacket off. He sticks his tongue in my mouth, and I grab hold of his hair. He groans. Cups my ass with his hands, pulling one of my thighs up. A delicious heat warms my lower belly.

  “I love you, Maddie Martin. More than I believed it was possible to love.” He whispers the words against my lips, and tears of joy fill my eyes.

  “I love you too.” I pull back and take in his face, his beautiful, ice blue eyes. “Thank you for waiting for me. For saving me. For being the first person to see all of me.”

  He kisses me tenderly, his fingers slowly moving up and down my arms. Goosebumps pucker all over. He looks at me, puts his hands on my waist.

  “Will you be my first time?” I ask quietly, unbuttoning his shirt.

  In answer, he pulls me to him, his hands in my hair and his tongue in my mouth. “I would be honored. In fact… well, let’s just say I love that you chose red. You look beautiful.” Kyle’s eyes slowly trail down my body, take all of me in. Slowly. Deliciously. Warm tingles spread through me. He grabs my hand. “Come on.”

  I follow him, glancing down at my lacy red bra and undies. Something Gina helped me pick out. “I’m so glad you like it,” I say and only blush a little. Because as much as I want him, I’m nervous.

  The light flips on and he stands off to the side. I walk past him, unable to help the large smile that pushes up my lips.

  Red rose petals are scattered across the white bedding, pillows, and floor. A bottle of something chills in a container next to the bed. Strawberries dipped in chocolate sit on a platter. It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had. “How did you do this?”

  “Gina,” he answers, kissing my neck, trailing a row of hot kisses down my back. Then he turns me around, kneels, and kisses my stomach. Each tattoo. He leads me to the bed and lays me on it. The heady scent of petals fills my nose. “I love because I am loved?”

  I take his face between my hands, pulling him on top of me. “Each tattoo represents one of the seven stages of grief. The final two are rebirth and hope.”

  He nods. “Maybe you and I should get a tattoo together.”

  “Maybe,” I say, too interested in what’s happening right here and now. I push his shirt off his shoulders, down his arms. He unhooks my bra and caresses me with his hands, and then his lips. Suckling. Nudging. Kissing. Until the build up between my legs is nearly intolerable. He pauses momentarily to take off his pants and his underwear. I feel my eyes get wide. “You’re gorgeous,” I say, awed by him.

  “So are you,” he whispers, climbing on the bed.

  37

  Maddie

  I’ll Make It Bitchin

  “How bad is this going to hurt?” Kyle whispers as we walk into the tattoo parlor.

  “It’ll hurt… some.” I shrug. It’s the kind of pain I like. Especially today, on the anniversary of my parents’ deaths.

  Tony steps up to the counter. “Back again, huh?” His eyes sweep over me, and then he glances at Kyle.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Tony, this is Kyle.”

  “Good to meet you, son. What kind of tattoo are you interested in?”

  Kyle shows him a piece of paper. On it he’s drawn a pair of wings with the tips on fire. He won’t tell me what it means, and I don’t pry. Tattoos are private. “I was hoping to get this. Only better, of course.”

  “I think we can handle that. Carl will be your artist.”

  At the mention of his name, Carl comes over. Tony hands him the paper. “Think you can work your magic and create something like this?”

  “Oh yeah, I’ll make it bitchin’. Come on back.”

  Kyle mouths the work bitchin’ to me, and I shrug. He follows Carl over to a cubicle. Carl has a sketchbook out and is asking Kyle questions as he draw
s. When he’s finished he’ll scan it into the computer and render a tattoo.

  Tony gives me another once over. “And what about you?”

  “I’m thinking a phoenix with the word hope somewhere in the wings,” I say somewhat tentatively.

  “Cool. Let’s get to work.” I follow him to his workstation, which is a cubicle with a computer and some art books sitting on a desk. We discuss what I have in mind. Tony pulls up different ideas on his computer. He rearranges things so the tattoo is to my liking. When he’s finished, he presses Print. “Where do you want it?”

  I stand and point at my right hip, below the bone.

  “Cool.” He nods.

  “What does it mean? This one.” He taps on the screen.

  “Nothing,” I answer, since it’s none of his business.

  Tony snorts. “Whatever, kid.” He pulls the special tattoo transfer paper off the printer. “Come on back.”

  I follow him into the room with the yellow curtain.

  “Take off your pants and lie back, Maddie.”

  I cover my mouth to hide the snort. Unbutton my pants, slide them off, and hop up on the chair. Tony goes through the motions. Gloves. Gauze. He moves the strap on my bikinis and wipes the area on my hip with rubbing alcohol.

  “Holy shit,” I hear Kyle shout from the front.

  Tony looks at me. “Your friend’s first time.”

  I laugh. “Yeah.”

  He puts the transfer below my bone. “Right here.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  He turns on the gun. I close my eyes.

  Brace myself for the pain. And though I’m still looking forward to it, I realize I’m also done. Because in the past year I’ve learned a lot, but the biggest lesson is that death is part of life. I can’t get away from it, but that doesn’t mean I should stop living. It means I need to live each day to its fullest. And I realize I can’t control when my time will come, but I can control how I spend the time I have.

  Epilogue

  Maddie

  The cemetery is peaceful. A light breeze pushes the leaves. The sound reminds me of the ocean at sunrise, its waves rolling lazily to shore. The sky is clear and blue. No one else is here, just the chirping birds, the dead, and me.

  I make my way through the gravestones. My parents are buried under a giant oak near the back. Their headstone is in the shade, away from the summer heat. In my hands are a bunch of daisies, my mom’s favorite flower. I’ve placed them in an empty bottle of beer—my dad’s favorite kind.

  “Hi, Mom and Dad. Sorry it’s been so long. It was really hard to visit you here. Knowing I can’t see you. Wondering…” Tears build and roll down my cheeks. I don’t bother wiping them away. Crying is part of grieving, and I know it’s necessary. I sniffle. “But I’m trying. No, actually I’m doing better than trying. I’m living my life the best way I can.” I place the bouquet of flowers in front of their headstone and step back. “Kyle is in my life. He’s all grown up, and he’s amazing. Better than I ever imagined. With him on my side I know I’ll be okay.”

  A breeze whips past my face and I imagine it’s my mom and dad, hugging me. When it passes, I take another step back. “Aunt Eliza and Uncle John have been great to me. They aren’t the same as having real parents, but they’re close. Aunt Eliza is always telling me to live a little. Well I intend to do just that. Live each day with hope. With love. And without excuses.”

  Afterword

  Thank you so much for reading Touching Melody. Maddie and Kyle are fictional characters based in a fictional world. Their journey is a one of love—finding it and fighting for it—based on their life choices.

  While many scenes in this story are based on reality, that doesn’t mean I condone recreational drug use, underage drinking, premarital sex (with or without protection), or excessive use of curse words. If anything in this novel bothered you, I would suggest talking to someone about it. Get the real facts, based on your situation. I’m all for discussion with parents, parental caregivers, or a therapist. One in five women is sexually assaulted during her college years.

  The National Network to End Domestic Violence (NNEDV) is a great source to get answers to questions and/or information.

  If you enjoyed Touching Melody, please do me a favor. Leave a review. It only takes a couple of minutes, but would mean a lot.

  Thanks again!

  Sincerely,

  RaShelle Workman

  If you enjoyed Touching Melody you might also enjoy CROSSING by Stacey Wallace Benefiel. Here’s the first chapter.

  CROSSING

  By

  Stacey Wallace Benefiel

  Chapter One

  I pull my backpack straps away from the sweaty front of my Hello Kitty t-shirt as I run up the wide concrete steps of Villard Hall. In another month the seemingly never-ending Oregon drizzle will start and I can dress for style and cover instead of comfort.

  Stopping in the entryway, I quickly peruse the black plastic signs stuck to the white walls and dial in on the one directing me to the Little Theatre, room 101. I hurry down the hall, my right hand leaving my backpack strap to swipe the moisture from my upper lip. Stupid sweat glands and stupid European Lit professor who went five minutes over on the first day, causing me to have to do my awkward straight-legged jog all the way from the other side of campus.

  Sure, if I was an Accounting major I could clearly see how those buildings and my classes would be nowhere near each other, but Theatre and English, in a school with a significant Shakespearean program? It makes no fucking sense.

  A guy speeds by me and nearly passes the double doors to the Little Theatre. He comes to a screeching halt and whips open the left door, disappearing inside, only to swing it out again and almost hit me in the face as I reach for it.

  His brown eyes go wide. “Sorry,” he says, cringing. “I didn’t mean to be ungentlemanly and not hold the door open.”

  He’s cute and not sweaty at all. “So, you just thought you’d hit me in the face with it instead?” I ask, smirking as I breeze into the theatre.

  I take a seat in the top row. The place reminds me of a cave. The walls, stairs, ceiling, and stage are painted flat black. For variation, the hard, plastic chairs, set in steep descending rows, are beige.

  The guy slides in next to me. “Liam Garrett.” He holds his hand out.

  “Danielle–Dani.” I clap my clammy palm in his and face forward as our professor gets up from her seat down below in the front row and turns to address the class.

  “Welcome to Acting I,” she says, smiling broadly before bowing at the class. She’s got short, spiky, purple-red hair and is wearing enormous white glasses. They coordinate nicely with her batik-patterned tunic and black leggings. “I’m Professor Barnes. You may call me Maren.” She holds up a stack of white papers. “I’m going to set the syllabi by the door down here and you can grab one at any time during class. Acting I is all about scene work, so we’re going to begin with open scenes this week. After that, I’ll assign you scene partners and we’ll get into the nitty gritty of the Stanislavski method, my lovelies.” She waves us down toward the stage. “Let’s circle up and get to know each other. Then we’ll do some truly embarrassing warm-ups to get our bodies loose.”

  I stand and wait for Liam to clear the aisle. I suppose I could’ve gone the other way, but following him down the stairs to the stage gives me a chance to check out his ass. And a fine ass it is. He’s wearing Levi’s and black Chucks and a short-sleeved royal blue Under Armour shirt that hugs his biceps and shoulders. His short brown hair has wave to it, but he’s got it cut conservatively. None of that weirdness that looks like the guy’s had all of his hair sucked forward in a vacuum. Yep, he’s cute.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I go around Liam and cut across the stage, opting not to sit next to him so I can check him out better from the front and size up the other people in class. This isn’t Dani’s first rodeo. I was a mega theatre geek in high school and probably should’ve started takin
g Acting I my very first term at U of O, but my parents had suggested that with an English degree, at least I’d have a chance of getting a teaching job. There are no prospects in being a theatre major. I obeyed and suffered through four terms of English Lit hell before standing up to my parents over the summer and telling them that just because I could write a short story and liked to read, that didn’t mean I was cut out for life as an academic.

  I couldn’t give a flying fuck about criticism or sentence structure or underlying theme. But the characters? That’s what I loved about reading and writing…the drama, the character work, the becoming another person, getting inside someone else’s head. I told my parents I was grateful they’d shelled out the cash for me to attend college, but if I wasn’t going to be able to study what I wanted, they were better off saving their money and letting me drop out to get a job as a make-up artist at the MAC counter in the mall.

  The class sits in a circle on the floor, everyone discreetly eying each other. Liam is by far the most conventionally attractive guy, but there are a couple other male specimens with potential. I let my gaze skip over the few boys that set my gaydar off. I’d been down that road one too many times in high school. They could probably sense my hagability, anyway.

  I am definitely the most conventionally plain girl in the class. Shoulder length brown hair, fair, freckled skin, sharp nose, weak chin, tiny ears. Chubby, but not fat. Nice-sized boobs. Freakishly large feet. I’m not blond or tan or exotic or ethnic, or anything that would make me interesting. I’m a white Midwestern girl who looks like every other white Midwestern girl. Sometimes this seriously bums me out and sometimes I’m glad I’m not THE MOST BEAUTIFUL because it makes me try harder at being funny and charismatic and outgoing. Which is also pretty damn tiring. I’m conflicted, okay?