by Danica Avet
She’s a pretty thing. Art student, I think. We had an English class together and tonight she “just so happened” to be hanging around Tauzin Hall. Yeah, right. She’s probably been stalking me, but it isn’t like I mind. I was just hammering out some rudiments for Jazz Ensemble when she knocked on the door of my practice room and asked to chat about our final grades. Somehow that morphed into my dick in her mouth, then me fucking her on the upright piano.
Good thing the hall is mostly empty, otherwise we would’ve provided some adult entertainment for my fellow musicians.
“So what’re you doing now?” she asks as she watches me run my hands through my hair.
Feeling loose and relaxed, I give her another easy smile. “Practicing.”
Some of the sparkle goes out of her brown eyes before she brightens up again. “Do you mind if I hang around and listen?”
Aw, fuck. When she walked in here, all fire and sass, I thought for sure she knew the score, but her asking to stay and listen to me practice? Time to scramble.
“I really need to concentrate on this,” I say, making sure she hears regret in my voice. “But maybe we’ll have another class together next semester.”
Understanding lights her eyes and while her cheeks flush, she doesn’t start crying. Thank god. Her lips twist wryly. “Sure.” She slings her purse over her shoulder. At least it isn’t at my head. “See you around, Crash.”
“See ya, babe,” I tell her, relief filling me as she sashays her pert little ass out of the practice room.
The minute she shuts the door, I slump against the piano. That was close. Raking my hand through my hair again, I promise myself not to fuck any more girls. Yeah, that isn’t going to work. Okay, I’m not going to fuck girls I don’t know well anymore. That’s slightly better, and an easier promise to keep than not fucking any girls.
I rotate my neck, feeling vertebrae pop and the tension leaves me. The practice room smells like sex, and while normally it wouldn’t bother me, it does tonight. Probably because I’m here practicing like a good little band nerd while my roommates are out on dates. Not that I want to date, but with them out for most of the night, the house was too fucking quiet. And I don’t do quiet.
I don’t even need to practice, but for some reason I’m restless. You’d think after working at the nursery all day, I’d be ready for bed. Nope. I’ve got a case of insomnia that won’t go away no matter how much liquid medication I take. And I know the reason why.
Jolene.
Motherfucking Jolene. Okay, that’s not nice. She’s a sweet girl. Like a peach.
But that isn’t the point because she’s been on my mind non-stop. All because Klauss let it slip last week that he’s hoping she’ll audition for Jazz Ensemble. It was just a little snippet of conversation as we chatted about what the upcoming group might be like, but that one sentence has been hanging over my head like an ominous cloud.
I mean, it’s cool. It isn’t like I own the Music Department, or have any say in who gets to participate in what, but she’s a freshman. A beautiful, ripe, trumpet-playing freshman who gets my dick hard just from thinking about her. Not that Klauss knows that. He’s all about the music and for him to actively want Jolene in the ensemble tells me just how good she is. Let me clarify, I know she has to be good. You don’t get into the Marching 300 by being a musical slacker, but the Jazz Ensemble is the cream of the crop. The absolute best of the best.
So not only is she gorgeous and sweet, she’s obviously a talented musician.
And if she auditions, I’ll have to see her every day instead of every other day and some weekends. With the 300, there are so many instruments and moving parts that a single person doesn’t really stand out unless they’re playing a solo. And that’s made it easier to avoid her—although I still stared at her like a creeper every chance I got.
The same can’t be said for Jazz Ensemble. We practically live together throughout the semester. Not just because of the practices, but there are jam sessions, cookouts, poker nights, and when we’re on the road, we’re in and out of each other’s hotel rooms. Some of the strongest bonds I’ve formed since coming to Sauvage started in Jazz Ensemble. We’re more than just a band, we’re a family and there are no secrets in our family. I know shit about some of those guys not even their parents or wives know.
Besides that, it’s intense. With between twelve and fifteen musicians performing contemporary and Dixieland jazz, it means the slightest misstep is noticed. It’s a lot of pressure and takes a lot of dedication, but that Klauss thinks Jolene’s ready for it speaks very highly for her.
Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
Of course part of me is impressed and I really fucking hope she grabs at the chance with both hands, but the other part of me—like the lower, much more selfish half—hopes she drops out of the music program entirely. Because watching her all football season long has been hell.
Where before I could easily ignore the hot girls in band, I can’t do that with Jolene and it isn’t just because she sits right in front of me during music rehearsals either. No, I swear she’s everywhere. You know how when you want to avoid someone, it’s like they show up everywhere you look? That’s exactly what it’s been like with Jolene and her very tight, fuckable body.
She’s friends with friends of my friends. Don’t analyze it, just trust me when I say I’ve run into her more than I have girls I’ve fucked—which sometimes turns awkward. But I’ve been able to keep my shit together despite wanting her so much I’ve had to strike blondes off my list of likes because I don’t want to accidentally call her name when I’m fucking one. I’m not a complete asshole.
If she makes Jazz Ensemble though…
“She has a boyfriend, asshole,” I mutter to myself—and my cock.
Naturally, my dick has zero fucks to give about her anemic looking boyfriend.
Josef.
My lip curls. He’s pasty, thin, and has the most annoying accent I’ve ever heard. And he fucks Jolene. Probably the worst offense I can think of. What she sees in the guy is beyond me. Except you know, maybe his willingness to commit to her. Lucky foreign fucker.
Growling at myself, I start for the department’s drum kit. I have so much energy—
That’s when I hear it. A muffled, mournful warble of sound that gives me the frissons. I recognize the song and whoever’s playing it is almost giving me the creeps they’re that good. Curiosity compels me out of my practice room on a hunt for whatever Louis Armstrong reincarnate is playing “St. James Infirmary”.
Peeking into room after room, I find the mystery trumpeter and sag against the closed door. Of course. Jolene. Staring at her through the tiny window, I can’t help but admire the way the light dances over her gold hair. She’s beyond gorgeous and I want to fuck her so bad, my dick hurts. After coming less than ten minutes ago.
But all of that is secondary to the sound she pulls from that tarnished, battered trumpet of hers. Fuck. Me. I understand why Klauss wants her in the ensemble now. She’s rearranged the song to be a full-on trumpet solo, but managed not to lose any of the emotion the song evokes. Listening to her, my heart aches with the way she seems to caress each note, lingering here, growling there, as though she’s mourning. This is what music is about and Jolene obviously has more than a talent for it. It’s a fucking gift.
The song ends on a piercing keen that makes me shudder and without thinking, I throw open the practice door.
“Please fucking tell me you’re auditioning,” I say in a rough voice. Yeah, okay so my throat got a little tight with all the emotions her playing pulled out of me.
Jolene jumps with a little gasp, looking over at me with those pretty blue eyes. Once she realizes it’s me though, the surprise fades to disgust and indifference. It’s a look she’s been casting my way since I introduced myself and then ignored her, but for once it doesn’t bother me because there’s more at stake here than just my dick.
It’ll get over the disappointment.
“What?” she asks primly as she casually blows the spit out of her valves.
How she manages to do that and still look ladylike, I’ll never know, but she does. Probably because she does it into a trashcan instead of on the floor the way most brass players do.
I shake the thought off. “That’s one of the songs on the audition playlist. You’re trying out for ensemble, right?”
She sniffs and begins dismantling her trumpet. “Actually, no, I’m not. I’m too busy.”
I stare at her, not understanding. Too busy? With that kind of talent? No fucking way.
“You’re joking, right? Because that’d be a crime against motherfucking nature. You were made for Jazz Ensemble.” And I’m not bullshitting her either. “There’s no way Pierce or Princess can compete,” I add, speaking of the other two top trumpet players in the 300. “You have to audition.”
Jolene continues picking up her shit without looking at me. I should be used to that by now. Even when we’re hanging out with our mutual friends, she somehow manages to ignore me while still being polite. It’s like an art form for her. And no one seems to notice but me. Probably because I spend most of the time in her vicinity staring at her.
“Some of us have lives outside of band,” she says, clicking the locks on her case. Then she sighs, sounding cutely frustrated. “Why am I tryin’ to explain myself to you? It’s none of your business.” She stands, grabbing something off the music stand and stuffing it in her purse. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a date tonight.”
I don’t move. “You have to try out,” I say again.
That cute rosebud of a mouth, all puffy and red from playing, tightens. “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. Please move out of the way ’cause Josef is waiting for me.”
My lip curls. It’s completely involuntary, I swear, but I’m not sorry either. “Spendin’ time with that Jim Morrison wannabe is more important than using the gift God gave you? You’re fuckin’ crazy, Peaches.”
Her eyelashes flutter, although I’m not sure if it’s at my insult to her boyfriend or the nickname. “What are you talkin’ about, Jim Morrison wannabe? He’s not tryin’ to—”
“Watch The Doors,” I say impatiently. “That isn’t what’s important here. You have the kind of talent Jazz Ensemble can showcase and you’re throwing it away.” I shake my head, completely dumbfounded. “Well, you’re tryin’ to, but I’m not gonna let you do that.”
Her eyes widen for a second before narrowing on me, fire burning in the deep blue. “I’d like to see you try, Crash.”
With that, she shoves me out of her way and storms down the hall. I let her go because while this isn’t over, I’m not going to hold her prisoner. Although the thought of Jolene, a pair of handcuffs, a locked room, and plenty of time on my hands does sound nice. I lean against the doorjamb and watch her hips sway as she heads for the exit leading out of the practice hall.
Even pissed off, she’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. Then she’s gone and I’m left with a hard dick and a burning need to have Jolene join the Ensemble. Glancing back into the room she’d been using, I see something on the floor. Thinking it’s probably her sheet music, I pick it up with the intention of giving it to her the next time we bump into each other—which will be much sooner than she realizes.
Then I see her name, the school’s logo, and I open it. I don’t feel an ounce of shame as I read what Klauss wrote her. Because I can tell the page has been folded and refolded so many times that it’s getting a little flimsy at the creases. And she’s only had the damn thing for a couple of weeks. But it’s the water stains in certain spots that tells me everything I need to know.
Jolene’s pissed because I’m just telling her what she already knows. Not joining the Jazz Ensemble is the worst mistake she could possibly make. Now I just have to find the right buttons to push to get her fired up enough to break whatever spell that asshat has on her.
And as I saunter back to my own practice room, her letter tucked in my pocket, I tell myself I’m motivated by music. Not by the need to have her single and around me all the time. Because I don’t do band chicks.
Right?
Jolene
December 26
This was a horrible idea. Fidgeting with my silverware, I keep my eyes on my plate and try to pretend Josef isn’t acting like a child. I mean, I know he hadn’t wanted to come to dinner at Lena, Root, and Savage’s place for our after-Christmas get together, but I never thought he would make his reluctance so obvious.
Maybe it’s just the wine. He’s had a lot of it, making his accent wobble in the strangest way, almost sounding French at some points, as he slurs his opinions on everything. And I mean everything. Thank god no one else seems to be paying him much attention, ʼcause then I’d have to start digging for dirt to hide my embarrassment since I’m already slouched so low in my chair, I’m almost on the floor.
I make the mistake of glancing up, my gaze meeting his across the table. I didn’t know Crash was coming tonight. I knew Lena had invited Tight and Cube because they’re really close to Root, but I don’t know why Crash tagged along. I really wish he hadn’t though.
Somehow, some way, I’ve seen him more the last week than I have all semester. Ever since the night he confronted me after I made the big decision, he’s been showing up everywhere like a bad penny. It got to the point that I holed up in my dorm room for the last two days. And that’s never a pleasant experience because Kimber puts the B in witch. But I gladly took her glares and muttered snarls over running into Crash.
And yet here he is. Watching me with those sinful eyes of his, a little smirk playing with his chiseled lips. Why did such a player have to look so good?
Because that’s how he reels the girls in, you idiot.
Right. Crash has the right bait for hooking a girl on his line. Only problem is he never keeps them. He’s a catch ’em as a trophy and throw ’em back in kind of guy. But with his dark brown hair, handsome face, and striking eyes, the girls know he’ll throw them back and they just don’t care.
Don’t get me wrong, I can’t help but admire his looks. The boy is as fine as fine can be. I may have even tried to figure out exactly what color his eyes are because they’re not black, or brown. They’re sort of in between. The closest thing I’ve ever seen—via Google mind you—is this exotic wood called Macassar Ebony. Like so dark they look black, but when you see them in the sun, they’re this striated combination of black and brown and… Okay, I’ve spent a lot of time trying to guess his eye color.
Not that it matters because I try not to look into those eyes of his. No siree, that’s just asking for trouble.
Like now. Because I can’t tear my gaze away from his and things start happening inside my body that are just not right. I’m dating Josef Dunai. I am not going to become Crash’s catch of the day. No way. I have more respect for myself, for Josef, than to let myself get hooked by some bad boy drummer with t—
“Tattoos!” Josef slurs, jerking me out of my staring contest with Crash. What on God’s green earth is the boy talking about now? “Tattoos are not art. It’s nothing more than—what is it called? Oh yes, paint by numbers.” He nods, his man bun bouncing for effect. “Childish colorings taken off of a transfer machine and filled in with needles.”
My eyes widen in shock, my gaze skipping around the table at several owners of tattooed arms. Crash, of course, is one. Tight, a soon-to-be professional football player, and his brother Cube also have ink. But the scariest of all is Rien, Roots’ large, terrifying older brother. He’s never been mean to me or anything, but he’s frightening with his piercing blue eyes, brooding expression, massive muscles, and tattoos. Lots of tattoos. Because he’s a tattoo artist. And here’s my boyfriend sneering at it.
Panic swells and I look over at Becca for, well I’m not entirely sure. Support? A way to defuse the situation? But I should know my friend better than that because her brown eyes dance with maniacal glee as she leans forward.
“That’s so interesting,” she coos. “Tell me more.”
Thank god for Lena because before Josef could continue his sermon on the evils of any form of art other than his own, she stands up, saying, “I’m finished. How about we clear the table and go out to the firepit?” She looks over at Beau “Savage” Sauvage. “That sound good, Beau?”
Our host’s gaze dances around the table and I have to fight not to squirm. He’s a nice guy. Really nice considering he’s letting Root and Lena live with him, but he’s seriously rich. Like I’m pretty sure his family knows Bill Gates or something and every time he glances at me, I swear he can see the dust from the trailer park all over me.
“Yeah, that’s good. Guys, y’all wanna grab some beers? Get out of the way?”
Rien just grunts, his expression not changing at all, but obviously it’s a sound of agreement because he pushes away from the table, the others following in his wake as he leaves the dining room. Josef blinks, looking around as though wondering where his audience went.
“What is going on? I was not finished,” he says to me with what I’d normally think is an adorable frown on his face.
Except he embarrassed me something awful. But I don’t tell him that. Not with the girls clearing the table, their ears no doubt tuned to our conversation. Instead, I pat his hand. “The boys are goin’ outside to talk.”
His face clears. “Ah, then I will go with them, yes?”
I want to tell him to sit his skinny hiney down and not to speak the rest of the night, but he’s already up and out of his chair before I could suggest we chat privately. The only sound breaking up the heavy silence he leaves behind is the scrape of plates and the clatter of silverware.
“That was fun,” Becca chirps into the quiet. “God, I so want to be out there!”
“Becca,” Lena scolds softly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
I’m glad she’s sure because I’m not.
As I stand and help the others, I send off a quick prayer.