Truly Yours (Truly Us #1)

by Mia Miller

  Inside was quaint, and even though the maroon paint on the walls was chipped in a lot of places, the furniture was in tip-top shape. The bar was in the middle, there was seating on either side of it, and hundreds of framed photographs lined the walls.

  “Kitchen’s at the back in there,” Micky said, pointing to a door mostly hidden toward the back of the area. “It’s open until nine, and we only serve small plates. Contrary to what I thought about small plates, people keep ordering them like crazy and the kitchen gets really busy. In fact, I’m looking for help in there right about now,” he rasped on and on, raising a brow toward us. I think he saw it in our faces that we knew crap-all about cooking, and he carried on, moving along the bar toward the other side, caressing it on the go like an old acquaintance.

  “Bar opens at five and stays open until two. I have three people manning that bar during rush hours, which is from seven till about one. Looking for help in that area, too, but I don’t suppose any of you are of age?” His brow hooked dramatically toward his scalp again.

  “No, sir,” Corbin answered. “You seem understaffed,” he went on, more a question than a statement.

  Micky shrugged. “Times change. I got used to turnover the past few years. This way,” he said.

  The other part of the U had round, smaller tables that could be for drinks only, and chairs galore along the walls, which were covered in framed photographs. On the far end was the stage area, which held an upright piano and a large drum set.

  “Hey, Delia, check this out,” Corbin said as he pointed to a particular row of photos of Micky, one of him drinking, another of him jamming on stage, and one of him shaking hands with Al Jardine, Graham Nash, and Art Garfunkel.

  “Told ya he was the real deal,” Enzo managed to say before we heard the guy grumble at us.

  “Come along now, let’s discuss some terms in my office. I need a drag,” he said and entered the dark, narrow hallway at the end of the bar. The boys followed suit, with me on their heels. When Oscar’s slender fingers wrapped around my palm and he fell into the same pace with me, I didn’t pull away or fall back.

  Mickey’s office door was open, and when I stepped inside, all I could smell was tobacco. It wasn’t all that surprising since Micky had a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth and was offering a pack to the guys.

  “Don’t smoke,” Corbin said, resolute, as Oscar just shook his head.

  “Eh, Millennials ruin everything, right?” Micky joked, making me snort. I was fairly certain that smoking inside the bar even if it wasn’t open to the public was still against the law, but I didn’t say anything.

  Instead, I looked around. The office was small and maybe a bit dusty, but if you took the offensive smell out of the equation, I could see myself working in it. It had decent lighting, a leather couch, wooden desk, and rotating chairs. Totally old-school.

  “You the lead singer?” Micky nodded his chin toward my brother as he settled back into his chair.

  “That’s the plan,” Corbin said, but it came out more as a question again.

  Enzo grabbed the pack of cigarettes and the lighter.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he said without looking at Corbin, who looked about ready to smack the items out of his friend’s hands. “Britta dumped me last night.”

  The need to roll my eyes was strong. Not that I didn’t care about Enzo’s love life. It was just that this was the third girl in a span of two weeks who had “dumped” him. The guy was perpetually brokenhearted.

  “Performances begin at eight thirty. I have theme nights, but I mix them up. I hate repeating the same stuff, and I have too many bands to rotate anyway,” Micky explained to us.

  “Yes, we saw on the sign outside. Expect surprises,” I sing-sang, and he chuckled, looking my way.

  “That’s the handiwork of my niece. She has a knack for carving things. She lives in my building with me, right above,” he said, pointing his finger with long-ish nails to the ceiling. “I own several apartments that I rent.”

  Looked like Infatuation was truly, fully, Micky’s house.

  “I give my old regulars a tab at the bar, but you won’t need one. I don’t allow underage drinking in here, and I mean it.” His voice had become steel.

  Corb extended his arms.

  “Good thing Millennials killed beer drinking too,” he joked, getting chuckles from everyone but Micky who went on talking.

  “You’ll need to be here on time. Stage arrangement and cleanup are your responsibility before and after the show, so time your shit correctly and don’t make my audiences wait. Long as you do that, we’re good. You have four Wednesdays to impress me, after which I’ll decide if I want to put you on rotation with my other bands. That’s when we’ll talk money too.”

  The guys nodded their understanding.

  “Well, come on, let us play for you,” Corbin said, and I thought I heard him humming.

  Micky put out his cigarette and got up, carrying on with his rasp while walking back to the stage. “Go on and set up, I will be with you in a second.”

  Oscar took a seat at the piano, but rather than opening the lid, he turned toward my brother.

  “Are we sure we want to be that band that played in a bar in New York that no one knew about?” he asked.

  “You should ask Kenny Chesney; he would know since his career started in bar no one knew about.”

  Oscar gave him a shrug and didn’t look at all convinced, and I pursed my lips to keep from giggling.

  “Wow, you’re a bit of an asshole, aren’t you?” Enzo said, shooting Corbin a look as if to ask if he was sure they wanted Oscar in the group.

  “Knowing my worth and being an asshole are two different things,” Oscar mused, but Corbin interrupted them.

  Micky joined us again and Oscar turned to him, asking, “Do you mind?” as his chin jutted toward the piano.

  “Go ahead. But don’t fuck around. She’s my personal property.”

  Oscar nodded and feathered his fingers across the keys in an almost respectful manner.

  When the first cords of Paparazzi came to life, it stirred up a cyclone of emotions in me.

  “Yeah, man, do your magic thing,” Ajax encouraged.

  Oscar’s eyes cut to mine, warm, molten lava, and I felt their heat to my core.

  “Yeah, okay,” was all he answered, and he finally turned to the keyboard.

  He didn’t ask the others what they wanted him to play. He took command of the keys . . . of the sound . . . of the room.

  I sat there, watching his fingers caress the piano like it was an old lover. There were little veins popping from his fingers, through his forearms, and I felt the compulsion to go lick them. I had been right all those years ago when I’d assumed that his would become the most elegant male hands in existence. He played “You Give Love a Bad Name,” and I tried to ignore Corbin’s knowing looks.

  When Oscar hit the final key, Micky let out a low whistle of approval.

  “Aren’t you all a bunch of old souls,” he rasped, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled with pleasure.

  When Corbin and Ajax started “Witchy Woman,” it was Oscar who started the vocals, and they let him.

  I felt like his voice permeated through my skin, seeping into my bloodstream, giving me fever. When he quoted the raven hair and ruby lips, our eyes met. The air between us filled with questions still unanswered. We might as well have been in the fiery pits of hell or on the wintery peaks of heaven because, in that moment, it was just him and me.

  Soon after, I swallowed hard when Oscar initiated a play of Peggy Lee’s “Fever” and looked into my eyes during the chorus. It was going to be hard to get him out from under my skin. Not that there was even an ounce of me that wanted that.

  Micky brought me out of my reverie, muttering to himself, “That boy’s got a pair of very good ears on him.”

  “Is that important?” I asked him, curious like I was about everything even remotely connected with Oscar.<
br />
  “Ffffs, it is if he wants to be a songwriter,” Micky said and then signaled the end of the audition by loudly clapping.

  “Feel free to practice for two hours before opening on your designated days,” he gave his okay to Corbin as Oscar jogged toward me.

  I clapped for him. “That was so beautiful.”

  I wondered, for the dozenth time, why he’d lied and told me he’d quit playing when, clearly, he hadn’t.

  ***

  I was getting ready for a date with a guy I had known since I was twelve but didn’t really know at all. It felt weird, but it felt good at the same time. It felt like something that needed to be done.

  “Okay, that is art, not makeup,” Kayla observed from my bed while I was putting the finishing touches on my brows, and making me laugh.

  “I can show you how, but your natural eyebrows are so dark you might not even need it.”

  “Yes, please, teach me some time; I know ballet makeup, but no one can go out wearing that,” Kayla said.

  I had already brought her up to speed about my and Oscar’s history, and she had gleefully declared she was our cheerleader. It appeared—to her, at least—that he and I were meant to be. I found little to no arguments against that.

  “Do you know where he’s taking you?”

  “I have no idea. It will, however, be the first time we have been anywhere where it was just the two of us.” I knew the look on my face was ridiculously happy, but I owned it, which had Kayla cracking up.

  “Wow, I’ve never seen someone smile with all their teeth.”

  I chuckled and applied some final swipes of loose powder that would make my makeup set.

  “Are you nervous?”

  No . . .Yes . . . I don’t know! It’s Oscar. I’ve known him since I was twelve. I should be fine, right?” I asked. Before she had time to formulate any answer, I sat next to her. “Can I tell you something? I am . . . still a virgin,” I said it fast, making a grimace.

  “So?” she answered instantly. “We’re young, that’s almost to be expected . . .”

  “I know; but, in my last letter to him, I kind of advertised being deflowered, which never happened. What do I do now? Do I tell him? Do I just go with the flow?” I asked her.

  “I think, just go with the flow?” Kayla asked tentatively.

  “How was it for you?” I queried further.

  “Something like that?” she asked me again, and it was clear, judging by the redness in her neck and chest that this was an overwhelming topic.

  Her eyes had gotten dark and guarded. I wanted to know why, but the door slammed open and Leigh strode in. I wasn’t one for slut shaming—to each their own—but her skirts were getting shorter and shorter every day.

  “Okay, we don’t have to talk about this,” I whispered to Kayla. “Ignore me, I am notorious for talking even when I have a foot in my mouth. It’s like a superpower,” I said, and she giggled.

  “Hey ya. What are you guys up to?” Leigh asked, strolling to the window to look after something.

  “I’m getting ready to head out with Oscar.” She spun, looking at me as if what I’d just said was shocking. A tiny part of me wanted to be offended that she assumed I was incapable of getting a date.

  “And that is the lingerie that you’re wearing?”

  I looked down toward myself. I was in my nude bra and had a skirt on.

  “I mean . . . yeah . . . it would look better on a size two—”

  “Girl, shut up! You totally work those curves. That’s not what I meant,” Leigh said adamantly.

  “I wish I had those boobs,” Kayla added.

  I chuckled.

  Leigh pointed at my breasts.

  “What’s up with the plain, granny bra?”

  “Well, apparently they only make flowery and pretty bras in smaller sizes,” I said, my turn to tease. Although that was a true pain point. The only way to get a decent looking D cup was special order, and I hated the wait those involved.

  She tsked me in response and started going through my stuff, picking a plain black bra instead.

  “Here, wear this one.”

  I spun toward the wall and traded the nude bra for the black one before pulling on my top. When I turned, both girls looked pleased with my appearance.

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but their encouragement gave me enough fuel to go out that door anyway.

  ***

  We were in Oscar’s room. His roommate, Scott, was out, but for safety measures we’d placed a chair’s back under the doorknob. Two and a half movies later, and we were no longer “netflixing.” We were full on “chilling.” Our tongues and bodies and breaths blissfully tangled. The heat and the ache between my thighs had become almost unbearable, and as Oscar’s hand roamed beneath the line of my panties, I shifted as if to invite him to continue. His fingers rested indecisively for a beat, strumming a fiery path and barely touching me.

  “Dellie?” Oscar mused, his lips touching the skin around my collarbone with butterfly kisses.

  “Hmmmm?”

  “Tell me this is okay.”

  More kisses rained across my skin, distracting me to the point that I almost forgot to answer.

  “Don’t stop.”

  His lips curved into a smile against me, and then his hand slipped farther down, cupping my mound and covering it completely as he applied pressure, which offered a relief I hadn’t even known I wanted.

  “You’re so beautiful, Dellie.” His kisses landed on my chest, covering it with touches that were almost reverent. “No, actually, you were beautiful when we were kids. Now? You leave me breathless every time my eyes land on you. I even dreamed of you last week,” he told me before his lips found the spot on my neck that had goose bumps exploding over my body. I gasped when his fingers shifted my panties to the side and touched my tender flesh in a long, painfully slow caress.

  “What were we doing?” I asked, curling my fingers around his shoulders, tracing circles down his back.

  He gave me that dangerous wink of his.

  “Pretty much what we are doing now, but without clothes.”

  The image was instant, and I lost my mind. I wished to be somehow teleported into the future, to leave all awkwardness aside without having to give up anything else. Not his touches, not his kisses, not his words, and definitely not the colors and depths of shadows playing in his eyes.

  “You’re breathtaking, Dellie, but you got panic written all over your face,” Oscar said, starting to ease his hand from where I wanted him to leave it. “We’re taking it easy, okay, Chameleon?”

  I nodded as I pressed my hand on top of his, asking him not to stop. His finger curled up inside of me, making my back arch off the sheets. I felt swollen, achy, needy. The fire in his eyes made me feel sexy. I moaned out a sound that filled the room.

  “Okay,” I said on an exhale, unable to stop the rock of my hips against his hand. It seemed like he was as intuitive with my body as he was with a keyboard, playing it into perfection. He’d found a rhythm that made my walls clench hard against his fingers and his increasingly applied pressure on my bud undid me. The orgasm hit me like a surprise, and my thighs danced in a blissful shake. His eyes flickered with hunger. He bent, placing a small kiss on my stomach and then he was on his knees between my legs, watching me and taking in my every expression.

  “What do you want to do, Dellie?” he whispered.

  I looked down at his narrow hips and to the visible bulge that looked so swollen it must have been painful.

  “I want you out of those clothes and touching yourself,” I offered, and he complied, taking off his shirt in that way only men did, pulling it upward from the back and giving me time to admire his V-cut abs.

  “Not fair that it’s only me losing the clothes,” he taunted. “I want to see the color of your nipples, Delia,” he said, his voice more commanding.

  I unbuttoned the top of my dress, and my tits spilled out. I watched Oscar as he removed his jeans and uncovering jus
t how deeply the V-cut went. His boxer briefs fit him snugly, and I was fascinated as he lowered and then wrapped his long fingers around his hard length. His hips pressing the rigid line of his cock through the clench of his fist was hypnotic. Would he push the same way inside me? I swiped my tongue over my lips. I felt parched. Like he was the tall glass of water that would quench my thirst. His breath was coming in short bursts, as he loosened and tightened his fingers, in rhythm with the movement of his hips, making me tighten with need.

  A small sound broke from the back of my throat, and he hissed when his hand applied more pressure.

  “Play with your tits. I want to watch you do that.”

  I fought against the tiny slip of embarrassment that started creeping down my spine and did as he asked, putting pressure on my own nipples and raising my bosom to his attention.

  A key turned in the lock and the doorknob twisted, and I cringed seeing the pained look on Oscar’s face when he realized we had unsolicited company.

  “Uh, dude?” Scott said from the hallway.

  “Wait,” Oscar’s voice barked at the door as we both started pulling our clothes back on. Once we were decent, Oscar kicked the chair aside and turned to me.

  “See me to my room?” I asked him as Scott entered with a sheepish smile.

  “Of course.” Then he turned to Scott, saying, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

  In the hallway, he stopped me for a kiss.

  “I’m sorry we got interrupted,” he said, coming out for air.

  “It’s probably better,” I told him, and when his brows furrowed I explained, “I want us to take it slow. I—” I hesitated for a beat and then blurted it o“I never had . . . sex before . . . you know, the real deal.” I ended abruptly since something sparkled in his eyes, a light I hadn’t seen before and that I didn’t know to interpret.

  “For real?” he asked, squeezing his fingers on my waist.

  “For real,” I whispered back.

  “We’ll take it as slow as we need to, Chameleon.”

  We went down the stairs toward my room, hands clasped together as we walked.