by S. E. Hall
I leave the door open and stroll out of the club, starting the countdown. She has twenty-four hours.
Maybe shoulda told her that.
Jarrett bursts into my apartment the next morning, no knock or formalities, and plops down on a barstool. “That French toast I smell? Make me some.”
“Hey, you look a lot like my brother, but he’s been avoiding me for days, so I can’t be sure,” I deadpan, ignoring his demand.
“Yeah, listen, about that… I’m sorry. I was being a dick. But if you still wanna do it, I’m in!”
I sit beside him and start eating.
“Dude, did you really not make me any?”
“I really didn’t, dude.” I shove another bite into my mouth.
He gets up to go cook his own damn food “So you think Reece’s offer still stands?”
“I do, but there’re some things we need to go over first.”
“Like what?” He looks over his shoulder.
“Well, let’s see. We could start with the most important part, the things you said about Reece. Not only were they completely unfounded, as wrong as they could be, and rude as fuck, but she heard you. That will need to be fixed before I let you anywhere near her.”
He turns slowly, mouth gaping and eyes bugging out. “I’ll be damned. Never, and I mean never, did I think the day would come.”
“And what day might that be?”
“You’re fuckin’ sprung! Must’ve finally tapped that? Or no, wait, still haven’t tapped that and that’s what’s got you feening. Whichever, holy shit!” He sits beside me, clapping me on the shoulder. “Cannot believe you’re still worrying about her so hard.”
“Jarrett, brother or no, this is absolutely the very last time I say it. Do. Not. Talk about Reece in terms of tapping it. You will never know the answer either way, so stop. Yes, I like her, for a number of reasons, and she deserves respect. You’ll give it, starting with an apology that makes all other apologies look amateurish. Not because she took a huge chance that cost her more than you could imagine and offered us the opportunity of a lifetime, but because she’s the kind of person who couldn’t sleep until she offered us the opportunity she believed we deserved. You hear what I’m saying to you?”
“Yeah.” His shoulders slump with all the guilt I just heaped on. “I hear what you’re saying and not saying.”
“Good.” I take my plate to the sink. “We’ll skip over you punching me, since you throw like a girl. That leaves one last thing. I need your word, Jarrett, that the first skirt won’t have you running again. Reece is risking a lot on us, and I’m risking a lot by going to her. I have to be sure I can count on you. L.A. is full of musicians. Maybe find yourself someone who thinks what’s important to you is important, supports it even.”
“Why would you assume I’m not bringing Landry?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Because of that.” I laugh. “So can I count on you?”
“Yes, you can count on me.”
“Good.” I toss him my phone. “She’s under ‘Teaspoon.’ Better make it good. But don’t tell her we’re coming—just apologize and confirm the offer’s still an option. I’m going to take a shower.”
I receive the tracks on Friday, and my favorite of them by far is the one I secretly recorded of Rhett going ham on the drums. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen—sweat on his brow, a cocky, assured glint in his eyes, and his muscular arms flexing up and down with melodic authority. He thought he was just playin’ around, but I thought he was magnificent.
I keep my secret sampling just that, but call Rhett on Skype to scrutinize the others to death. Not that we have time to meet up and re-record now—we’re just both dedicated to perfection, so we discuss little tweaks that could’ve be made here and there. I love that his ear and attention to detail are as freakishly OCD as my own; I think we’ll work great together. If that ever comes to fruition. Which he makes no mention of and I don’t ask. I’m scared of the answer either way—each for an entirely different set of reasons. I also don’t find a comfortable opening to bring up the call I got from Jarrett; surely he has to know his brother called me, from his phone, and he evidently doesn’t feel the need to discuss it either.
And pardon me if I’m a little gun-shy about making presumptions or speaking them aloud where the Foster boys are concerned. Last time I did that, punches were thrown and the puncher went on a prolonged sabbatical.
I wouldn’t know what to say about the phone call anyway, very vague indeed. Jarrett apologized profusely for the accusations he made against me and said he hoped he hadn’t ruined his chances of us all working together. I readily accepted his apology and assured him he had not jeopardized anything. And…that was it. No acceptance or declination of the offer just sitting out there, rotting on the table. The call ended with me no closer to having an idea of what was going on than when I answered.
Men. African tongue-clicking.
Saturday drags by because—and I only just took notice of this fact—I have absolutely no friends in the town in which I live to do anything with. Warrick called, blathering about some benefit dinner that my parents “expected” us to attend together. Funny how my parents didn’t think to call me. No matter. I unashamedly, and quite convincingly, told him I had chronic diarrhea and couldn’t make it. Honestly, who calls to invite you to an event the day of it? If he’s actually still hell-bent on that plan of his, at least he could add some try to his crazy.
My bowing out ungracefully apparently pissed off my father, because at eight o’clock, thirty minutes after the banquet started, the entire board at Crescendo receives a group email changing the demo meeting to bright and early Monday morning. All because I won’t play along with the maniacal farce that Warrick should be paid in two donkeys, six goats, and the future of my company for my hand in marriage.
My father wants me to fail, wants me to learn “my place,” and scamper off do-gooding with my mother while “my man,” whom I detest, runs the family business. He’s making it extremely difficult for me to try to remain a respectful daughter. He and I both know who’s holding the winning hand. Does he actually believe I forgot about the recent shift in power? Or is this just his pigheaded confidence that he can break me?
Either way, it hurts. He’s. My. Father.
I pour myself a glass of wine and hunker down under my covers, flipping through the movie channels. Quick recap—I’m twenty-one years old, in bed at nine, surfing movies. A herd—is it a herd? A pack maybe? Whatever, a whole lot of cats—should bust in to take over my apartment any second now. We’ll crochet Kleenex box covers together.
But—bringing me a small smile and flutter to my tummy—guess what’s on? If you search long and hard enough, it’s always on somewhere. The Notebook. Before, I wouldn’t have taken note and flipped right by. Now I’ll at least watch “the bird” part…every single time it’s on for the rest of my life.
I start to call him then drop the phone with a gut-wrenching thought—maybe he’s “out.” In Hawaii. Or Eden. Do I have a right to be upset? I mean, there’s been some action between us, and I’m not imagining the way he looks at me in that sly, appraising way of his every so often. And what about his exceptional text message that morning?
Hell yes, I have the right!
I press the call button and hold my breath while simultaneously trying not to swallow my tongue.
“Good evening, Teaspoon. How nice of you to call. Thinking about me?” he answers with audible cockiness.
“You’re so arrogant.” I tsk.
“It’s not arrogance if I’m right. Am I?” He’s now speaking in that flirtatious baritone that he’s got mastered. Husky and rich, it’s devastatingly effective.
“I did call you, you caught me, so obviously I was at least thinking about you long enough to pull up your name and press the button.”
“All I heard was yes.”
“So, can you, uh, talk?” I fumble as if navigating my way
through the daunting task of placing a phone call for the first time in my life.
“I can.” I hear his warm smile. “What’s on your mind?”
I launch into my father’s latest manipulation and my resulting aggravation.
“It’ll be okay,” he assures me without a shred of reservation.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because that demo is great, and I believe in you. If you want it badly enough, I have no doubt whatsoever in what you can accomplish.”
I can’t suppress my skepticism. “Do you really? You sound so positive, but you barely—”
“Not that again,” he cuts in. “Are you checking a clock, crossing off days on a calendar ‘til we’ve hit the socially acceptable ‘makes sense’ mark, or are you going by what you feel inside? ‘Cause I gotta say, Tea, I feel sure I know you, and I’ve been pretty damn open with you in return. Still no idea why, but I have been.”
“Well when you put it like that,” I mutter.
“I’m putting it like that.”
“Okay, I hear ya.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do, sheesh. So what are you doing tonight?” Here’s where I get reminded that this is too good to be true and that I do know him… and his M.O.
“Why don’t you come right out and ask me what you really want to know? No, strike that. Hang up and let’s Skype.”
His bossy butt’s already hung up before I even got my mouth open to agree, and my Skype is ringing. Of course I answer.
“There.” His face fills the screen, dark hair mussed, chest bare, thin stubble on his jaw.
God, I have no idea what I look like right now, but I’m beyond certain it’s nowhere close to as good as him.
“You look beautiful, as always.” He chuckles, a playful twinkle in his eyes. “Quit worrying. Now what were you trying to ask me without asking me?” One sardonic brow lifts to taunt me.
“I was just wondering what you were up to tonight?”
“No, you weren’t. You were wondering if I was at home tonight. Which, you can now see, I am. And you know I was home last night too, ‘cause I spent it talking to you.” He winks. He hardly ever does that, making it all the more potent on the few blessed occasions he does. “Ask me, Tea. Open your sweet lil’ mouth and ask me.”
“Are you, um…”
“Yes?” he needles with a coy smirk.
“I probably don’t have the right—”
“You do. Ask,” he says firmly. “Look at me and ask. I’ll tell you the truth.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. I look directly at the screen, pull in an endless breath, and exhale my rushed question. “Are you still practicing your usual escapism habits?” I duck my head, face scorching with embarrassment, while he laughs and taps on the screen.
“Teaspoon?” He’s ceased laughing and speaks warmly. “Eyes up here. I already know you’re blushing beautifully, so lemme see.”
My eyes glance up much faster than my head follows and he’s waiting, leaned back in his chair so all of his bare torso is visible. That faint line of dark hair begs my eyes to follow it down, but I refuse. Rather, I stay connected with his blue gems of devilment.
“No,” he smiles at me, a wide, breathtaking beam. “I haven’t escaped since before you came to see me for my birthday.”
“Oh.” It comes out as a waft of air, hiding the circus going on inside me.
“‘Oh’?” He laughs. “Tell me more than ‘oh.’ Tell me how you feel about that.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, face close to the screen. “And follow that up immediately with any extracurricular activities of your own that you think I may want to know about.” His eyebrows furrow and meet in the middle, forming one impatient line.
“Me?” I laugh obnoxiously, stopping myself just shy of a snort. “Rhett, I’m not sleeping with anyone if that’s what you mean. And that’s not a new thing for me. That pesky little habit spans back well before your birthday… like your twenty-fourth one.”
“I’m not unhappy to hear that, Teaspoon. Not a bit fucking unhappy. And you?”
“No, it doesn’t make me unhappy per se. I mean it’d be nice—” I stop when his laughter’s louder than I am.
“Oh, woman, you never fail to make me laugh,” He wheezes. “I meant how you feel about my abstinence.”
“I’m not unhappy about that either.”
I flush and try to look away again, but he stops me with his domineering voice. And keeps my eyes as we talk late into the night about music, his old band, Crescendo, other hobbies (of which neither one of us have very many), movies and even how we used to do in school. The one subject we both willingly stay away from is family. Apparently that’s not a very strong suit for either of us.
We play a few songs together, and as he’s finishing up his haunting rendition of “Blower’s Daughter,” a yawn I didn’t feel coming escapes.
“It’s late.” He smiles and sets down his guitar before stretching his arms way above his head.
If anything will wake me up, that’s it. His body isn’t bulky, more of a lean, intricately grooved specimen with light brown nipples, a perfect dusting of hair between them and broad shoulders. I’m making an oath to myself right now. When I get the chance to explore that body of his, I will. A lot. Everywhere… with my hands, lips and tongue. I groan, clench my thighs together, and my eyes fall closed but pop right back open at his guttural words.
“Me too, Reece. Goddamn, me too. Soon. Get your mind around that right now—soon I’m not fucking stopping.”
I nod and squeeze my legs together tighter in an attempt to quell the tingles between them.
“You’re tired. Go to sleep, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Night, Rhett,” I manage to say without all-out panting and completely embarrassing myself.
“Good night, Teaspoon.”
I spot her right away, sitting in the shade of a large tree—an instinctive, effortless task regardless of the throng of bodies in the large park—and sneak up behind her. “That man, gray pants, white shirt, by the newsstand? He’s thinking, ‘Man, since Ozzie didn’t kill me, today’s clearly on my side. I’m gonna go find my Teaspoon and do whatever it takes to make her smile for me.”
“What are you doing here?” She startles and jerks her head around to look up at me. I know she was “people storying” in her head, and as much as I second-guessed intruding, I’m glad that I did. Her tear-streaked face, the evident relief in her question; I’ll do whatever it takes to fix it.
“Scoot up.” I maneuver in to sit behind her, my back against the tree trunk, and pull her in between my legs. “Better?”
“Much.” Her body goes lax with a ragged exhale, and she lets head fall back on my shoulder. “You didn’t answer me though—what’re you doing here? And how’d you find me?”
“I went to the studio to surprise you, and your Ozzie-guard intercepted me in the parking lot, said I might have better luck looking for you here. Not sure which shocks me more—the fact he let you come here alone, he didn’t pummel me on sight, or that he actually pointed me in the right direction. Thought for sure he was sending me to the opposite side of the city from you.” I laugh, wrapping my arms around her waist. I cover her hands with my own and interlace our fingers.
She sighs. “You’re in L.A. Does that mean…?”
“I am, and it does. We’ll talk about that in a minute. Right now, I need you to tell me why you’re sitting in the park alone and crying.” I sink my face into the crook of her neck, reacquainting myself with her sweet scent. “What happened?”
“We had the meeting at work this morning. Of course everyone loved your voice and the lead guitarist, also you, so you’re in by unanimous vote.”
“Okay?” A rush of pride swells within me, but it’s short-lived, because that’s no reason for her to cry—she has more yet to say.
“My father wants to hear another sample”—her voice cracks with the sob she tries to swallow—“because
he’s not sold on the female. Me, the female. My own father didn’t recognize my voice. So I offered them a live audition. I have to see his face when he sees it’s me. I’m going to make him look me in the eyes when he tells me I’m not good enough.”
I lift and angle her into me, and she lays her wet cheek on my chest. I stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head. “We really should get our fathers together someday. Something tells me they’d have an instant kinship. It’s not just misery that loves company—works for dickheads too. They feed off people who share their fucked up brand of thinking. Or not thinking.”
I seem to remember vowing to never to tell her of my familial woes, yet I’ve gone and done exactly that. Without even trying, this girl completely obliterates every boundary I futilely set out to enforce.
“Listen to me.” I tip up her chin. “I know it hurt your feelings, and justifiably so, but Reece, sometimes you just have to fortify yourself against certain outcomes. Your father’s never going to change. But the good news is he doesn’t have to, because he’s only where you came from, not what you choose to become. We’re gonna give him that live audition, and one of two things will happen. Either he’ll be impressed speechless and prove he’s not a complete imbecile, or he won’t and you’ll put your foot down. Either way, I’ll be standing right beside you, trying like hell not to put my foot up his ass and rob you of the glory if he makes the wrong decision.”
“I’m just gonna fire him now.” She delves her face back into my shirt with her defeated murmur.
“No, you’re not.” I chuckle, swatting the sweet ass cheek pivoted up my way for the taking. “You’re gonna give yourself the chance to prove him wrong and make him eat his words. If that doesn’t work, then, and only then, you’re gonna go all tiny but mighty on him!”
“I am?” she whispers.
I hear her but don’t answer. Instead, I wait… for what I know lies within her to make its appearance.