by Ina Zajac
“You don’t mean now,” Nick said. He shook his head. “You can’t drop now. We’ve got to rehearse. Guys are coming in an hour.”
Nick could be such a buzzkill. She hadn’t looked all that enthused anyway.
“Can I get a rain check?”
“Sure.” He would save it. Good thing she said no. It was a dumb idea, anyway, he realized. He needed a woman to say no, to shut him down. He felt like a thirteen-year-old driving a car without a license.
“So, do you sing?” Her question was as predictable as the recycling truck.
“I sing a few, but it’s tough singing the melody and focusing on rhythm at the same time. At least for me.”
Nick piped up, “Though Sting does, Gene Simmons, Paul McCartney, Geddy Lee.”
He beamed him a shut-the-fuck-up-this-instant look. His obnoxious friend just smiled back.
“That’s cool,” she said as she leaned forward. Her interest level seemed solid. “So, why do bass players stand in the back? Don’t you want to bask in the spotlight?”
This chick was adorable. The pecking order tended to go: lead vocalist, lead guitarist, drummer, bassist, and then maybe the guy on keyboards would get a few crumbs. “The bass player stands back because that’s where the drummer is,” he explained. “They’re the rhythm section. The drummer is the heartbeat of the band, and the bass player is the spine.” His analogy seemed to be working because she gave him a dreamy sort of look. It gave him courage.
“Wanna see my favorite bass? It’s in my room.” He ignored the oh-no-you-didn’t look from Nick. Asking a girl up into his room was meaningful. If he just wanted to nail her, he would have asked her down to the studio. It was their go-to for quick-n-dirty encounters. The basement even had a condom machine on the back wall next to the pinball table. When Nick installed it back in the day, it had been an ironic addition. But it didn’t require any coins and they kept it stocked, so it had worked out. Sex didn’t inflame any of Matt’s quirks as long as he was safe and could jump into a hot shower within an hour or two. He wasn’t so much of a germaphobe as long as he knew he could reset, re-sanitize himself. There were methods to his madness that seemed random to anyone else. Reading that germ-laden book to Bella would have been tricky, but knowing he had his hand sanitizer in his pocket made it manageable. He would never go into Hotties without hand sanitizer. But his bedroom was always clean and safe, his retreat from the chaotic world outside. She stood up and followed him and his anxiety level increased at the thought of her touching his things, but hopefully not to the point that she would notice.
***
VIA
VIA FOLLOWED HIM up the dark wood staircase. The house’s interior was so lovely, adorned with deep glossy wood. Intricate paneling anchored the bottom half of many of the walls; bookcases flanked both sides of the fireplace. She looked above and admired the exposed timber beams. “Tell me about this house,” she asked him. “Those half walls with the columns are gorgeous.”
He slowed his pace up the stairs, which were fitted with a blue and beige carpet runner. “Those are colonnades,” he said. “You’ll see tapered columns all over this place. They’re a signature of the Craftsman style.”
She heard Nick yell up from the living room. “It’s my Grandma Daney’s house,” he said. “My great-great grandfather built it in 1916.” She turned to see him making his way over toward the bottom of the staircase. “It’s on the West Seattle Tour of Homes every year,” he added.
She smiled and started to turn around to face him, but Matt grabbed onto her hand and guided her upstairs. “We’ll tell you about the house next time. Promise.”
Nick yelled up after him, “Tour is coming up, bro. Saturday the 4th,” he said. “Don’t forget, ten to four. Don’t make any plans. You’re in charge of snacks.” Without turning around, Matt yelled over her, “I know, I know, dumbass!” Matt’s tone seemed light, and Nick didn’t seem offended, so she assumed it must be their typical banter.
Once they reached the landing, she noticed a bright orange painting hung high on the wall. It gripped her and pulled her attention in toward its deep purple center. As she got closer she realized the center shade was more of an indigo, wrapped in dozens of orange oval rings. Each nested into the next, like an oval solar vortex. His grip on her hand was determined, so she didn’t have a chance to investigate it properly. He was a fast walker.
She followed him into his bedroom, amazed by how clean it was. Had he straightened it up for her? He must have just vacuumed because the aligned grooves in the carpet were fresh. The furniture all matched and was black with minimal accents. The bed was made. The desk was bare except for a tablet, some hand sanitizer, and a wire basket full of sheet music. Even the carpet under the desk chair had been vacuumed. For a moment she thought about lifting the bed skirt to check the carpet under the bed, but decided against it.
The soft white walls were bare with the exception of a painting above the black headboard. It was colorful, but muted. It looked to be thirty-six by sixty inches, not as tall as her father’s.
“You paint this?”
He nodded. “It’s nothing.”
She knew he was wrong. Art was always something. Perhaps being in the bedroom of a painter should have made her anxious, but this painting was nothing like her father’s work. It offered toasty shades of yellow, orange, and red, counterbalanced with cool violet. The violet was minimal, but drew her in the most. She stepped closer and leaned in. Across the top of the canvas, several layers of multicolored drips cascaded down. Overlaid together, they offered up a subtle shimmer that she hadn’t noticed from a distance. She wondered what her father would have thought of it. He probably would have approved of the concept, and looked past its technical failings. It seemed perfect, but she knew artistic perfection was a myth. It had driven her father crazy. She looked to the corner, squinted her eyes and read aloud, “Mattais Smith Romero.” His handwriting was poised, not frantic or brutal.
“Smith is my mom’s maiden name. She’s a Euro-mutt, but my dad is Mexican,” he said. “I don’t speak Spanish, and get a lot of shit for it, so please don’t—“
“No, no.” She shook her head. “I wasn’t even going to ask about your name, just about the painting.” She wondered why he had said, “but my dad is Mexican.” Like Mexican was a bad thing. Like she would disapprove somehow. It worked for her. Explained his dark eyes, his thick hair.
“Where did they meet?”
“In Arizona. He was born and raised there. He’s a US citizen. It’s not like he was undocumented or anything.”
He seemed sensitive, though she didn’t know why. Her own father had been born in northern Italy and hadn’t moved to the US until he was a teenager. She didn’t even know his family. He hadn’t talked about them. Her uncle Erik popped into her head. He had called from Taiwan the night before to talk about her father’s collection, but she had lied to him and said she couldn’t hear him. That the cell reception was bad.
Matt had moved over to a corner next to a long closet, which was closed. In the other corner was a bathroom, which from her vantage point, also looked immaculate. Could they have a maid?
“Really, it’s nothing,” he said, trying to redirect her attention away from the painting. “I don’t paint much anymore.”
“And the one we passed coming up the stairs?”
“That’s the only one I kind of like,” he said. “Honestly, none of them really please me.” His words felt like punches and pushed her far away for a moment. She regained herself and hoped he hadn’t noticed that she had just been thousands of miles away, revisiting her childhood home.
“These two are my favorites,” she heard him say. “I have a few more down in the studio that I thrash on.”
Her eyes hated to say goodbye to the happy little drips slipping down the canvas.
“Via,” Matt said. She turned toward him, loving the way her name sounded through his voice. “This one is my acoustic,” he said once he’d reclaimed he
r attention. He picked it up from a stand on the floor and held it out for her. It was shaped like a traditional guitar and was a piney color with darker wood inlaid around the hole. She took a few steps toward him and tentatively reached out to touch the heavy wire strings. He briefly pulled it back. “Be super gentle, okay?”
She nodded, but wondered at his nervousness. “It’s beautiful.”
“This is a four string,” he said. He took her hand, and led her fingers against the copper-colored strings. “And, these are the frets.” He guided her down past several horizontal lines intersecting the strings. “And down here, these are the pickups. Even though it’s acoustic, it still has pickups.” He had lost her. It was hard to keep track because her tour guide was getting her hot and bothered.
She could not stop smiling to save her life. Don’t be a spaz, she told herself. He was grinning back at her though, so it felt okay after all. Any doubt she’d had before, about whether he liked her or not, disappeared. She relished his sexy stare. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been so attracted to someone or felt so attractive. God, she wanted him to put down that bass and just kiss her. But instead he let go of her hand, put the bass back on its stand and then picked up the other.
“This is my Mike Lull, four-string custom,” he said. “Do you know who he is?”
She had no clue, but could tell he was about to remedy that.
“He’s a local manufacturer who’s worked with Jeff Ament from Pearl Jam, Nick Harmer from Death Cab for Cutie, Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart—basically everybody awesome,” he explained. “Not only Seattle artists—he’s worked with Branden Campbell from Neon Trees and that American Idol judge, Randy Jackson. Did you know he played bass?” He didn’t really wait for her to answer. “And Bryan Beller, who’s a fucking genius.” He just kept talking. He just looked so excited. Music was obviously important to him. “Mike Lull is the coolest. Gave me a smokin’ deal cause he knew I couldn’t afford her.”
This bass was a glossy shade of forest green. Her pulse sped up as she watched him run his fingers down the length of the thickest string. He sat on the edge of his bed with it. Smaller and thinner than the first, its smooth body curved at the bottom and there were two arm-like edges reaching out from its sides. As soon as he placed it on his lap, she understood its shape was not only cool, but also ergonomic. The bottom arm was shorter and fit against his thighs. The upper stretched out further, but not so far as to impede his left arm.
“And, she has a name. Can you guess?” he asked her.
She had to think about it for a moment. It screamed of green. Then it hit her. “Envy,” she said. “That’s what I would name it.”
“Right on,” he said. He squinted at her for a moment, then gave her a slight nod. “Keeper.”
She turned away. What was happening here? What did she want to happen here? She went over and sat in the chair in front of the desk. She stayed clear of the bed. “Play me a song?”
“Maybe someday,” he said, putting Envy back on its stand. He sat back down on the edge of his bed, but she stayed by the desk. He took an awkward pause and then got back into music-professor mode. “You want a little melody or something,” he began, “but that’s not my part. Nick sets the beat, I help lay down the rhythm. Then the rest of the guys build the melody on that. I do sing sometimes, but it kind of stresses me out.”
Duh, she realized. He had already explained that. Her brain was a frazzled mess.
“No worries,” he said. “If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t bother telling you all this. You get that, right?”
Was he really talking to her like this? His tone was so patient, playful.
“If you hear me practicing, you probably won’t even recognize the songs.” He came over to the desk and she stood up so he could sit down. But he just leaned over the desk and swiped his finger across the tablet on the desk. Standing next to him, she felt pretty shrimpy. The side of her face met his shoulder. His shirt still smelled like fabric softener. “But when you come hear us—the whole band—then you’ll hear me. The baselines will pop.”
He felt so familiar. “You should be a teacher,” she told him.
“I teach at Seattle Kidz Rock, but just a couple of hours a week,” he said. “I want you to hear a song.”
In one fluid move, he sat down in the desk chair, reached over, hooked his right arm around her waist, and brought her down onto his lap. It was sweet yet confident.
“A lot of people don’t give the bass a second thought, but in reggae the bassist and guitar player switch roles,” he continued. “The bass is more prominent. A good example is ‘Stir it Up.’ Listen.”
God, he felt good, and she was content to just sit there while he found his song. He nuzzled into her side, and she felt little kisses just behind her earlobe. Something shifted within her. Like he had correctly entered some secret code she didn’t even know she had. She heard the sound of the Wailers start in, and then Bob Marley’s distinctive voice.
She relaxed into him. He was her sexy beanbag chair. “Do you hear it?” he asked.
“Hear what?” she wanted to say. How was she supposed to concentrate while his lips worked down the side of her neck? Their warmth made her want to turn her face to meet them.
“Do you hear it?”
Of course, it surrounded them. Deep, rich sound waves came through speakers she hadn’t noticed before. “I love it,” she finally said. Reggae would never be the same. It was all so easy. He brought his hand up and pulled back the strands of her hair, which had been in his way, then got back to kissing her neck. He had cracked her combination all right.
She wanted to give into it, but resisted and let in her rational thoughts. Still not able to pull away from him entirely, she heard herself say, “Wait.” He said nothing, but paused and rested his chin on her shoulder as though awaiting further instruction.
This guy felt so right, but she couldn’t believe this was even happening. She was so into him that it made her queasy. Maybe it was the two lines of blow she’d done earlier. The whole point of going to Hotties in the first place was to escape her real life. How much was she going to tell this guy, and when? She didn’t want to hurt him. But why hadn’t she been afraid of hurting Dan? Why was he just now coming to mind?
Matt hummed in her ear. His soft breath distracted her from her internal quandary.
“I’m engaged,” she finally managed to say. Was he going to be pissed off?
He didn’t move an inch. He stopped humming long enough to say, “I know that.”
Excitement trailed along the path his hand took as he ran it down her side; he was playing her like that damned bass. He put his left hand on top of hers and ran his pointer finger along her ring finger, which was occupied by her mother’s ring.
She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh, right,” she said. “I forgot about that.” She had forgotten a lot in the past week, which was exactly what she had been going for. She wanted to forget being that pathetic, parentless little mouse. She had already gone off the reservation. Maybe it was time to go and screw around in the desert for a while.
“You probably think I’m a terrible person.” She dreaded the thought that Matt wouldn’t respect her. Though she didn’t know why, she desperately wanted him to like her. She didn’t want this drug-dealing bass player to think she was skanky.
“You’re way too young,” he said. “You going to go through with it?” She was astonished at the way he honed in on the very question that had haunted her for weeks, probably months. She had absolutely no idea.
“I’m afraid I don’t love him,” she said. She felt liberated. It was true, but she had never verbalized it. It wasn’t the kind of thing she could bring up at her ladies’ bible study. They would tell her to pray about it. They would assure her that commitment is difficult for everyone, and that it takes work, commitment, and faith.
He continued to hold her close and began swiveling the chair to the left and right. “I know that, too,”
he said. “You wouldn’t be here if you did.”
“He’s in Africa for a few months,” she said. She expected him to ask a few follow-up questions—like what was in Africa, for starters.
“Then I won’t ask about it,” he said. “I mean, we’re just having fun, right?” It hadn’t occurred to her that she was being presumptuous in assuming it would bother him. Caring would imply he cared about her, and he didn’t even know her. He let go of her hand and ran his hand up her side again.
She pulled away and sat straight up, then got up off his lap. Only then did she notice she had gotten him hard. Make a beeline straight for the door, she told herself, but she was crippled with awkwardness. She couldn’t stand the thought of him thinking she was a tease. Leaving a guy in that condition was kind of mean, wasn’t it? Seems it would be painful or at least uncomfortable. If only she were a racy sex kitten. If only she knew just what to do, and say. What would Vixen do? The solution became obvious and made her feel both naughty and nervous.
She looked at Matt and tried to put on a self-assured smile. Whitney had given her some “how to be sexy on stage” tips, but this would be different. It was one thing to look sexy and quite another to be sexy. He looked at her, eyebrows raised and drawn close together. I can do this, she told herself while she swiveled the chair around so he faced her. There was something about him that made her feel delicious. She knelt down in front of him and offered up her most seductive look. First he seemed confused, then he busted out laughing.
Humiliation would melt her into a mortified puddle, unless she got out of there before he stopped laughing. Maybe he wouldn’t even try to stop. Maybe he would laugh until he grew too old to laugh anymore.
“No, wait.” He knelt down with her on the floor. He offered a wide-eyed sorry-I-fucked-up face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But, I mean—I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
“I’m such a spaz, so not cool,” she said, her hands plastered against her hot face. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”