by Jean Haus
And I get why she would crave this.
It is strangely romantic. The music mixed with the pitter patter of the rain. The feeling that the need to dance against one another overrides the ugly weather. The sense of being alone in the cocoon of the rain. All of these things elevate the experience.
Halfway through the song, I forget about keeping my wits. I just enjoy. His shoulders under my palms. His fingers digging into my waist. His breath on my forehead. The perfect rhythm we make.
And I fall into the unthinkable.
I imagine for this flash in time that this is real. That we want to dance together out in the rain. That he wants me to press closer. That he wants me to lay my head on his shoulder.
And imagination becomes reality as I do each of those things.
And just feel.
Him.
The song nears the end as we sway glued to one another. My head turns. My cheek scrapes the wet fabric of his jean jacket. My nose catches the soapy scent of him, tips closer. Draws in and holds soap and rain and man in.
And even the smell of him warms me.
The music ends but we continue to hold each other. We move. We pretend this is real.
And I’m not me.
I’m a sponge soaking in his warmth, his smell, the sensation of him under my hands. Floating on a rain cloud of sensation, I can’t get enough. Yearning for more, desperate for more, I lean forward pressing my lips to the skin where his collarbones meet. I drag my lips across his skin, adding the taste of him to the sensations overwhelming me, adding the tang of cool rain on warm skin.
And he tastes more wonderful than I could have ever imagined.
He stops swaying in an instant.
I suddenly wake up, yank out of his grasp, and stare at him with wide eyes. My hand covers my aggressive mouth but I gasp, “Oh, no,” from behind my palm. Even in the rain and shadows, I can see his lips curling in disdain. Somewhere between the rain and body heat and my imagination, I forgot about Gabe’s dislike of me.
“I’m sorry,” I say from behind my hand. “I don’t…” I take a step back. “I don’t know what came over me. I…” Those lovely lips curl into an all-out sneer. “I’m sorry,” I whisper one last time, backing up before racing to my apartment.
With shaking hands, I unlock the door. Inside, I lean on the nearest wall, drawing in huge gulps of air. I’m embarrassed, shocked, and mad at myself all at once.
What is wrong with me? Why would I do such a thing? Loneliness? Boredom? Desperation?
Like I’m drunk again, I stumble over to the couch.
Okay, okay, okay hitting on Gabe—twice—is not the end of the world.
I just touched his lips and kissed his neck—eek! Yet, it’s not like I tackled and dry humped him. At least not yet.
After several more deep breaths, I admit to myself that I am attracted to Gabe—maybe because I can be honest with him, maybe because he’s stunningly attractive, maybe…it doesn’t matter why, but when it comes to men, I’ve always been reserved, now and back when I was normal.
I rub my temples. It has to be a mix of loneliness and boredom, driving me to act insane. I need to get over this and move on. Pushing myself off the couch and heading to the shower, I decide I need more of a social life.
Or else I may end up tearing off Gabe’s clothes.
Or something worse.
Chapter 12
~Gabe~
We wait in a small cement room behind an outdoor stage downtown by the river. Across from me, Sam is practicing a new riff, plucking silently on his bass. Justin stands on the far end texting—most likely to Allie, knowing his whipped ass. Romeo and Riley stand on the other far end of the long room. They’re practically nose to nose, and she appears as giddy as a groupie meeting her long time rock crush. Her band just finished, and though they weren’t perfect, they were better than the night I saw them in the bar. Yet, they have an energy that transfers to the crowd and negates their imperfections. Plus Riley is one hell of a drummer.
The stage is being changed over for the final act—us—of U-Palooza, a concert of local bands put on by the sororities and fraternities of the local university. They give half the proceeds to charity and split the rest. We’re donating our portion this year too, since we got a nice check during the summer, touring with two major bands and made—actually are currently making—a nice lump of cash on our indie album. Fans know we went on tour, thus the crowd is bigger than usual. But very few know we’ve scored a record deal. Romeo has been keeping that hush. He wants to finish out as much of college as possible prior to becoming a real star.
We’re all dressed in our stage clothes. Jeans, dark shirts, boots, and leather accessories. Actually, I’m wearing a fitted black T-shirt and jeans. During the tour, I reluctantly agreed to dress with a little more style than just long shorts and an old white T-shirt, but I refuse to wear the studded bracelets and belts bullshit.
I’ve been to the U-Palooza before. As a spectator. Two years ago. Luminescent Juliet blew my mind that night. Their talent, especially in our little corner of the world, seemed unreal. I never imagined I’d play with them in a million years. First, my style and music preferences were harder rock than they play. Second, my skill was more at the level of garage band at the time. Almost a year later—after I’d become addicted to drumming—I heard about their all call for a drummer. The thrash metal band I was in wasn’t serious, so I tried out, made it to the second round, and didn’t get the spot for drummer.
Riley did.
Which is why my pissed off ass didn’t go to see them at last year’s U-Palooza. Pussy, folk, blues, and rock mixing band could fuck off as far as I was concerned.
Over three months later, they called. My band was obsolete by then, and Riley had quit—personal reasons or some shit. I needed to play. Drumming helps release all the pent up aggression that always boils under my surface and keeps me stable. Or at least as stable as someone like me can be.
After swallowing my pride—when it comes to Luminescent Juliet I’ve done a shitload of swallowing—and joining the band, I never imagined in a trillion years that we would cut an indie album, sell over ten thousand copies, and land a spot on a national tour with two other known bands.
But the truth is I’m more nervous about playing here, where I know the people, than a sold out arena. Just my luck, I think spinning a drumstick. Shit is always back asswards, upside down, and screwed up in my head.
College students dressed in jeans and black T-shirts, playing at being roadies, come into the little cement room behind the outdoor stage. The pretend roadie leader tells us the stage is ready.
I take a deep breathe, yank my other stick from my pocket, and line up behind Romeo and Sam.
Go. Fucking. Time.
Nerves or not, I deliver.
Every time.
As planned, Romeo leads us out. Justin waits behind. The crowd goes wild as we stride onto the stage. I heard one of the fake roadies telling Romeo earlier that they reached capacity this year, something they’ve never done. But the crowd is a lot smaller than what I got used to over the summer. Sam gives the cheering and whistling and clapping crowd a wave. Romeo and I are stone faced as we go to our positions. Him, because he is Mr. Fucking Professional. Me, because that’s how I deal.
I wait for them to strap on their instruments. I don’t look at the crowd, trying to ignore my nervousness about playing in front of people who know me. Or think they know me. Actually, they don’t know shit, so fuck them.
Once Sam and Romeo stand and wait, I hit my sticks together four times and we break into “At the End of the Universe.” Arms flying, foot thumping, and head matching the beat, I let the music suck out my aggression and nerves as I concentrate on kicking ass and pounding the shit out of my set.
Seconds before the vocals start, Justin runs across the front of the stage. The crowd goes wild as he belts out the first line.
I belt out a drum fill before he rolls into the chorus.
&
nbsp; And then, for the next forty minutes or so, it’s just me and the drums.
We play songs from the indie album, one following the next.
After being on the road for over six weeks, the songs aren’t much of a challenge, but drumming is like the best drug to me. Energizing. Exhilarating. Freeing.
The lights, the crowd, even my band members can’t break the vibe. I move around the kit like it’s an extension of my body. My mind and body are a drum machine. There is no bass drum or floor tom or crash cymbals. Just me and the kit.
The second to last song is a cover. The Offspring’s raw and energetic “Hammerhead” is the perfect mock last song, and it was my pick. Though not thrash metal, this song comes pretty close. I roll through it with an on point intensity.
When we finish, the crowd goes crazy. Romeo, Justin, and Sam bow at the edge of the stage and the crowd goes more nuts. I start walking off. I’m not into all this pseudo shit.
Back in the long, cement room, Sam exclaims, “That went fucking perfect!”
Justin fist bumps him. “We have landed on another level.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Romeo says but grins. “Always room to improve.”
I spin a drumstick.
A fake roadie passes out bottled waters.
The crowd’s chant for more reverberates in the little room while we wait for the customary five minutes. This time Justin leads us out to the stage. The crowd is like a roar as we step back out.
We end the night with our biggest hit thus far, Justin’s pussy whipped song, “Inked My Heart.” I actually like playing the song. It has a progression of slow to fast then back down again that was a challenge at first. Speeding up then slowing down is probably more of a challenge to me than most drummers. I like to beat the shit out of my drums when I play. At the end of a set, the song is like a work out cool down. The perfect calm after the storm of kicking ass during the set.
At the real end of the set, I go to the edge of the stage with the rest of the band and bow too. I’ve always found this weird—like I just performed Shakespeare or some shit—but Romeo always has us do the bow thing if we’re the closing act.
Swallow fucking swallow.
After the last bow, I throw my sticks out into the crowd. One to the left and the other to the right. A tall brunette in the closed off sorority section catches the one I threw to the right. She watches me with eager eyes.
Yeah, right.
On the road, I wasn’t too particular about who I hooked up with as long as they were hot and willing. A night of sex tends to fill the empty void, for a few hours at least, that is part of me. But the concept of anything long term was obsolete on tour. Here at home, I stay away from her type. Been there. Done that. No uppity bitch ever broke my heart, but several have stomped on my pride. They like the bad boys. For a night or two. Not that I had been expecting anything long term. But I don’t like being treated like trash after fucking someone. Even if it is true.
The crowd still chants for more as we head to the back. We’re in the cement room, waiting for out gear to be brought back, when the girlfriends and their entourage, including April, rush in. Hugging and kissing commence as if we just came back from a war instead of the stage. Riley’s friend Chloe, April, and me are left standing amid the romantic congratulations.
Cheeks faintly pink, April leans on the wall and looks away from me. She appears embarrassed but ready for battle with her shoulders thrown back—which inadvertently pushes her high breasts out.
Damn. I want her. Badly. Though I admitted my attraction to her internally, I kept the actual possibility of being with her as a not-going-to-ever-fucking-happen. Until she dragged her hot mouth across my rain wet skin and turned me on so hard, I wanted to screw her in a puddle on that wet basketball court. The beauty of the situation is that she wants me too. She may not be willing to admit it—might even be horrified by it like she was the other night—but her fingers on my mouth, her lips on my skin, tell the truth. I’m just going to have to ease her into her horror—into the truth.
And yeah, I’m not good enough for her, and it will be a quick one or two nights with the bad boy for her. But screw my pride.
I want her that bad.
She glances at me and her eyes widen at my intense stare, as if reading my thoughts through my gaze. Her head snaps as she looks away again.
Good. I brace a foot on the wall, lean back, and spin a stick. Her aware of me is the first step toward those two hot nights.
Chapter 13
~April~
I’ve been to one U-Palooza after party at Sam’s house. I stayed about a half hour before hightailing it to my apartment. There had been people wall to wall. So many people were in the apartment, some spilled out of the sliding doors onto the back lawn. Music had blared so loud talking wasn’t possible. Beer and booze had been everywhere. And the skunky smell of pot hung in the air. I’m not against people partying. It’s just not for me.
This time, Sam didn’t announce the party for weeks ahead of time. In fact, he didn’t announce it at all. Therefore, it’s only the band, Riley’s band, and some close friends. A few more people trickle in, most likely having been to the previous parties, but Sam’s apartment stays far from full. Most people hang in the kitchen and dining room area, talking and drinking. Some of the guys are in the living room playing video games.
It’s nothing like the craziness I witnessed the last time, so I’m shooting for an hour before I head home. Riley and her band are celebrating their debut, and she personally invited me. I couldn’t say no. She is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, at least in between shots. That girl is going to be feeling the booze tomorrow, even with declining every other shot. I’ve declined all shots and sip on a lukewarm hard cider while everyone keeps talking about the performances. Luminescent Juliet sounded awesome while Shush did a good job. They definitely sounded better than they did the other night at the bar.
Gabe is in the other room, which allows me to collect my thoughts especially after his intense angry look behind the stage, which led me to suspect he is still upset about me hitting on him then running away. Surprisingly, the fact that I upset him is upsetting me. It seems like we’ve been becoming friends, and I don’t want to mess that up with my attraction to him.
I’m almost out of cider when Gabe waltzes into the kitchen. Almost everyone is gathered around Chloe’s phone, watching Riley’s band’s performance. I shuffle near the edge of the crowd where Gabe stands. He is a bit overwhelming in a fitted T-shirt and jeans.
I bend a little closer to him. “I want to apologize again for the other night.”
He slowly turns, mahogany eyes appearing weary.
“I’m not sure what came over me.” I force a feeble smile. “Guess dancing in the rain is more romantic than I expected.”
At first, he appears angry. The lines of his face harden before his expression softens and he grins crookedly. “You sure it was the dancing in the rain? Maybe it was dancing with me?”
My mouth falls open. I’m immediately embarrassed, until I decide to screw it. So what if he thinks I’m attracted to him? It is the truth. It’s not like anything is going to come of it. “Maybe it was the combination,” I concede, grinning too.
His eyes narrow the slightest, then he lets out a laugh.
Smiling, I take the last sip of my cider, thinking that was easier than I had imagined.
Sam breaks up the crowd around Chloe’s phone by bringing out his laptop and an adapter. Everyone moves to the living room and within minutes we’re watching Riley’s band perform on the big screen T.V. mounted on the wall. In all honesty, the band is better live. The video doesn’t capture their energy, while the flaws are more obvious on the recording, at least to me.
The singer of Riley’s band scoots closer to Gabe. In between fishing for compliments on her singing, she flirts and giggles. Gabe doesn’t seem to mind her antics. He even lets her lean on him.
How lovely.
; I pretend to watch the show with everyone else, but I’m watching rock chick put her hand on his stomach, right above his belt. When she draws back his hair to check out a tattoo on the back of his neck—a tattoo that I didn’t know he had and am now wondering about since I can’t make it out from this angle—I decide my hour has to be up. In the kitchen, I set my empty bottle on the counter and slip out the back sliding glass door.
The night air is a bit cool as I walk home. It doesn’t bother me. I’m too wrapped up in chastising myself over the twinge of jealousy I just experienced.
Not cool.
Not realistic.
Not going to happen.
I have to get my head on straight, and soon. Before I make a complete idiot of myself.
Shaking my head at my stupid jealously, I unlock my door. Inside, I go to the kitchen and make my lunch for tomorrow. I have an eight hour shift at the Family Center on Sundays. I make an extra sandwich because I missed dinner. Riley was adamant I come over her house while her band got ready. Her best friend Chloe, a hairdresser and makeup artist, went to town on the three girls in the band. Riley tried to get Chloe to make me up and even tried to talk me into a little black jersey dress. I stayed with my sweater, jeans, and flats. My hormones might want attention from a certain guy, but my brain doesn’t want attention from any guy.
I have one more semester, and then I’m on to grad school. If I put my mind to it, I can get grad school done in a year and a half. And even though I’m quite sure Gabe doesn’t share even an eighth of the attraction I have for him, me getting involved with someone for more than a few dates doesn’t fit into my plans. Other than Romeo, I’ve dated a bit—like three dates in over three years—but I’ve never been over the top attracted to anyone like Gabe.