'90s Playlist (Romance Rewind #1)

by Anthology

  “Deflowered in a dressing room,” she replied dryly. “Well done.”

  “It was hotter than it sounds.”

  It did sound pretty damn hot, but she didn’t want to tell him that.

  He knocked his knuckles against the table a few times. It seemed to be a habit of his.

  “Do I get to ask you the same question?” he asked.

  “You can ask.” But she wasn’t going to tell him. She’d had sex in so many insane places she couldn’t rate one as the craziest. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d done it in a bed. “Where are you from?”

  “Downstate. A small suburban town outside Manhattan.”

  “Is your family still there?”

  “Yup, until Dad retires that is, which probably won’t be for a while. My little sister is applying to college now, but they’re hoping she’ll get a vocal scholarship.”

  “She’s musical too?”

  “We all are. Mom sings and Dad plays the accordion.”

  “The accordion?” Rory raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “People still play that?”

  “Unfortunately. He likes to torture us with it. He plays Happy Birthday on it to us every year, even when our friends are over.” James paused, a finger in the air. “No, wait, make that especially when our friends are over. Last year he brought it up here and played it in the middle of the green. It was horrible.”

  “Are they the reason you got into music?”

  “Maybe initially. They’re not the biggest fans of what I like to play, although Dad did try to learn it once.” He winced. “You can’t imagine how awful Nirvana sounds on an accordion.”

  “Pretty awful I’ll bet.”

  “Yeah. They make me crazy.”

  Rory would’ve said she understood, but she didn’t. His family sounded like the von Trapps. They probably even went caroling together.

  She didn’t know if she’d ever been more jealous.

  “Okay, now I get to ask some questions.” he said. “What got you into poetry?”

  The instinct to clam up, to run, was fierce. But he’d told her a lot, so she owed him.

  “My parents. They used to read me poetry all the time when I was kid. One a night from my Shel Silverstein book. It was our bedtime ritual.”

  Her eyes grew misty as the memory fixed in her mind: Mom in one of her flowery skirts, her hair long and flowing, Dad’s with his beard and seventies-style plaid. The recollection was so sharp, so crystal clear in focus, despite how long it had been since she thought about her parents like that.

  How long since they’d been a family.

  “Were they poets too?”

  “No, but they were big fans of the beatniks and wanted me to learn to love poetry, too. When I was old enough to write, they bought blank notebooks to write my own ones in. I filled journal after journal, and every once in a while, they’d have a poetry night when I’d read them to their friends. The poems were terrible, of course, but my parents loved them.”

  “That’s awesome.”

  A brick in the Rory-wall was coming precariously loose, ready to topple to the ground, but the warmth of his gaze anchored her. What was the harm in telling him? This part wasn’t the worst of her story by any stretch of the imagination.

  She let the brick fall.

  “I kept up with it all the way through high school. I loved the balance of poetry, the rules, and then learning to break them.” She glanced upward to The Apron’s walls, stretching up to high ceilings and covered with a mural of paintings by current students and alumni. “We didn’t have a lot of money, but a brand new notebook was the best gift I could ever get. I always thought of it more as a hobby, but my parents kept encouraging it, even found this poetry fellowship program that offered college scholarships. When I got accepted here on it, my parents were thrilled.”

  She recalled the celebration, the way they’d swarmed her in their tiny kitchen in a tight hug.

  You’ll be able to write there, Rory. Read the great poets. Become anything you want.

  What a crock of shit that had been.

  James must’ve caught the shift in her demeanor. “Was that not what you wanted?”

  “No, I was stoked. I mean, it’s Pearce freaking College. How could you not want that?”

  If he heard the hard edge of regret in her voice, he didn’t say so.

  “I got here and soaked up every opportunity. Took every poetry class I could. Wrote until I’d filled up every notebook I had, and created my own beatnik-style poetry nights, like the one in that picture at Puck’s. I even thought one day I’d get published.”

  “But you aren’t writing now,” he confirmed.

  “No. I’m not.” The silence between them lasted a beat too long. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d spent all the time she hadn’t been writing partying and having sex instead of planning her future. “Okay, Mr. Griffith. Next question.”

  He twisted his lips to the side, then asked, “Why don’t you like your name?”

  Not the worst question he could’ve asked, but shit. Shit shit shit.

  “Because it’s ridiculous.”

  “No it’s not. It’s awesome. It’s Sleeping Beauty’s name.”

  Rory smirked. “Also the name of a frustrated poet in an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem.”

  “The Roman goddess of the morning,” he argued.

  She raised an eyebrow. Nirvana, The Muppets and mythology? What was next? Shakespearean sonnets? “It’s where Wayne and Garth are from in Wayne’s World.”

  James broke out in that fantastic laughter again. “Okay, you have me there. But is that the real reason?”

  His smile disarmed her. Maybe she could talk about it. Get it off her chest. It had always helped when she’d scribbled out her pain in her notebooks, so maybe saying it all out loud to James would do the same thing.

  “My parents weren’t just into poetry. They were real hippies who kind of never gave up the ghost. They had jobs and all, but they always talked about ditching working for The Man and traveling, especially to go see the Aurora Borealis. Mom would go on about it being this mystical and spiritually uplifting sight. That was why they named me Aurora Skye, because they wanted to see it so badly. And one day near my senior year, they...did.”

  James’s brow pressed down low. “I don’t understand.”

  “It was a spur of the moment decision. Apparently the best time to see it was at the tail end of summer, so they needed to go right away. They didn’t even come to my graduation.”

  “Oh. That sucks.”

  Rory nearly snorted. She would’ve, if she hadn’t felt so damn pathetic. “Major suckage. Plus the fact that I was basically about to be homeless with no real marketable skills.”

  James frowned and tilted his head to the side. “Homeless?”

  “Kinda hard to go home, when you have no home to go to.”

  “You mean, they left?”

  The tears threatened, burning her eyes. It hadn’t mattered that she had no idea how to support herself, or that she’d still needed their guidance. Apparently, some stupid light display was more important than she was.

  “Sold the house, picked up and left. Gone. Adios. Sayonara.”

  “Holy shit,” he said. “What about the rest of your family?”

  “I’m an only child of only children, and my grandparents are all gone.”

  She hated how pathetic she sounded, like one of those dogs that gets left behind when its family moves on.

  But wasn’t she?

  “What did you do?”

  Rory hoped her shrug was a decent enough act of indifference. “Sold as much of my shit as I could, found the gig at Josephine’s and an apartment I could afford.” And moved into it all by her lonesome. The friends she’d clung to hadn’t known what to say when Rory realized she had nowhere to go. They’d only offered understanding her smiles and words like You’ll figure it out, while making a hasty exit out of her life.

  That was when she’d stoppe
d being Aurora. Stopped sleeping around, stopped reading poetry and listening to her favorite music—not that she could have anyway, since she’d traded all of it for cash. But it had been fine. It was her way of proving she’d made it, and the name Rory was a flagpole of independence jammed into her new life. A big fat middle finger to everyone who’d abandoned her.

  “My bosses are cool though. They give me a ton of overtime, and I babysit their kids a bunch of afternoons.”

  Another rap of his knuckles against the table. “Are your parents still in Alaska?”

  She could’ve said he’d asked her enough questions, that she was finished with picking at her scars for now, but James’s voice was too soft. Too tender. It made her open up, even though the last part was what hurt the worst.

  “No. They came back and got a camper a few months later. They’ve been wandering aimlessly across the country ever since, stopping when they need to and doing odd jobs until they can move on again. I get a postcard every once in a while.”

  They’d gotten her forwarding address from Pearce, but she’d only responded to them once, just to let them know she was alive. Why bother talking to them? Better to let them assume she was fine than to tell them how lonely and scarred she was. She supposed she could’ve confessed, could’ve begged to let her stuff a rollaway cot in their camper somewhere and tag along, but Rory didn’t beg. Not when she was so clearly unwanted.

  “Damn. That really sucks.”

  She laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Yeah.”

  Rory tried to blink back the feelings of panic, of being completely and utterly lost. Her jaw tight in a desperate attempt to rebuild her wall, but then James moved to her side of the table and sat down. Pressed his forehead to her temple and put one arm around her.

  His kindness broke through her shell.

  She started to cry, hating herself for it the second the tears started to flow. Good thing The Apron was practically empty. She would’ve murdered anyone who saw her closing her eyes and pressing her face into James’s neck.

  Whatever. Fuck them. Fuck her parents. Fuck everyone.

  He rubbed her back and let her cry until her breathing slowed.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  A gesture that sweet was dangerous. She didn’t want to let go of him, but she didn’t want to be here anymore either. “Would you mind just taking me home?”

  He nodded and took her hand. He didn’t let go as they crossed the green, or when he fished the keys to his bright red Saturn out of his pocket. His fingers remained linked through hers across the center console as he drove into town.

  “Above Josephine’s,” she told him when he slowed on Main Street.

  James parked out front and insisted on seeing her inside. “I can’t just leave you upset and alone like this,” he said. “It’s not right.”

  Mr. Manners, once again. Rory almost laughed at his ridiculous adorableness, even had half a mind to argue, but after tonight’s emotional upheaval, she didn’t have the strength.

  The wood creaked under their footsteps as he followed her up the rickety stairs to the third floor studio apartment she called home. Her clothes were strewn everywhere and her bed hadn’t been made. Her tiny dorm fridge hummed quietly in the corner, boxes of cereal piled on top of it.

  The giant mess of her life, on perfect display.

  James didn’t ask any questions, just took her into his arms again. Rocked her, until she said the few words she’d never expected to say. Words she hadn’t uttered to anyone in years.

  “Will you stay?”

  He pulled back to look down at her. “Of course.”

  Rory led him onto her bed, and he seemed to know where she needed him without her having to ask. Curling up behind her, he held her close with one arm, the other making a pillow for her head. Rory sighed and let herself be pulled in, the tension in her legs dissolving, all the fight draining out of her. She’d missed feeling like this. Warm. Cared for. Safe.

  Exhausted, Rory snuggled closer to him, and fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  “Favorite movie.”

  Rory looked up at the ceiling. Golden sunlight danced along the walls. “The Muppet Movie. No question.”

  “An excellent choice.”

  “Of course it is. It’s Kermit the Frog, your hero,” she joked. “I still think you have that poster in your room somewhere.”

  James’s laugh rumbled around her, and he held her closer with his big bear arms. Rory breathed in his scent, shocked he was still here. She’d have put money down on him bolting as soon as he woke up, last night’s ABC After School Special from Hell admission surely more than anything he wanted to deal with. He’d stayed anyway, though, telling her he had nowhere he needed to be yet and blushing when his stomach grumbled.

  It made her a little uneasy. She didn’t want to get used to his comfort, but Rory wasn’t about to kick the guy out hungry. Apologizing that she had nothing more than cereal and milk to offer him for breakfast, she’d handed him a plastic bowl and spoon. James accepted happily, insisting he loved Count Chocula as much as he loved grilled cheese.

  “Kermit isn’t the rock star of that movie,” James said. “It’s Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem.”

  He launched into the chorus of Can You Picture That, and Rory erupted into giggles.

  “I like the scene when Kermit and Fozzy are driving to Hollywood in the rainbow Studebaker and Big Bird shows up,” she said. “Awesome crossover.”

  “Yeah,” he said, albeit a little more subdued. “That part was great.”

  Some of his former enthusiasm was missing. Maybe it was because of the mention of a road trip, and worrying it would make her think of her parents. It didn’t, but she enjoyed the way he held her a bit closer nonetheless, one hand splayed across her back, his chin above her head.

  “Okay,” she said. “My turn. Same question.”

  They’d been continuing last night’s question and answer game for a while now, their bodies wound together as they huddled for warmth beneath the blanket in the chilly morning air. Late April in Hammond Falls often still felt like winter, frost coating the windows in a silver fog until the sun climbed high enough in the sky to burn it away.

  “Star Wars,” he answered. “The Return of the Jedi.”

  Rory snorted. “All you guys love those movies.”

  “How could you not? It’s a classic.” James raised one hand and mimicked sword play with a light saber, sound effects included, then launched into his best rendition of Darth Vader’s creepy breathing. “I read somewhere that George Lucas is filming the prequels.”

  He was so giddy with excitement, he was practically vibrating. Rory shook her head at him. “Next question.”

  James gathered her up in his arms and rolled her over so she was on top of him. Her legs stretched out along his, but her toes barely reached his ankles.

  “I like how tiny you are,” he said.

  “That’s not a question.”

  “I know.”

  Rory didn’t say that she liked how good her size felt in comparison to his. Their position wasn’t sexual yet, just intimate. They’d slept in their clothes, and being held like this made her feel like she was something to be cherished. Protected.

  “Okay, I’ve got one,” he said. “Do you still want to write poetry?”

  The question was a slingshot straight to the center of her chest.

  Why did he have to ask her that?

  Rory ducked her head down. She’d taken her braids out after they ate, and the crimped strands formed a fabulous shield. Hiding was essential. She felt like Humpty Dumpty, her brick wall dismantled by last night’s confession, bits and pieces of her scattered on the floor.

  James brushed her hair away from her face. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t want to.” Her words came out in a whisper.

  “Okay.” The stroke of his thumb over her cheek was an apology. “Can I take back my q
uestion and replace it with a different one?”

  The devious gleam in his eyes twisted loose the knot in her gut. “Sure.”

  “Okay. How do you feel about—” He kissed her, a slow, tender press of his mouth to hers.

  Fine. Oh yes, she felt just fine about this.

  Rory kissed him back, tasted his lips, supple and tentative, the faintest remnants of chocolate-y cereal stuck to them. He stroked her shoulders, then slid his hands down her back. She felt him grow hard beneath her, a burgeoning erection rising up beneath his jeans as their kisses grew hungry, each of them diving in for deeper, longer, more. He raked his teeth along her lower lip, a chafe ending in a tiny sharp bite that made her gasp. James smoothed a palm over her ass in response and grabbed. The dig of his fingers was like a shot of adrenaline to her sex drive. Rory went up on her palms and circled her hips, needing this to anchor herself, to find some even ground to stand on.

  “Sit up,” he commanded hoarsely.

  She complied, letting him ruck her shirt up over her head, and then they were both grappling with their clothing, yanking every piece of fabric out of the way until they were nothing but desire and skin against skin. His bare chest was brawny, his torso long, a trail of hair marking his belly. Rory wanted to taste and touch, to take the reins, but James wouldn’t let her. Urging her onto her back, he kissed his way down her body. She watched, helpless and shivering at the scratch of his beard along her skin. He teased and nipped, skimming over her inner thighs, closer and closer. Rory was as close to begging as she’d ever gotten when he finally hooked his arms beneath her legs and used his thumbs to ease her open.

  He took his time with his mouth and fingers, tongue on her clit, pussy so perfectly full. With her eyes closed and hands gripping his hair, Rory idly wondered how he’d gotten so good at this, then quickly fought back the stab of jealousy at the thought of James with anyone else.