RockMeTonight

by Lisa Carlisle

  Must be nice being her. Eat whatever you want, look great, work in a low-stress environment, no furry little problem that pops up once a month so you have to hide.

  “Did you have fun the other night?” she asked.

  “Yes, I did. Thanks for bringing me there. That club was wild.”

  “It didn’t freak you out too much?”

  “No, not at all. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a closet freak.”

  “Oh you definitely are,” she said and then took a swig from her water bottle. “Everyone knows it’s always the quiet ones.”

  Trying to sound nonchalant, I said, “It was cool of that singer to buy us champagne.”

  “Yeah, it was,” she said. “Didn’t I see him talking to you on the dance floor later?”

  “Uhhhh,” I didn’t want to replay the conversation. The one where I came off as a bitch—again—for not telling him my name. “He liked my dress. We talked about where to find clothes.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “The singer of a punk rock band was asking you for fashion tips? Obviously he doesn’t know how conservatively you dress at work.”

  “I’m a professional. I can’t dress in some slutty outfit in the office.”

  “How about in the gym? You and your shorts and T-shirts. You have a killer body you’re hiding. Why not show it off?”

  “I’m there to work out, not show anything. But thanks, must be all the running that’s helped,” I teased.

  “Must be all the yoga and Pilates from an awesome instructor.”

  “Oh yeah.” I chuckled. “That’s it.”

  “So did anything else happen? With Leggy Bones?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Aww, I was hoping you’d say you gave him your number or something. And how you’ve been secretly banging like monkeys ever since.”

  Ooh. Was my fantasy that transparent? I felt my cheeks burning.

  “Come on. You know that’s not true. I left with you that night. No secret lover for me I’m afraid.”

  “You should get one. You work too much. And a secret lover is as exciting as hell.”

  Chapter Two

  The snows of January melted in the first week of February only to return with greater gusto the following week. Like the rest of the non-skiers in New England, I coped with the snows, dreaming about spring. The weeks went by, the snow melted, and I thought of the enigmatic Leggy Bones less and less. Although he still crept into my mind at the oddest of moments, especially when I was alone in the evenings in my condo, the rational side of me forced thoughts of him out. He’s a rock star; you’re just one of many fantasizing about him. You’re wasting your time.

  So I moved on with my daily life as usual, burying myself with work and Ally’s gym classes during the week and then finding a way to unwind on the weekends. Most of the time, this meant more time at the gym and then a bookstore to find a book to lose myself in. It wasn’t a wild life, but one I was content with. And a way to have an attempt at normalcy to compensate for what I had to deal with once a month. Those nights with the full moon, I typically hid in the mountains up north where it was safer than staying near the city.

  Occasionally I drove into Cambridge or Boston to browse around in funky little shops and bookstores, but today I stayed nearby in Salem, Massachusetts, good ol’ Witch City USA, where I would find some fun, eclectic reads at the Wiccan or touristy bookshops. I loved the ghost stories they printed up of old haunted New England, even though if I read them too late, they’d keep me up at night. Salem wasn’t too crowded at this time of the year. As the winter was winding down, the streets were relatively quiet and I found a parking spot on the main road easily. New England winters were not known for their hospitality to residents or tourists. I imagine the only sane visitors to New England during the winter were skiers and snowboarders and since Salem didn’t have any ski mountains, the tourists were gone for the season.

  Today the winds were calm enough off the Atlantic Ocean that I was warm enough in my LL Bean coat and gloves, but still breezy enough that only a few other pedestrians walked along the shore. I took pleasure in the lack of crowds. Once spring was in full swing, the sidewalks of Salem would be chock-a-block with tourists clamoring to learn more about the Witch City and the history of the Salem witch trials. The traditional witch museums and historical tours remained year after year, but new attractions sprang up all the time. Eclectic stores specialized in witchcraft items, wizard lore and pirate themes. Ghost tours and other attractions designed to scare visitors popped up.

  After having a coffee and muffin at a café near the Salem Willows, I wandered down to a bookstore in the main part of town. I scanned the new releases in search of something to sink into while I did my laundry this afternoon.

  “What an oddly pleasant surprise. Fancy seeing you again, Cara.”

  Cara? Why did that name ring a bell?

  Oh shit—that was the fake name I used. Just once. With one person. Who had that faint British accent.

  I glanced up quickly to verify it was him. Seeing those hazel eyes looking directly at me confirmed my hope or fear or whatever emotion it was vying for dominance right now. I seemed to get lost for a moment, mesmerized by the earthy-brown on the outer edge that faded into a mossy-green gradient closer to the pupil. Then I looked down since the next emotion that flooded in was guilt. Even though his band’s website was public, I couldn’t help but think I’d been snooping.

  “I’m surprised you remembered,” I said, finally finding the sense to respond.

  Looking away from his face wasn’t enough to distract me from his presence because now my eyes assessed his body. He was wearing normal clothes—faded jeans and a black T-shirt with a white skull on it. The shirt was just tight enough for me to make out a cut torso beneath. He wasn’t overly muscular like a bodybuilder, but definitely lean and cut enough that showed he worked out regularly. A tattoo of the VC scrolled logo extended from under his sleeve.

  Hmm, what other tattoos did he have hidden under his clothes?

  “How could I not? You made it so difficult to get even a fake name out of you.”

  He smiled and it made me blush for reasons I didn’t quite understand. What I did know was that he still looked hot as hell. Even hotter now than he did onstage. A literary bad boy in a bookstore.

  And smelled even more intoxicating. Although the scent of his masculinity and the sweat from playing onstage had elicited an involuntary sensual response from me the first time we met, now I found it even more difficult not to bury my face in his neck. I would inhale the heady fragrance of him, the faint scent of soap lingering on him. I’d bet it was Irish Spring.

  Act normal. Act normal.

  “What can I say?” I recovered quickly. “I guess I’m a private person. So I don’t give out my personal information to someone I just met. Not even to computer geeks who double as rock stars.” I flashed him a flirtatious smile, which was a mistake. He looked at me so intensely that I forgot my intention of flirting as my mind now swarmed with questions. Time sped up and slowed all at once. Why was he looking at me that way? Did he realize the effect he was having upon me? What the heck was happening? Whatever it was, I didn’t like this feeling of being out of control at all.

  I had to break the eye contact to gain some perspective on the situation and regain some self-control. But when I looked down, I made the unfortunate mistake of looking directly at his crotch, which threw me off-kilter in a different way.

  “Find anything promising?” he asked.

  My cheeks burned. Oh God, yes! There is so much promise right there.

  “Umm.” I looked up at him again.

  “A book,” he clarified. “Did you find any promising reads?”

  You idiot! I scolded myself. I put down the second book in the Hunger Games series in a conscious effort to break the eye contact and regain some semblance of control. I had to rein in my raging libido that was making an ass out of me right now.

  “Not yet. The first book
disturbed me so much. I kept reading, wanting to know how it would play out. But I don’t know if I’m ready to climb on the roller coaster ride again just yet. Maybe something lighter? What have you got there?” I asked, looking at the book rather than at him.

  You’re babbling. Stop it.

  “The third book in this historical fantasyseries. Definitely not a light read. I love these books so much that I hate them.” He ran his hand over his close-cut hair as he laughed, his even, white teeth gleaming.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I can’t put them down. I can’t get anything done without wanting to run back to the book to see what happens to the characters next. And when something happens that blows my mind, I take it personally. Even though I know it’s all fiction and the characters aren’t real. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Wow, that’s quite an endorsement. I may have to give it a go myself.”

  “Do it. No, don’t do it. You’ll love me and hate me for it.”

  I looked up at him once again and felt my insides betraying my attempt to control my emotions. “Well, now I’ll have to try one,” I said. “Where are they?”

  “I warned you,” he said with that mischievous smile that I’m sure disarmed many other women besides me. “Come with me.” He led me to a display with several books with images of goblets and crowns and other medieval elements on the covers.

  I picked the first one up. After skimming the back cover, I said, “You know it’s really weird running into you here—at a bookstore in Salem.”

  “It’s not weird for me. I live in Peabody and come here all the time.”

  “I do too,” I said, sizing him up. Had I seen him here before? Surely I would have noticed someone as good-looking as him. Unless I was too caught up perusing the new releases.

  “Which are you agreeing to—living in Peabody or coming here often?”

  I shook my head in an attempt to clear the jumbled thoughts in my brain. “I come to this bookstore often. No, I don’t live in Peabody; I’m in Beverly.”

  “Nice town.”

  I tilted my head as I appraised him. Even though he was ridiculously hot, he seemed like a nice, polite guy. Not one of those assholes who know how good-looking they are so they’re cocky as hell and their personality is utter shit.

  “Listen,” I began, “I’m sorry if I sounded bitchy at the club. I’m not comfortable with strangers.”

  “No worries.” He waved his hand. “I interrupted your conversation with your friend.”

  “Thank you for the champagne. It was very generous of you.”

  “You’re welcome. So how’s the new promotion going?”

  I shrugged. “More responsibility, but more money.” I looked at the book in my hand. “So I guess that means more books.”

  “You may as well get the whole series now then. You’ll be hooked.” After a moment, he said, “No, never mind. Then I wouldn’t run into you here again. And I’d really like to.”

  “I—I—uh.” So many thoughts ran through my mind. Ugh, how could I explain it? Yes, I would love that too, because I’m so attracted to you that I can’t stop images of being with you between the stacks from jumping into my mind. But I’m not a regular woman. I have “issues” that you couldn’t possibly understand. And that makes me unfit to be in any normal relationship.

  When I still hadn’t gotten anything out of my mouth besides that eloquent stutter, Leggy spoke. “I’d love to hear what you think about the books, but I can understand your need for privacy. So I’m not going to do anything to make you uncomfortable like ask for your number. Cheers. And enjoy. It was very nice running into you again.” He waved his book in a parting gesture and walked back into the stacks.

  Well, hot damn. Just get my panties all in a twist with nothing to look forward to but a new book!

  So perhaps I am unfit for any sort of relationship, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t take on a lover from time to time. Looking at that badass rock star in the sci-fi section, I knew the time was now.

  Don’t let those penetrating hazel eyes have any effect on you. Just look at his body. Look at his hands, his lips. Think what he could do with them.

  Yes, I didn’t have to think about anything long-term, I should focus on the present. What’s the harm in having a little fun with someone? And no matter what act he played about pulling the computer-geek card, he was still the lead singer of a band and surely apt to have women whenever he wanted. Therefore, it should be easy to just walk into his life and walk out of it, each of us going our separate ways.

  No commitment. No drama.

  I pulled out my card and wrote my cell phone number on the back. I walked behind him and whispered, “Ligeia.”

  “Excuse me?” he turned and looked at me with a confused expression.

  “That’s my name. Ligeia Everett.” I handed him my card.

  His mouth dropped half-open. “You’re kidding? Ligeia. Like the Poe story?”

  He caught the reference. Always a good sign in my book.

  “My mom read a lot of Poe while she was pregnant with me.”

  “I would guess.” A smile spread broadly across his face as he scanned my card. “Now that wasn’t so hard to give me your name, was it?”

  “Not really.” I lowered my eyelids, realizing that I was flirting. “My friends call me Lily. Ligeia is far too formal and kind of weird.”

  “It’s not weird at all. It’s lovely.” He whispered my name with an odd expression as his gaze veered away off into the distance. Then he faced me again. “I don’t think we’re friends yet, but I hope we’re moving in that direction.”

  “Maybe. My cell number is on the back.”

  He turned it over and then flipped it back. “Director of Marketing and Communications,” he read on the card. “At a medical research lab. I’m sure that keeps you busy.”

  “Which explains why I have very little time for a social life,” I agreed. “Now you promised to tell me your name.”

  “I did?” His brows furrowed. “Oh yeah, at Vamps. Hmm. I think I’m going to have to make it a little difficult for you considering how long you made me wait to learn yours.” He pulled out a piece of paper and wrote his email address on it. “Tell you what. Send me an email with Cara in the subject line. And then I’ll send it to you.”

  I opened my mouth to protest. My plan for a night of mind-blowing, emotion-free sex was falling down the tubes. He was playing hard to get? Playing cyber games? Come on! Then I laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. “You really are a computer geek deep down, aren’t you?”

  He smiled. “Guilty.”

  “You know I could just go online and find out your real name in half a second.”

  “I’m sure you could.” He leaned in and whispered, “But that would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?”

  A thrill shot through me. Jolts of anticipation of the kind of fun we could have together.

  “Would you like to play?”

  The lascivious tone told me all I needed to know about the kind of play he had in mind. I nodded twice before I answered. “Yes.”

  “Good. So would I.” Then he stood upright and extended his hand for a formal handshake. “It was very nice to meet you a little more this time, Ligeia. Ligeia,” he repeated. “It’s not formal at all. I think it’s fantastic. Unique.” He looked at me as if appraising me. “I look forward to your email.”

  I shook his hand, disappointed that the games wouldn’t be starting tonight, while at the same time knowing this anticipation fueled the excitement.

  “A little more progress each time.”

  *

  When I started reading the first book in the series later that afternoon, I wanted to kill Leggy. He was right. It was confusing at first. With so many character viewpoints, I didn’t know whom I was following. But I was already hooked and finding it hard to finish my Saturday chores.

  Sunday morning I looked at his email address. Seeing VC in the address, I figured he ga
ve me his band email. Too bad it wasn’t his personal one, in which case I might figure out his name. Wanting to email him now was killing me. How long should I wait?

  “Damn you, Leggy. You should be in my bed right now.”

  I paced through my apartment while I looked at his handwriting. He wrote it in cursive, which I heard was a dying art.

  I should wait a few days before I emailed him. No need to jump all over him like a, umm—groupie was the only word that came to mind.

  Leaving the paper next to my computer, I got dressed to go to a kickboxing class. Maybe working up a sweat would distract me from my fantasies. Sundays were my longer days in the gym. Instead of rushing to get home at the end of a workday, I spent several long minutes on the mat doing floor exercises and stretching out. Ally thought I was crazy as she said Sundays were her day off, her rest day, and she’d never be caught dead at the gym on a Sunday. Yet another one of the many differences in how we thought about things. Funny how you could be so different from someone and get along so well.

  Distraction was not easy to come by today, even during my class. I went through the motions halfheartedly at first while wondering what Leggy was doing. But then I forced myself to snap out of it and get with my workout. I put in extra effort focusing on my form and kicks. No need to let some crush affect my daily life.

  When I stretched out on the mat, my thoughts returned to Leggy. What an interesting character he was. Computer smart, badass rock star and literate. With his lean body, I’d be willing to bet he was a runner. Not that I was looking too closely at his physique—okay, busted. Perhaps just a little bit. And running into him at a bookstore, a beautiful specimen of a man among my biggest weakness—books. A turn-on of turn-ons.

  Sundays also gave me more time to use the whirlpool and sauna in the ladies locker room. I took off my towel in the sauna, lay upon it and closed my eyes. The heat felt almost oppressive at first, but then I grew accustomed to it.