by Vivian Lux
Last night there had been a little...something...that passed between us. She wanted fun, and I was doing my damnedest to honor that request, but something else took over. I had thought that maybe, in the dark of the hotel room, she might be ready to talk about why she had left. She was. I could sense it, right there like a living thing sitting between us at the table.
And I had pussied out.
Everything was going so well. Everything was so fucking perfect. I couldn't have fixed it better if I tried. Scarlett was here, with me, with the band, while I did the thing that I loved. Maybe I didn't want to know why she left. Maybe she was right, maybe Rane's whole annoying life philosophy was right. I should let it go. Let the past be the past.
So when she was ready to tell me, I chickened out and didn't ask her.
I didn't want the past to matter to us anymore.
I sat back in my chair, listening as the rest of the band shouted over each other in excitement. We were headed inland, away from yet another hurricane prediction. After Charleston, we still had to hit Charlotte, then a long haul up to D.C. From there, it was two quick hops to Philly and New York City before we headed up the New York State Thruway back home again.
Home. I still thought of it like that, even though I hadn't lived there in five years. When I lived in Buffalo, I was desperate to get out, but now that I had been everywhere else, it still had this pull for me.
"Yo, Steve!" Rane's bellow cut into my musings.
"Yeah?" our driver grunted from way up in the front of the bus.
"We're thirsty."
"Why you tellin' me?"
"Cause you should pull over and let us drink."
"Fuck you, I've got a schedule," Steve grumbled sourly. Twitch paled, his finger moving mindlessly to his eye. The bruises had faded to a mottled green and yellow tinge that was giving the styling crew fits. He had taken to wearing his sister's shades onstage for shows and seemed well on his way to adopting his new signature look.
"And I've got a hundred-dollar bill in my wallet and am feeling generous." Rane laughed. "Find us a bar. We're celebratin'."
Steve grumbled again. We were snarled in a random burst of late morning traffic just north of Columbia. "Fuck this," Steve suddenly decided, and turned on his blinker to cross over to the nearest exit.
"Now we're talking!" I called out encouragingly. "Hey, assholes!" I pounded on the window. "Let us over, we're bigger than you!"
Scarlett shot me a look.
"What? We are!" I protested.
"Come the fuck on!" Twitch shouted, leaping to his feet to press his face against the glass. "You!" he shouted, pointing an ominous finger in the direction of a pissed off looking soccer mom in a minivan. "Let us in, lady!"
I doubted she could see him through the tinted windows, but that didn't stop Rane from joining him. "Let us fucking over, will you? We've got places to be!"
Balzac leaped to his feet to join them, banging on the windows with a growl. I looked over at Scarlett, and she shrugged. No one was watching us as I reached out and squeezed her hand.
Then we joined the chant. "Let us out! Let us out! Let us out!" we bellowed, Scarlett laughing hysterically. Twitch bashed out a rapid-fire drum solo on the window, and I swear the soccer mom looked in our direction, which earned a round of hoots from Rane. Balzac lifted his shirt and pressed his considerable gut against the window. "Yeah, baby, I'll give you some sugar, that's it," he leered. "I always had a thing for MILFs, that's right, let us out..." He gyrated alarmingly.
I don't know if the soccer mom finally saw something that frightened her enough to slam on her brakes, or if Steve got tired enough of our shit to make his move. But all at once, he shot us across the lane and sent us flying down the exit ramp to wild applause. At the first bar he sighted, he took the turn so sharply we all fell back laughing, landing in a heap.
Rane stood up and smoothed his hands through his hair. "Take it, my man," he said, holding out the hundred. "You earned this."
Steve grumbled sourly but tucked the crumpled bill in his back pocket. "I'm going out for a smoke. You got twenty minutes."
"We can work with that, right guys?"
We emerged in the parking lot of one of those off-ramp specials. Dusty parking lot, windows full of neon, and the smell of stale beer hovering in the air. "Perfect." I grinned. "You coming?" I said to Scarlett.
She wasn't looking at the dive-ass bar. Her eyes were fixed on the low metal building next door. "Secondhand Rose," read the faded sign that clanged in the hot breeze.
"I'll meet you," she said, a gleam in her eye. "Unless you feel like doing some shopping?"
I held up my hands. "I don't think I'm ready for that level of commitment." I cringed.
She laughed and socked me in the arm. "Go drink. I just want to have a look."
I nodded and debated for just a moment over whether I should kiss her goodbye. Rane was watching, the whole band was standing right there, waiting to see what I'd do.
Fuck it. "See you later," I said, softly kissing her lips.
She pulled back with a smile and rushed away.
"Well, now I really need a drink," Rane muttered. Then he piped up. "Keir's buyin', everybody!"
My brother clapped me on the back as we headed into the nameless bar, and I couldn't help but feel like I had just won something.
Chapter 30
Scarlett
The year I turned fourteen, my mother stopped paying for my clothes.
"I'm not spending my hard earned money to have you looking like some kind of slob," she complained one morning as I came down the stairs, still bleary from sleep and dressed in my older brother Clark's sweatshirt. "If you want to dress like that, you can pay for clothes yourself."
I was fourteen, with no money of my own, save for the few babysitting jobs I could pick up within walking distance of Wallace Street. I didn't have enough money to shop at the malls or the trendy shops along Elmwood.
So I started visiting thrift stores. But what started as necessity became an obsession.
Thrifting allowed me to create characters. I would walk the length of the racks, touching each piece and letting it speak to me. This fuzzy sweater was clearly the favorite cozy comfort of a sad divorcee curled up with her cats. These bell bottoms were the last thing an aging hippie got rid of as he climbed the corporate ladder. This poly-blend pantsuit was the outfit a new mother wore to her first interview as she tried to dip her toe back into the working world.
I wanted to buy them all. Every time I saw a thrift store, I had to go in and check them out. It was my one addiction.
I was so excited, it barely registered that Keir kissed me in front of the whole band. Only after I put my hand on the door handle did it hit me what he had done.
He'd claimed me in front of everyone.
I pressed my fingers to my cheek, feeling the flush of warmth rise through my body.
Did I like that?
Yeah. Yeah, I liked that.
With a smile, I pushed my way into Secondhand Rose.
Secondhand Rose--why are they always called Secondhand Rose?I wondered to myself. The inside smelled like they all did, like mothballs and disinfectant and occasional dirty feet. I made my way over to the women's section and started idly running my fingers over the hangers. When I was younger I searched through everything one by one, but years of practice had led me to a system that was now foolproof. I shopped by touch.
My fingers danced along the polyester blends and scratchy old mohairs until they came to rest on something that felt very familiar. I reached for the hanger and pulled out a navy plaid skirt.
A navy plaid schoolgirl's skirt. A navy plaid Catholic schoolgirl uniform nearly identical to the skirts we wore at Star of the Sea.
As I stared at the skirt, a whisper of a plan glimmered in my brain. Rushing over to the dressing room, I yanked it on over my pants. It was a little snug around the waist, but nothing that I couldn't handle.
Besides, if everything went accor
ding to plan, I wouldn't be wearing it for long.
I pressed my fingers to my cheek one more time before rushing to the counter to pay for my prize.
I waited at the entrance of the bus, steering clear of the glowering Steve, who was grumbling about traffic and schedules and douchebags as he puffed his cigarette like a steam engine.
Three minutes later, the door of the bar banged open and Ruthless tumbled out en masse. Even Pepper was laughing, though she seemed to realize it immediately and shut herself down with a snap.
Keir rushed ahead to me. "Did you have fun shopping?" he inquired sarcastically. His eyes were shining with drink, and he had that look in his eye.
The rest of the band caught up. I made sure everyone was looking, then wrapped my arms around his neck. "I did," I said, rising on tiptoe to kiss him in full view of everyone.
*****
It was dark in the conference room except for one spotlight on the raised dais. A single chair was placed there, just like I had requested at the concierge desk.
The heavy doors banged shut behind us. Keir raised his eyebrow but allowed me to lead him across the darkened floor.
"Sit there," I instructed.
He sat down and folded his hands on his lap, leaning forward on his elbows. "What's this?"
I grabbed the plastic bag from the thrift store and darted behind the partition. "You'll see."
At the thrift store, I had found a short-sleeved white blouse to go with it, the closest approximation I could get to my old uniform blouse. Quickly, I shimmied out of my jeans and yanked the skirt up to my waist.
Then I took a deep breath.
When I pulled him aside after the show and told him there was something I wanted him to see, he looked intrigued. And even though the rest of the band shouted at him for leaving the afterparty, he still followed me here, ready to see whatever it was I had planned for him.
I almost lost my nerve.
But when I stepped out wearing that little skirt and saw how his eyes went wide, I knew I had nothing to worry about.
"Scar?" he gasped. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. I shimmied closer to him, shaking the skirt, laughing. "Holy shit, that's... You look..."
He was looking at me with hunger in his eyes. I liked the way he was looking at me. I felt sexy. Powerful even.
I wanted to see just how much power I had.
"Okay, sit back," I ordered, smacking his hand away from touching me.
"What happened to my good little Catholic schoolgirl?" he asked, leaning in for a kiss.
"Catholic girls might start too late, but we catch up quickly," I told him, pressing my hand to his chest. Then I had a thought. "I actually didn't get that, you know."
He licked his lips and blinked, but his eyes were still slightly glazed. "What's that?" he said, tearing his eyes away from my breasts.
"A nice white dress and a party on my confirmation."
"Why's that?" He looked at me eagerly. "Talk to me. Tell me, Scar."
I closed my eyes. I didn't know why I brought that up. "Not much to tell," I said instead. "And it's certainly not a fun story."
In truth, my mother had been "mortified" that I had forgotten to wear a slip at my rehearsal at church the night before. She called everyone that night, canceling the confirmation party she had scheduled. I heard her on the phone telling every single one of my southern aunts and uncles not to waste their plane tickets on her "whore daughter."
"Let's not talk about it," I said instead.
For a second,I thought he might argue with me. I turned around, flipping that plaid skirt upward. "Should I take it off?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it, the eagerness in his eyes giving way to desire. "No," he growled. "Keep it on."
"Then sit." I planted my palms in the center of his chest and gave him a gentle shove.
He leaned back in the chair and looked up at me. His tongue poked into the hollow of his cheek, and he gave me a Marlon Brando eye roll that nearly made me lose my cool.
But only for a second.
Stepping back from the chair, I turned on the balls of my feet and stalked over to the boom box the concierge had unearthed for me, swaying my hips, feeling the skirt swish against my thighs. My skin seemed superheated. I could feel his eyes boring into my back.
I pressed play.
As the tinkling piano started, Keir laughed out loud. "Are you serious?" he called.
I nodded, humming along, swaying to the intro. "Call me Virginia."
His grin faded. His lips parted, and he inhaled sharply.
I began to dance.
At first,I was self-conscious. I had to close my eyes and ignore the fact that he was watching me. Instead, I tried to remember that afternoon. The last time I had worn a skirt like this for him.
The first time.
The day I turned eighteen.
Girls at school whispered about it. The bad girls, the ones who rolled their eyes at the boredom of being a virgin. They all said it was nothing. But the good girls, the ones who had steady boyfriends and drove clean cars they got for their sixteenth birthdays, they all whispered that it would hurt. That it should hurt. That's how you'd know you weren't a slut.
When Keir laid me down on that loveseat in his garage, I waited for it to hurt. But I felt only ecstasy when he finally slipped inside of me. The way he called my name... I knew God himself had never been so worshiped.
I knew it was a sin, but how could something that felt so right be bad?
"Fuuuuck," Keir exhaled as I moved, dancing with my eyes closed. I unbuttoned the blouse one button at a time, tracing my finger down the space between my breasts, remembering how he had kissed a trail down, down, down, the fabric of the loveseat scratchy under my back. At first, I had been acutely aware of it, but as he kissed lower and lower, it fell away.
"Come here," he said from the chair. "Closer. Please." He was panting, almost pleading. I smiled and opened my eyes.
I loved this.
I had so much power right now.
Maybe I was a slut after all...
A slut for him.
"I took what you said to heart," I exhaled as I danced. "You were right back then. You and Billy. 'Only the good die young.'"
"I was only teasing you." I could hear the raggedness in his voice.
I grinned, licking my lips as I bent at the waist. "But you guys were right. Being a good girl? What did that get me?"
He was watching my breasts, his hands white-knuckled, gripping his thighs. "I loved good-girl-Scarlett," he growled. I shimmied the skirt higher on my thighs. "But I think I love this bad girl even more." He reached out, grabbing the skirt in two fistfuls.
"Wait, I'm not done!"
"Yes, you are." He yanked my panties down with a savage jerk.
"But the skirt..."
"The skirt stays. "
Chapter 31
Keir
The skirt put up a valiant effort, but in the end, we left it discarded in a heap in that conference room with a giant tear down the back of it.
"I always wanted to tear that thing off of you," I whispered in Scarlett's ear as we rode the elevator back to my room.
"I always wanted to let you," she giggled, pulling my arm around her shoulders and snuggling close.
Any other guy would have left it at that. I wanted to fuck her, she wanted me to fuck her. Shouldn't that have been enough?
But I wasn't any other guy, and her flippant little remark landed on me uneasily.
"What?" she asked, seeing my reflection in the mirrored walls. The door dinged open to the floor of rooms the band had rented out for the crew and us.
"Nothing," I said. And I really really wanted it to be.
I wanted it to be nothing as we showered together, smoothing the soap across naked, slippery skin. I kissed a trail down the center of her chest, licking the rivulet of water that pooled in the hollow of her throat. She turned me around, kneading her fingers into the tight places in my should
ers, and I tried, I fucking tried so hard to relax.
But I had to know something.
When we finally emerged, reddened and pruney, she wrapped herself in the white spa towel that hung on the door. She looked like a goddamned angel with her white robe and flushed cheeks and shining eyes
She cocked her head to the side. "Keir?" she asked. "You've been awfully quiet."
I tried a flippant grin. "That's because I was enjoying your sounds, baby."
"Smooth. But bullshit. What's wrong?"
I swallowed. How could I put it into words when I wasn't really even sure myself? Where the hell was Rane with his magical notebook of clarity?
"That was a pretty spectacular performance upstairs," I said instead.
She smiled and twisted her toes on the tile. "I'm not much of a dancer, I know."
"You're not a dancer, no. But you're a damn rock star." I flicked her wet hair behind her ear and kissed her, trying for the light, casual ease she wanted.
"Takes one to know one, I guess," she sighed, letting me kiss her cheek. Then she looked at me with that calculating journalist look. "What's the most rock 'n' roll thing you've ever done?"
"Are you asking me as Scarlett my interviewer or Scarlett my girlfriend?" I asked.
She bit her lip at the word "girlfriend," and suddenly I knew what it was that was bothering me.
"Let's say interviewer," she said.
That made it even more apparent.
I sighed and walked into the bedroom, shedding my towel and pulling on a pair of boxers. She was still keeping me at arm's length. "Well, if this is an interview, then I'm dodging the question and telling you a story about someone else."
Her mouth twisted. "Okay."
"So, by rock 'n' roll thing, you mean idiotic thing, right?"
She perched on the edge of the bed, spine ramrod straight. She could sense my hostility but didn't know what it was about. "Exactly."
I thought for a moment. She'd be putting this down in her article. I had to be careful.
I hated having to be careful with her.
"Remember Justin Hale?"
"Vaguely."
"He's nobody now," I clarified. "One-hit wonder, lost all his money the second he earned it."