The Hipster Chronicles

by Faith Andrews

  His question and the smug way he asked it caught me off guard, but I’d be lying if curiosity wasn’t killing this cat. “What if I hate it?”

  “You won’t.”

  “So sure of yourself, country boy. I kinda like that.” And I did. I liked Jasper a lot. I could see us being friends and it sounded as though he was in the market for some new ones. Plus, he knew my brother and if Milo thought he was good people (I’d have to get the low down, of course) that was all I needed.

  “It’s not my usual Friday, but I think I can make an exception for you.”

  “I bet you say that to all the boys, Miss Marley.”

  “No, only the ones who strut in here twanging and drawling and making me realize what a great big world it is out there.”

  “Glad I could be of service, darlin’.” He made like he was tipping his hat and exaggerated his Alabama boy inflection.

  I went back to filling in his tattoo with vibrant colors as he alternated between humming and regaling me with tales of his upbringing. I found myself working the needle slower than usual so Jasper could stay in my chair a little bit longer.

  FLASK & FOLLY was abuzz with many a bearded man. If you weren’t from around these parts, there was no telling if you’d walked into a Civil War reenactment or a hipster hangout. Being a local, however, I happened to appreciate the similarity between the two.

  I marched straight to the bar where I ordered one of my favorite draft beers—a neighborhood brew. Looking up at the strings of bulbs setting the room alight, I cracked my neck from side to side and then took in my surroundings, face-by-face. I’d frequented this bar for the last three years—since my twenty-first birthday—and could usually spot at least one familiar person. Tonight, that was not the case. The bartenders and wait staff were the only people I recognized. The crowd was . . . off. A little more laid-back, a lot less thrift-shop.

  I shrugged my shoulders and swung my gaze to the door where I hoped Milo would appear at any minute. Earlier in the day he mentioned the possibility of a date. That word from my brother’s lips was like a Hail Mary from an atheist and I nearly dropped the phone during our conversation. But I never pried because I found when I asked too many questions I wouldn’t get another chance to ask them for a while. Milo was closed off, even with me, and I respected that because I, too, hated when he meddled in my dating life. We prided ourselves on being loners, never getting too attached, focusing on our careers, and living it up while we were still young. Even though a small part of me longed to see him happy and not just dipping it in every guitar-teacher-groupie that came his way.

  The crowd murmured in anticipation of the opening performer. A hoot or a holler here and there broke up the monotony of the hum. I scrolled through my phone, switching between Facebook and Instagram, and mindlessly “liking” my friends’ recent memes and current pictures. Most of my inner circle was single and unattached, like me, but a few had taken the plunge and settled down, diving even deeper into the Land of Adulthood by having children.

  I smiled at the toothless grin of a high school classmate’s eight-month-old son, sporting a bow tie and a Mohawk at one of his baby friends’ birthday parties. If I ever had a son of my own I’d probably dress him in a similar style. But that wouldn’t be happening for a while. I had a five-year plan that included buying my own shop and featuring some of my art on surfaces other than skin. A girl can dream, right?

  Before I could glance at the door one more time, the patrons started to cheer as a petite blonde woman in cut-off shorts and a plaid shirt tied at the midsection graced the stage with a banjo. Yes, a banjo. Now, I’d witnessed plenty a banjo-wielding performer here at Flask & Folly, but none of them ever wore Tony Lama’s (those of my fantasies!) and sang with a twang.

  As the woman started to play a fast-paced but well-executed ditty, I rolled my eyes and slumped into my barstool. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” I whined aloud.

  “Yup. Country night. My least favorite addition to open mic night.” The bartender made herself busy pouring drinks, but her expression matched mine—clear and utter repulsion.

  “I have to get out of here,” I exclaimed.

  “At least you have the option. I can’t even wear earplugs. It’s frowned upon.”

  I shook my head feverishly, gulping the remains of my beer, and reaching in my purse for tip money. After hastily balling up a five-dollar bill and forcing it into the bartender’s hand with a “Sucks to be you, babe,” I scurried to the door only to come chest to chest with my brother.

  “Where’s the fire?” he said, looking down at me. We shared the same genes but not when it came to height or body type. His broad frame and lofty stature towered over me with slight intimidation. But nothing, not even his brick wall of a body, could deter me from jetting the hell out of here before I had to endure the ear-splitting anguish of country night.

  “You know I hate this kind of music, Milo. A heads up would’ve been nice.”

  I caught the wily grin even underneath his full-grown beard. “Jasper is expecting you. Would it be nice to ditch him, seeing as he was so stoked you’d be coming?”

  “He told you that?”

  Milo crossed his chest with the fingers of his right hand. “Scout’s honor. Now turn around . . . and park it.”

  Turn around and park it I did, but not of my own volition. My brother’s strong hands on my shoulders guided me to an empty loveseat facing the stage, where we sat and he ordered us both a round of drinks.

  How bad could tonight be? Milo was here, sans date, so I needed to find out about that, and Jasper was expecting me. Even if my ears started to bleed in protest of the Carrie Underwood song the chick on stage was currently belting out, I was in good company.

  “So.” I leaned closer to Milo and ignored the tiny crowd’s rather wild roar of applause. “What happened to the girl?”

  “What girl?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the stage, his fingers taming his deep auburn whiskers in place.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Milo William Crawford! You said you might be bringing a date and here you are . . . dateless.”

  Examining his profile, I noticed his jaw ticked and tiny crinkles of despair appeared in the corner of his eyes when he squinted them shut. “Never mind that. Your date is up next.”

  “Date? What date?” My head snapped to the direction of the stage where Jasper was making himself comfortable in the tattered sofa, adjusting the mic, and then tuning his guitar. He looked good. Better than I remembered from the tattoo parlor. His T-shirt hugged his body this time, showing off dips and valleys in all the right places. Places I hadn’t noticed, for some odd reason, when he was seated in my chair, telling me his life’s story and marking his skin with my ink.

  Biting my lower lip to contain—I don’t know . . . whatever that sound was a woman made when she was about to emit her lustful emotions into the universe—I quickly brought my attention back to Milo. “Jasper is not my date. He’s a friend. A sweet guy. He asked me to come see him play so here I am. Had I known what he’d be playing, I might have turned him down.”

  “You know he’s from Alabama, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He got a Willie Nelson tattoo.”

  “And?”

  “And it never occurred to you that he’d be playing country music tonight?”

  Well, when he put it that way. I huffed, admitting defeat. “I thought I could sit through one or two redneck hits, but an entire night dedicated to this shit? I won’t survive, Milo. I just won’t.”

  “So fucking dramatic,” my brother mumbled, taking his Scotch from the waitress and passing my beer to me.

  By that time, Jasper was addressing the audience with the strum of a few chords and made eye contact with me. I could feel the warmth of his smile from across the room, his blue eyes sparkling with recognition. “Thanks for welcoming this country boy to your big, bold city,” he started with an extra ping to his drawl. “I hope I can make a believer outta you ye
t, Miss Marley.” He winked my way and got to playing.

  “Yeah, not a date.” Milo’s deep chuckle vibrated between us.

  I slapped his rock-solid arm and set my sights back on Jasper who, in the most adorable yet hickish way, punched out the lyrics to a song about fried chicken, cold beer, and a pair of jeans that fit just right. The song was ridiculous but the melody was catchy—and a crowd pleaser, as they all sang along to every word—and I wondered . . . if I stuck around to listen to a little more, would Jasper wind up driving me redneck crazy?

  WHEN THE DITTY was done, Jasper tipped his hat, accepted the thunderous applause, and then looked over to where I sat. My guess was he was seeking my approval. The nudge from Milo in my ribs was the affirmation. “Would you smile at the dude? Don’t be a bitch.”

  “Hey!” I tutted.

  “He’s still looking at you.”

  And he was. I registered his nervousness and the way he held on to the guitar with a tight grip. My lips couldn’t help but curl into a sincere grin when I gauged the adorable expression on Jasper’s clean-shaven face. But my smile had little to do with his performance and everything to do with him.

  From across the crowded room, I could sense he found comfort in my acknowledgment. We locked eyes for a few moments longer before he stood from the sofa to retrieve a different guitar.

  “Wow,” Milo stated.

  “What?” I swiveled to face him.

  “He’s totally feeling you.”

  “Milo, he is not. He’s just a nice guy, in a new town, looking to make friends. Why does everything with you have to be about hooking up?”

  Milo shook his head and simultaneously rested his right foot on his left knee. “You are so thickheaded sometimes.”

  “Me? Speaking of thickheaded . . . Where’s this date you were supposed to maybe bring around tonight? You’ve been awfully secretive lately and I know you . . . It means you’re feeling someone new.”

  Milo remained silent, his lips pressed together and his jaw tensed. I was on to something and with a bit more of the little sister nagging I’d become so good at I’d get him to confess. Luckily for him, before I could start in again, Jasper was strumming a few chords to another song. And it was . . . mesmerizing.

  The stage lights dimmed and the audience started to sway as the jazzy, bluesy tune permeated the bar. I, too, was entranced by the song Jasper chose as a follow up to the tune about fried chicken.

  This one didn’t sound like country at all. He replaced the rapid plucks of his guitar with slow, sultry glides across the strings. His voice was raspy and soulful, telling a story in and of itself. And the lyrics—they were jaw-droppingly beautiful, about smooth Tennessee whiskey and salvation in the form of his woman.

  “This is not country,” I whispered to Milo, unable to tear my eyes off of Jasper.

  “Is so. Chris Stapleton. Insane talent. Jasper’s doing him proud.”

  Still confused, but starting to care a lot less whether it was country, polka, or reggae, I watched on and then something clicked. “Didn’t Justin Timberlake sing this, too?”

  Milo dismissed me by closing his eyes, clearly enjoying the way the song had lulled him into a trance. “Shh, just listen. You’re ruining my music high.”

  Musicians. So weird. Not Jasper, though. Sure, when he walked into the tattoo shop I immediately thought he was . . . different. But the meek, awkward country boy was a smooth, confident artist up on that stage. He owned it like a boss because he wasn’t even aware of the swagger he exuded while holding that guitar. He sang his heart out to the point I had goose bumps from the storminess in his voice. Each note, every lyric clung to the air and lingered long enough to douse me in their melody.

  Jasper was winning me over, one song at a time—one country song at a time—and I wasn’t so sure I was okay with that.

  Taken aback by my emotions, I inhaled, garnering Milo’s reaction. “What now?”

  I clutched my chest and it was then I could feel the rapid beating of my heart beneath my palm. I stared into Milo’s widened eyes unable to form a coherent sentence suitable to explain what I felt.

  It was a high similar to the one Milo probably felt when playing an instrument. It was a euphoria I’d experienced the first time my artwork was displayed proudly on someone’s body. The thrill of a first kiss, the urgency of an unexpected crush, and a wave of unbridled desire all rolled into one.

  “Wow.” I was dumbfounded.

  Milo grunted and then leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Well, yeehaw! Looks like you’ll be singing “Sweet Home Alabama” all summer long.”

  “Would you grow up?”

  He stuck out his tongue and laughed at his own joke. So much for growing up.

  “Seriously, Marls. What’s the big deal? Give the hick a chance.” He meant no harm in his comment, but I found myself suddenly defensive.

  “He’s not a hick! He’s actually . . . not what I expected at all.” My fingers splayed over my throat, my eyes homing in on Jasper who was finishing up his set on stage.

  I blamed my brother for getting into my head. Or maybe this wacky music was doing funny things to me. Whatever it was, there was definitely something about Jasper that had my wheels turning. It had been a while since I’d crushed on a guy. Everyone around here was so cookie cutter, so . . . Urban Outfitters. And then this dude strolled into my life with a dingy baseball cap and absolutely no beardage in sight, singing about whiskey and fried chicken, and got me all . . . DTF. What was up with that? Where the hell did he come from?

  Alabama, Marley. That’s where.

  It had to be the allure of being with someone off the beaten path. The thrill of trying something new, jumping out of my comfort zone, grinding against the grain. Either way, as I watched Jasper croon the final lyrics into the mic and then open his eyes to meet mine, the idea of hooking up with a country boy was all consuming.

  “You’ll be all right if I bail?” I turned to ask Milo.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Nope.” I stood from the loveseat and slung my purse across my body. “We’re leaving.”

  Milo’s eyes widened, as did his devilish grin. “Stand by your man, Marls,” he hooted loud enough for a bunch of people to turn toward us.

  Paying him no mind, I flipped him the bird and made my way to the front of the room so I could be the first to greet Jasper when he came off stage.

  I bum rushed him like a backstage groupie at a Def Leppard concert. “Wow, Jasper. That was . . . something else.”

  His cheeks rounded with a hearty smile, his eyes sparkling. Scratching the back of his head, he walked closer. “So, I impressed the Brooklyn girl?”

  “Um . . . yeah! You were amazing, Jasper!” His performance was more than amazing. It was convincing. Inspiring. Sexy. Hearing him sing flipped some kind of switch. I liked to think I wasn’t anything like the women who drooled over my brother simply because he was a musician, but here I was doing some very serious salivating of my own.

  Vulnerable, I bit my bottom lip when I noticed how he stared at it. It was as if his cobalt eyes were coating my mouth with heat, temptation, want. I wondered if it was intentional or an innocent reaction. It had to be deliberate because he moved closer still as he adjusted his hat. It wasn’t until then that I saw it was a Yankees’ cap.

  I laughed to myself. This guy—he was really trying. I liked that more than I cared to admit. I liked him more than I cared to admit. Something must’ve given those feelings away because he reached out to grip my chin and his thumb caressed my jaw. I didn’t shudder at his gentle but bold affection; I welcomed it. I wasn’t even taken aback when he bragged, “I told you I could change your mind, darlin’.”

  Forget that he was right. My focus was on one thing. That mouth. He’d called me darlin’ before, but this was the first time I was aware of the way it slipped off his tongue so smoothly. That tongue.

  Country boy had game. And I wanted to play.

  A carnal warmth flooded my sen
ses. My fingertips ached to touch him; my lips hungered for a taste of him. I wished we weren’t in such a crowded place. I wanted him all to myself. Now.

  Overwrought with untamed need, I blurted, “You wanna get out of here?” at the same time Jasper asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”

  We both laughed—equally sharing the embarrassment—but my eyes would not leave his. I wouldn’t let go of this moment.

  Never had the roles been so reversed. Me, the one blatantly looking for some action; the guy, the one out for some getting-to-know-each-other chit chat. But if hell hadn’t frozen over due to my sudden appreciation for country music, surely I’d survive this. There was a first time for everything and I was about to hurdle this first better than Jackie Joyner-Kersee ever could.

  “I’m not really that thirsty,” I admitted, pressing my chest to his.

  Still focused on my mouth, he whispered, “Neither am I.”

  I blinked, gulped, and went in for the kill. “My place?”

  His eyes turned wild, but not with shock. It was a visible emotion far more appealing than that. “No . . . here. I’m not sure I can wait any longer.” Before I could comprehend what was happening, Jasper was pulling me by the hand through the dense and boisterous crowd.

  Luckily, we avoided my brother as we stumbled outside into the thick summer air. There, we rounded the corner where Jasper backed me up against the brick alley wall of Flask & Folly and stole my breath with a kiss. There was no chance to object—not that I would—as he buried his talented fingers in my hair and covered my mouth with his. It was rough and forceful; not what I expected but everything I wanted. I couldn’t stop myself from moaning into his mouth when his tongue glided against mine with fervent skill, reminding me of the way the songs had seeped from his lips.

  It was wild and graceful. Passionate and savage. Everything I never expected. And then it was . . . over.

  “God, Marley. I’m sorry.” He pulled away, leaving me exposed and helpless to the hollowness his withdrawal brought on.