by L. Philips
Travis rolls his eyes. “Please. You haven’t even graduated to groupie level yet. You want to be a gold digger, you’re going to have to do a lot better than taking off your shirt.”
Because I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, I stare more at the documents, trying not to blush. “So you’re going to take one of the indie offers, right?”
“Of course,” he says, mumbling into his beer. “Can’t let them suck out my soul. Besides, this label, Somewhat Damaged, can already offer us a tour. With some big names, even, as far as indie music goes. It’s a good gig.”
“Yeah,” I agree, and I find myself feeling proud of him. I’ve only known him for a few days but I can read it, in his eyes and in the way he plays and in between the lines of his speech, how hard he’s worked and how badly he wants this. “And later, when you’re big, Sony can buy out your contract and then you can completely sell out and piss off your fans.”
Travis chuckles and takes my hand, pulling me behind him to his room. I feel like I should put up a fight, or at least pretend to, but I don’t. Not even when we end up in his bed and he’s kissing me slow and sloppy and amazingly good, his body pressing mine down into the mattress of his futon. Just when I’m beginning to wonder if he’s going to stop, or if I should make him, he pulls away. I whimper a little bit in protest despite myself, which he chuckles at.
“Wanna talk?”
I throw my head back against his pillow, laughing. “I’d love to talk, although I’m sure you have other plans.”
Travis slides off of me and props himself up on an elbow, studying my face. “Maybe, but our plans will meet up eventually. Tell me about your writing.”
So I tell him. I tell him about how my parents are both creative in their own ways, how they encouraged me to make up stories as a youngster and I got addicted. I tell him about how I work, about how much it means to me, about how hard it is. And I tell him about my hope of getting into NYU, about the writing samples that are sitting on my desk at home, waiting to be mailed out all over the country to various creative writing schools. He lets me talk, uninterrupted, and listens to every word like he does, sincerely, want to know.
Then, when I’m finally quiet, he asks, “Do you write lyrics?”
I snort. “God no. I’m not at all musically inclined. I held a trumpet in the marching band for one year.”
Travis stifles a laugh. “Held a trumpet, huh?”
“I wouldn’t call what I did playing.”
Travis laughs out loud then, scratchy and sexy. “You write poetry, right? I bet you could write lyrics. Try it.”
“What?” I ask, but Travis is already up, crossing the room to an acoustic guitar he has sitting on a stand in the corner. He grabs it and sits on the edge of the futon, strumming a few chords. After a few adjustments with the pegs at the ends of the strings, he turns to me. “Lyrics. Try it.”
His fingers begin an intricate dance over the strings, and he repeats a pretty little riff over and over.
Any words in my head seem useless compared to that.
“Just . . . make something up?”
“Yeah, man. Like your stories. The best songs always tell a story.”
“I can’t sing,” I say, embarrassed.
“Then don’t. Just talk.”
Talk. Huh.
I sit up and cross my legs under myself, facing him. Then I close my eyes and listen. I’ve written stories while listening to music before, but never to music. It’s a bit strange, a bit awkward, but the notes of his guitar are insistent, waiting on me. The tune reminds me of something ancient, of a far-off land with lush fields and rolling hills.
I start timidly, using the age-old first line of fairy tales. “Once upon a time, in a far-off land, lived a handsome prince.”
“Eh.” I open my eyes, and Travis is pulling a face. “Not a prince.”
“A knight?”
“Nope,” Travis answers, still plucking the strings in time. “Try again.”
“A princess?” I ask, the pitch of my voice going up high.
“You’d better not be calling me a girl.”
“Oh, so this song is about you, is it?”
Travis meets my gaze, confident and smoky. “Isn’t it?”
“Who’s the cocky bastard now?”
“Better start telling a story, my hands are getting tired.”
“Fine,” I huff. “Once upon a time in a far-off land, there lived a god of music. This god was so talented that all of the other gods fought for the privilege of listening to him play his . . . magical lute. And not only was this god talented, he was pretty—”
“No.”
I smirk. “He was gorgeous, and some of the other gods were jealous.”
As I talk, Travis begins to shift his fingers, changing the chords slightly, and I follow, chasing after his movements with my tale.
“One day when the god was walking around on Earth, he saw a handsome mortal, who could not sing and could not play the lute, but wrote the most incredible stories, and the god fell in love.”
Travis raises a brow at that but continues to play his song, and I continue weaving the story.
I don’t know how it happens, but soon I’m lost in Travis’s music and in the fantasy we’ve created. I’m no longer sitting in a tiny apartment in Athens, Ohio, but in a world where gods and mortals mingle. At some point, the real-life Travis is replaced by a down-tempo recording of Liquid, and he gives me a notebook and a pencil, but I couldn’t tell you when. All I know is that I’m writing like I haven’t written in years, and the story has morphed into the modern day, of a rock star who falls for a music critic, and the words won’t stop.
At least, they don’t stop until I feel Travis’s lips on the nape of my neck. I’m flipped over on my stomach, scribbling away, giving him complete access to me, and the story is forgotten momentarily as the metal ball on his tongue glides a stripe over my spine.
I make an embarrassing, needy sound and stretch my neck out for more.
He keeps kissing, licking, and nipping all over my skin. I break out into goose bumps and shudder, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Travis stretches out next to me, half on top of me, his mouth unrelenting.
“Good?” he asks, and all I can do is whimper in answer. Then his hands are on me, turning me over on my back gently, and he’s kissing my mouth. “I got kind of jealous of your story,” he mumbles against my skin, and I want to kiss him back, but he’s moved on to my neck again, this time working on the little dips under my collarbone. Landon always said that was my favorite place to be kissed and holy Moses is he right.
Then Travis is pulling me up, hauling me off the mattress, and pulling my shirt over my head. I feel at once exposed and free, but all too alone. So I take the hem of his shirt in my hands and take it off of him. His entire chest is covered in tattoos, all symbols and designs that seem a little familiar, and make me curious as to their meaning, but then I reach out to touch one of them and feel the heat of him underneath my palm, the stretch of his skin and the hard swell of muscle, and I don’t care anymore.
“Travis,” I breathe, as he ducks his head to kiss over my chest. His hands are on my stomach, exploring and teasing the skin there, tracing the neat line of hair below my belly button.
“So gorgeous,” he murmurs, and then he’s back, kissing my mouth again. My arms pull him in closer, and he settles his weight on top of me and oh my god, I want him to keep going.
But in spite of all that want, when he reaches for the button on my jeans, I suck in a breath and tense. Travis pulls back, searching my face. He must not like what he sees because he slides off of me and pulls me close to him, so that my head is resting on his chest.
He’s quiet, and I let myself just listen to his heartbeat for a minute before saying, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he whispe
rs gently, which makes me feel even worse. For the second time in a week I’m in Travis’s bed, wanting nothing more than to curl into a ball and cry. But I can’t do that. I can’t act any more childish than I already have. Then Travis’s fingers slide through my hair and he says, “Find some answers?”
My face is burning with embarrassment. It’s hot against the assorted symbols painted into his skin. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“I’d love to know.”
I turn my face into his chest and inhale. He smells like leather and that spicy scent he always wears, but a little bit like Dial soap too, and it makes me smile in spite of everything. Because somehow Dial soap seems so human, not like something a gorgeous, musical god would use, and that’s comforting.
“I love how you make me feel. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.” I pause to think, and then add with a chuckle, “And I really love the way you want me.”
Travis chuckles too. “But?”
I lift my head up and look down into his amber eyes. “I think I want to mean something to you. And I want to be sure that you mean something to me. I know that’s not the way you are, but . . .” I bite my lip. “I think it might be the way I am.”
Travis looks at me for a long moment before reaching up and taking my face in both of his hands. He blows out a breath and gives me a sad smile. “Yeah, I kinda figured. But . . .”
“But?” I ask.
“But I think that maybe you and I could be good friends.” He shrugs and drops his hands away from my face. “I mean, I really like you. It’s weird. I felt like I was pulled into your orbit or something. Like, I don’t know, magnets or some shit.”
“Maybe magic,” I say. Magic with a k. I settle back against him and close my eyes.
“Hey. I know it’s really none of my business, and I’m probably the last person on earth that should say it, but . . .”
I poke him in the side. “But what?”
“That thing I heard Landon tell you. That maybe you two messed up your relationship because you were so in love?”
My face grows hot. “You heard that part too, huh?”
“I heard the whole embarrassing conversation, my friend.” Travis sniffs. “Anyway. You shouldn’t believe it.”
I raise my head and look at him. “I shouldn’t?”
“No,” he says, and for maybe the first time, I can tell he’s completely serious. No jokes. “Sure, you two could have screwed it up because you were young, but don’t confuse acting like a jealous asshole with love either. If he was accusing you of cheating, that’s not love. That’s fear and insecurity and ego, man. And there’s no room for that in real love.”
I blink. “I don’t think I can handle any more of this day. First Landon drops a bomb on me, then I get a lecture from Travis the love guru.”
“It’s not a lecture. Just advice. And I’m older and wiser.”
“Older, anyway.”
Travis gives me a playful punch on the shoulder. “Listen to me, whippersnapper. I’m not lying. I don’t want you thinking love can screw up a relationship. Sex can. Jealousy can. Being possessive and controlling and manipulative can. But not love.”
I know Travis is right, which is why Landon’s explanation didn’t make sense. I know it because when I think back to that day on the park bench, when I told Landon that I couldn’t be with him anymore, it wasn’t really because of the intensity of our relationship. That was a symptom of something else. It was because Landon wouldn’t let me breathe. He was jealous of everyone and everything around me, including my writing. That wasn’t love. Landon may have loved me, but that’s not what he was showing me when he was being controlling.
“Now you’re quiet. Did I make you upset?”
“No,” I say. “It’s just that I feel like I’m Goldilocks. I don’t want what Landon and I had. That was too much. But you’re . . .”
“Not enough.”
I nod, embarrassed again. Travis sits up, and I do too. He pulls me close to him, and I let him comfort me. And even though I sort of mean my next words, I really am just kidding. Mostly.
“It’s okay. I get it. You’re going to be a big star. Can’t have anything tying you down.”
Travis grins. “It’ll be insane. I’ll have Victoria’s Secret models lined up.”
“And Calvin Klein models, with better abs than mine.”
“That too.”
I laugh. “That and you really don’t want to hurt anyone you’d have to leave behind, do you?” Travis shrugs me off and all I can do is shake my head at him. “The badass rocker with the big heart.”
“If you ever talk, you’re gonna be so bad for my reputation,” he grumbles. “Should have you sign a nondisclosure agreement. I’m sure the label has one . . .”
“I’ll take it to the grave,” I promise. “So what now?”
“Now,” Travis begins, “we try this friends thing and you tell me about Jamie.”
I must look horrified, because Travis rolls his eyes at me like I’m an absolute child. “Oh, come on. You brought him up when I asked about a boyfriend. You like him.”
I relent with a sigh. “Yeah. I do. He’s incredible, Travis. Shy and sweet, but so talented too. He’s an artist and he really gets me, and my writing, and the way he looks at me . . . like I hung the moon in the sky . . .”
“So . . .”
“So?”
Travis leans forward, keeping our gazes locked. “So why waste time with me? Or anyone else?”
Travis has a point.
“You’re entirely too honest.”
“And right,” Travis adds. I roll my eyes.
“If we’re going to share, you should tell me about Lindsay.”
“What?” Travis says, but he obviously knows who I mean. For the first time, I watch Travis’s skin go red with embarrassment. I reach out and run my finger across a particular tattoo on his chest.
Travis looks down at his tattoo, like he’s forgotten it’s there. “Of course you’d notice that, wouldn’t you? You observant little jerk. Lindsay,” he begins, scratching his nails over the name like it itches, “is the reason why I don’t do relationships. Need to get this damn thing removed.”
“Tell me about her.”
“No.”
“I’m trying this friends thing.”
“Touché.” Travis stops rubbing the inky signature of a girl from long ago. “Yeah. Okay, deal. You don’t have to be home for a while, do you? ’Cause this could take a while.”
I have no idea what time it is. I lost all sense of it when I was writing my fairy tale. I look around and find Travis’s only clock, which is a digital number held up by a Frankenstein action figure. It’s not even nine yet. I promised I’d call Jamie tonight, but he doesn’t go to sleep until late. I have hours.
“Tell me,” I urge.
“Just remember, you asked for it.” He sighs. “So Lindsay was the girl who left me at the altar . . .”
It’s nearly eleven by the time Travis drops me off at home. He pulls up to the curb, and instead of getting out, I just stare at my house for a while. Then I unbuckle my seat belt and turn my whole body toward Travis.
“So, friends?” I ask him. And as much as I know friendship is all I should want, there’s a part of me, a tiny part, that hopes he’ll decide to fight for more. But he’s not going to. For my own good.
“Yeah, friends.” Travis runs his tongue ring over his bottom lip and looks at me in a way that could only be described as predatory. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t try to sleep with you anymore. Or that I’ll keep my hands to myself. Especially if I’m drunk. Or if I’ve been performing. Or if you’re wearing a tight shirt.”
I laugh, and he chuckles along with me. Then, when we’ve quieted, I lean forward and kiss him, long and sweet, on the lips. I don’t even fight a sigh as we pull apart. “Pity. I think
I could have fallen for you.”
“And I would have run,” Travis says, and I can’t help but notice his voice is kind of sad when he says it. Then he gives me another short kiss. “Ask Jamie out tomorrow. Don’t wait any longer. You’ve got your answers.”
I smile. “Yeah. I do. Thanks.”
“Hey, anytime you need answers, I’m here. And I mean that. Especially if it involves making out.” I roll my eyes at him even though I can hear the notes of sincerity in his tone. “And hey, come see us play Saturday. We’re having a little party to celebrate. My lucky charm should be there when we sign the contract.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, and somehow find the will to get out of the car. I watch him drive away, already missing the heat of his lips on mine, then I let myself into the house and call Jamie.
Thirteen
Jamie’s in the middle of painting some tropical-looking bird when I see him at lunch. He’s got yellow paint on his earlobe, and it makes me wonder how long it’s been there, or more specifically, how long it’s gone unnoticed.
I don’t interrupt him but I do slide my arms around him and hug him from behind. He keeps painting, but cracks a smile all the same, and leans back into me.
“Wanna eat?” I ask.
He’s obviously in the artist zone because he swishes his brush in the air toward one of the tables, where a half-eaten piece of cold pizza sits.
“Wasting away for art then? I admire your work ethic.”
Jamie laughs and leans out of my embrace, tucking the paintbrush behind his ear. Which explains the paint on his lobe. “I can eat if you want. This little bird was calling to me. I think it might be some kind of songbird, I don’t know. I’ll have to look it up.”
“You and your birds,” I say, but I say it with affection. “Ever paint, like, kittens or something?”
Jamie wrinkles his nose. “Nah. They don’t have wings.”
“So you’d paint a pterodactyl?”
“Ha. No. Just pretty, feathered wings.”
“Shallow.”