The Ballad (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  The Ballad

  By Ashley Pullo

  . . . . . . .

  Copyright © 2013 by Ashley Pullo

  Cover Design © Nick Fantini

  eBook and print formatting by Erika Q. Stokes

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.

  to my pride and joy . . .

  my husband, my friend, my always

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  The Ballad: the Soundtrack

  Chloe

  En été

  Coffee Bar

  Montague Street

  The Pumpkin Impalement

  Sophie

  Hurt

  The Best Sangria

  The Photograph

  Home

  William

  The Horizon

  The Wedding

  My Favorite Pick

  Buffalo to New York City

  President’s Day

  Add it Up

  Varick Lounge

  Adam

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Ballad: the soundtrack

  Green Eyes and a Heart of Gold, The Lone Bellow

  Live and Die, The Avett Brothers

  Dead Sea, The Lumineers

  Heaven, The Walkmen

  Pride and Joy, Brandi Carlile

  Shake your Love, Debbie Gibson

  Looking Out, Brandi Carlile

  Hurt, Johnny Cash

  Amsterdam, Guster

  Even Flow, Pearl Jam

  What a Good Boy, Barenaked Ladies

  Rainbow Connection, Sarah McLachlan

  Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Deep Blue Something

  On the Road Again, Willie Nelson

  Everything About You, Ugly Kid Joe

  Everlong, Foo Fighters

  Under the Bridge, Red Hot Chili Peppers

  Add it Up, Violent Femmes

  Heaven, Brandi Carlile

  Chloe

  July 4, 2013

  Holy crap, I’m thirty-five. The pivotal age at which my modest hipness is exchanged for a pair of Easy Spirit sandals and a Minnie Mouse key lanyard. I’ve officially entered a more sensible demographic of Chardonnay connoisseurs and CSI enthusiasts, and any day, AARP will arrive in the mail along with a subscription to Reader’s Digest and a Thomas Kinkade catalogue. I, Chloe Ford, am the target audience for wrinkle cream, weight loss, and poorly written romance novels. I might as well prepare for my move to one of those Adult Retirement Communities . . . spending the days by the tennis courts in my rayon pantsuit and the evenings in the ballroom, bragging about my ever-growing collection of tiny porcelain frogs while listening to Weezer stream through Muzak. But instead, I plan to revolt on this day of Independence and indulge on my birthday, pig out with my family, lay off the moisturizer, drink copious amounts of alcohol, dress like I’m Forever21 and enjoy the really loud fireworks very late at night.

  Being Canadian, I never fully understood the fascination of this holiday until I moved to the city ten years ago and actually felt my heart beat with patriotism. The rhythm of a New York summer is passionate and powerful, evoking a rapid calypso, with July being the musical climax. Brooklynites, residents of the most populous borough, spill onto the shady streets seeking refuge from the heat or that perfect glass of something cold. Early morning joggers and sunset strollers board the Brooklyn Bridge searching for serene stillness in this hyperactive city. Several blocks south of the rusty steel icon, our tree-lined street is sprinkled with American flags and the promise of lazy barbecues. The brownstones of Cobble Hill are similar in design but distinct in functionality, each boasting their own story yet sadly, my favorite sit-com family of Brooklyn, the Huxtables, are not my neighbors. Potted red geraniums form a patriotic processional leading to our glossy black door adorned with blue streamers and tiny white stars. To the right of the door, a vintage Ford sign hangs in the leaded glass front window, whimsically announcing the current occupants.

  My parents, Martin and Eileen, rolled into town this morning and by rolled I mean they drove their home on wheels through the congested streets of New York. It was actually quite the scene as Dad spent half an hour parking between a Vespa and a Subaru, neighbors enjoying bagels and coffee oblivious to the commotion being created by Mr. Tran and Mom’s dramatic traffic control. This prime spot is usually where the Trans park their laundry service truck, but until the alternate sides parking rule is in effect, that maple-leaf-embellished camper isn’t moving. My parents have been planning an East Coast adventure for two years, the Ford house being the first stop and the sandy beaches of Florida being their ultimate destination. The kids have spent the entire morning in their temporary clubhouse opening drawers and pretending to cook; they even asked me if they could charge their friends to enter “the coolest house in Brooklyn”.

  Mom and I are in the kitchen preparing pounds of meat to be grilled, and I’m secretly wondering what the vegan neighbors will think of our carnivorous feast, and if in fact they even own a grill. As I look out the back window, I see my sweet little Sophie dancing in the sprinkler with her tiny frame decked out in stars and stripes. She’s only three but has the artistic delivery of a seasoned professional. The tiny backyards of our street intertwine to form a maze-like structure, creating a peaceful landscape in our cement jungle. Several neighborhood kids dart from one yard to another with water guns and water balloons, often stopping at my hydrangeas to retreat. Sophie curtsies and waves as some of the neighbor boys run through launching water balloons and crushing my delicate, blue hydrangeas. Will pops up from behind the grill and squirts them vengefully with his SuperSoaker, laughing wickedly. He’s so tall and mature for a six-year-old that he often carries the burden of being treated like he’s much older. I smile, amused by my perfect, sometimes rotten, children.

  “Chloe, are Natalie and Chris stopping by?” Mom slaps seasoning on the ribs like they wronged her in another life and smiles, patiently waiting for my answer.

  “No, Nat and Chris will be enjoying the Hamptons with the rest of Manhattan . . . they wanted a last hoorah before the baby. She sent me a happy birthday text with strict instructions on where to have the baby shower.” I love my identical cousin dearly, but she can be quite demanding and has the mouth of a sailor.

  “That Natalie is such a hoot. Say, did ya know the high school Science teacher was fired? I heard it was a minor tryst with a minor.” Mom nudges me with her bony elbow and tries unsuccessfully to give me a winky-wink.

  “Seriously? That actually doesn’t surprise me at all. He was a known pervert and a little too enthusiastic during the human anatomy lecture,” I respond.

  “Oh, Chloe, that’s disgusting. I always thought he looked like Paul Newman . . . now, where are your father and Adam? These ribs will take at least an hour to cook,” Mom says with a sigh.

  Dad waltzes in with a tacky, tie-dyed apron cinching his Molson muscle and reaches in the refrigerator for a beer. If Chevy Chas
e ever needed a stand-in, Martin LeGrange would be first in line. I grab him a mug and the bottle opener, but nearly drop them both when I see Adam perched in the doorway with his arms folded across an identical apron, two sizes too small. His six-foot-three inch stature and his confident demeanor spew off vibes of arrogance, but I know my Adam, and his cool composure is his armor. I catch his gaze and try to suppress the smile itching at my lips. He gives me a nod and a wink of approval in his sexy little way and then walks toward Mom.

  “Eileen, thank you for giving my beautiful wife the skill set she needs in the kitchen,” Adam’s deep voice booms with sarcasm and sincerity. I roll my eyes as he kisses me on the cheek, but Mom giggles in delight. She’s such a sucker for a handsome man.

  “You look adorable in my apron, sweetie,” she says gleefully.

  “All right, ladies! Remember, the best grilling is done when the men have a full supply of beer and pretzels and absolutely no nagging from the women. Adam and I need complete concentration during this daunting task, eh?” Dad teases as he pours his beer.

  We shove the platters of meat in their direction and let them retreat to their man stove. Mom and I grab some flamingo glasses and the pitcher of Skinny Margaritas and settle in the living room, taking in the cool, crisp relief of our only air conditioner. We gossip about all the weird family members and I show her the kids’ photos on the iPad and teach her how to use Instagram on her phone. Independence Day is playing on TBS for the next twenty-four hours and we’re both a little tipsy and laughing hysterically at the aliens and the birth of a nation . . . only in America!

  Later in the evening with protein-filled bellies, we walk as a family to Brooklyn Bridge Park to get a standing room only spot for the next two hours. Adam wraps his pinky around mine and Dad hoists Sophie on his broad shoulders. We all stare at the sky, mesmerized by the beauty and excitement of what’s to come. Loud booms and sizzles fill the night sky as I glance up at Adam’s expressionless face. His strong features glow in shades of red and blue and I catch the tiniest flicker of delight emerging on his masculine profile. I reach up to kiss his cheek and the smallest grin, exclusively for me, creeps across his mouth. Oohs and awes hush the spectators and I suddenly realize, thirty-five is ten years better than twenty-five.

  It’s close to two in the morning and the day has left everyone physically exhausted. Sophie fell asleep on the loveseat watching the tenth showing of Independence Day and Mom and Dad are snoring on the sofa bed. I close the French doors that separate the living room to the entryway and make my way up the first flight, two stairs at a time. When I reach the second floor, I notice Will’s room is lit, so I peek in to watch my peaceful little man fast asleep with his Iron Man mask. I place the mask on the shelf next to Adam’s old Pac-Man phone and shut off his light as I close the door, not without stepping on a goddamn Lego for the hundredth time. Shit.

  As I walk the narrow hallway, I run my finger along the framed pictures of our life and immediately feel the warmth and happiness that envelopes me in my Cobble Hill cocoon. I reach the final flight of stairs and look down at my super-chic-make-me-feel-young-and-hip-white-jeans that are now covered in red Popsicle stains . . . I would blame Sophie, but I had three of them myself. My head is spinning and these stairs seem steeper than usual and I’m positive the heat, ribs, and ten or so margaritas have something to do with my blurred vision.

  When I reach the top landing a little breathless, I hear music coming from the master bedroom. Adam is singing along to The Avett Brothers, something about you and I. He really can’t sing for shit, but then again, The Avett Brothers aren’t known for having great voices. Sometimes the musician in me cringes at the sound of unharmonious noise, but at this particular moment, I relish the sound of his emotionally charged voice coming from our room. I lean against the doorway to admire the most amazing human form to ever captivate me. Adam is lounging on the bed with his back to the door, his muscular leg dangling off the side, swaying to the beat. His shirtless torso resembles a marble Rodin statue and his skin is smooth and tanned. I run my eyes over his strong shoulders, stopping at his narrow waist and lingering on his fantastic ass. The tip of his paisley-shaped scar is peeking out of his shorts and it makes my heart flutter like a teenaged groupie. He turns his head toward me, showering me with lustful determination.

  “Hey, babe,” he says calmly. A normal person might be startled by a lurking figure in the doorway at two a.m., but not Adam. He’s never startled. Never surprised. Never unsure.

  “I was thinking I would take a shower . . .” I’m interrupted by the familiar sound of The Lone Bellow’s powerful debut album. There are very few songs that are as electrifying as Green Eyes and a Heart of Gold and the fact that they’re from Brooklyn makes it even sweeter. I love how the song starts with the loud, crisp chorus and eases into the verse. It’s like a passionate slap in the face, challenging the listener to follow them on their journey and to embrace every crescendo like a swelling of emotions. It’s quite an accomplishment for a musician to build a story in reverse and maintain the momentum of a ballad.

  I lean against the wall near the bed as Adam walks toward me, his sexy lips and velvet voice singing the poetic verse about the F train. He slowly runs his finger down my bare arm, never releasing his focus from my mouth, while his other hand grabs the back of my ponytail and pulls my head back. I close my eyes and breathe in his male scent of soap and testosterone. Adam sensually licks my collarbone, following the curve of my neck and dispersing tiny little kisses along my hairline. He moves his arm tightly around my waist and presses against me while nibbling on my ear. My nipples are hard with excitement and my body feels numb in anticipation, but Adam keeps singing casually as I put my arms around him and dig my fingers into his back. I want him to feel me. I need to feel him.

  Adam’s lips press against my ear humming the song’s chorus and creating a vibrating jolt to rock my body. His dark eyes devour me and I know he needs me as much as I want him.

  “Tell me,” Adam whispers into me.

  I smile bashfully and run my hands up his arm to rest on his broad shoulders. He bites my ear and continues to hum as he cups my breast in his hand and squeezes gently.

  “I love my life. I had a wonderful day. Truly the best birthday ever. I have never felt so complete,” I say in my raspiest voice.

  Adam lets out a shallow moan and shoots his hand down to the waist of my jeans. With one snap, his hand is deep inside my panties and I shudder nervously, hoping I can conceal my eagerness a little longer. He kisses me hard, our teeth tapping together while he moves us toward the bed . . . we’ve never been big fans of prolonged foreplay.

  “What else?” he demands into my chest.

  It’s incredibly satisfying to see what my emotions do to him. “I’m happy my parents are here. I hate growing old. I’m pissed that my white jeans are ruined. I want to fuh—, I want to make sweet, sweet love to my husband,” I taunt as if it were lyrics from a country song.

  Adam pulls off my jeans, the ones that apparently did their job appearing youthful and sexy, and runs his tongue up my thigh. I wrap my legs around his neck and pull him into me. After several minutes of teasing and pleasure-filled gasps, Adam rises to meet my face, stopping right above my mouth so that I can watch him savor my taste on his bottom lip. He stands up to remove his shorts in one swift tug then hovers over me, trapping me like his prey. Adam pulls my red tank top over my head then stops briefly to smirk at my bra. {It’s a gorgeous satin and lace bra but the color can only be described as puce. I ordered it last month under the assumption it was a nice shade of coral but as soon as Adam saw it, he said it looked like bologna stretched across my ample chest.} I love surprising him . . .

  He lowers my bra one strap at a time while kissing my shoulders. I spill out of Oscar Mayer as Adam teases my nipples with his tongue, nibbling so delicately it’s as if I’m imagining the sensation. Every muscle in his body tenses as he rolls on his back and props me on top of him. He positions me
on his erect penis and I take him in while arching my back and removing the bra for good. I pull my hair out of the ponytail and slowly start to rock against him. Adam’s lips are so tempting that I have to fight the urge to bite his lower lip . . . instead, I lean down to sweetly kiss him as he grabs my ass and grinds into me. We stare at each other, continuously thrusting and caressing allowing our bodies to rhythmically collide. I slowly run my thumb over his bottom lip and brace my other hand on his chest wondering how many times we’ve kissed during the course of our relationship. His body is as hard as the day I met him and I can only assume he appreciates my curves and jiggles as much as my twenty-five-year-old hot body.

  We rock back and forth together until our bodies seamlessly fuse into orgasmic convulsions. I’m always the first to retreat into submission because Adam’s self-control is far superior. He watches me intently as he gives me what I need. He feels so good and I crave the complete Adam, mind, body and lips. He grabs my hand and gazes intently into my eyes. Adam’s daring me to look away but I know this moment too well, and this moment is my favorite part. Patience. Hold the eye contact . . . and there it is . . . Adam concedes with the most beautiful smile I will ever see, exclusively for me.

  I lie next to him and nuzzle my face in his neck. When he closes his eyes and appears to be asleep, I do what I do every night . . . my fingers trace the outline of his scar over and over until I . . . drift . . . to . . .

  “Why do you do that?” Adam’s voice crackles.

  Amazed that he’s still awake, I answer him a little dazed but completely sincere. “It’s beautiful. Your scar is your unpredictable imperfection.”

  Maybe because we’re deliriously in love or maybe because we’re deliriously tired, we say the things we hunger to hear.

  “I love you,” he whispers.

  “Always,” I finish.