“Did he just call me the asshole?” I asked, and my lips curled into an amused grin.
She let out a laugh, still tightly wound and shaken from her brush with non-consent. “Uh, yeah, I think so,” she said, hoisting her black bag onto her shoulder. She inched away from my arm and I took her cue, letting it fall back at my side. “Thanks, by the way.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I said with a nod. I surveyed the rest of the room filled with drunk assholes, oblivious to their surroundings. “I can’t believe nobody else saw what was happening.”
“I can,” she muttered. “I’ve been to enough of these things to know nobody gives a shit about anybody else. All they care about is the booze and the sex, and when you’re not into either, well …” She shrugged and patted her bag. “I bring a book with me.”
Oh God, she was a reader too. I begged my groin to behave as I chuckled. “What book?”
“Oh, uh …” She shifted her feet awkwardly against the tile floor. “It’s pretty lame and boring.”
“Try me.”
Glancing back at me, her blue eyes shimmering in the dim kitchen light, she said, “It’s a book of Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry.”
Cocking my head, my breath tripped along my throat and I hoped she didn’t notice.
“So, you’re a poet?”
Her giggle was tight and shrill, her eyes flitted uncomfortably to the side, as though nervous someone might overhear. “I don’t write poetry; I read it. Poe is my favorite.”
I cleared my throat, feeling like an instant ass for making assumptions. My gaze dodged around the room of moronic college kids, and I felt too old to be there. Twenty-three going on eighty.
That could’ve been a good moment to bow out, to find Trent and suggest he try somewhere else to find some ass, but she turned her eyes back on me. A hint of lavender caught my interest, I was pulled in again, and I didn’t want to leave.
“So, why do you come to these things if you don’t like them?” I asked, grasping for conversation. At anything to keep her talking.
“Well,” she said, crossing her arms and guarding herself from me. I dropped my gaze to the floor. “My friend drags me along as her designated driver. Sometimes she finds a guy to hook up with and I go home alone. Other times, she’s drunk off her ass and I have to hold her hair back. Either way, I’m here, for her.”
I nodded slowly, glancing around the kitchen. Some people had coupled up and were making out in corners or on chairs. I suddenly felt like the only person not getting laid and I realized that, I didn’t care. Talking with her seemed so much more valuable than getting my rocks off.
“So, uh, where is she now?” I asked.
“Who the hell knows,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “Last I saw her, she was going upstairs with some football player from school.”
“You’re in school?”
She nodded. “I’m in my second year at UConn.”
It was my turn to nod. “What’s your major?”
“Business management,” she replied, holding her head up higher with a tinge of pride, and I smiled.
“I can’t say I know anything about it, but that’s pretty awesome.”
“Not really,” she laughed as the apples of her cheeks pinked and her lips spread into a small, warm smile. She held out a hand. “Kylie.”
“Devin,” I said, biting at the inside of my lower lip, fighting off a big grin as I produced my own hand. My palm engulfed hers, and I felt like a giant. Powerful. Protective.
Needed.
♪
I suggested we get some air, away from all the others. She didn’t want to leave the party—her friend was still there, and she was still the designated driver. So, we took to walking laps around the backyard. It was quiet and lit by torches along the perimeter of the fence. An in-ground pool was situated in the middle of the yard, open for the summer, despite it still being too cold to swim. Only one other couple shared the space with us, making out on one of the loungers, keeping to themselves with sloppy mouths and clumsy hands.
“Do you think they’re ever coming up for air?” Kylie asked on our third pass by the occupied lounge chair.
I glanced back just in time to watch the guy’s hand slide up the girl’s t-shirt. “Doubt it. Wish I had a video camera though. I could be selling this shit on the internet.”
She shook her head. “There’s too much free porn out there now and I don’t think you’d make much off what they’re doing. It’s taken too long for him to just feel her up.”
The volume of my laugh surprised me. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that.”
She stepped up onto the bricks enclosing a small garden. “So, are you in school?”
“Nah,” I said. “I went straight from high school into my dad’s construction business. I took some night classes at a trade school for about a year and now I’m in the middle of my apprenticeship.”
“That sounds cool. Like you’re training to be a sorcerer,” she said, walking along the bricks with her hands stuffed into her pockets. “Get it? Like, The Sorcerer’s Apprentice?” she added unnecessarily, and I grinned.
“Yeah, I got it, but it’s not that cool,” I laughed.
“Oh come on, don’t ruin my visions of you in a wizard’s robe,” she teased, and my eye roll accompanied my chuckle. “So, what is it that you actually do?”
“I build houses. Right now I work mostly on hanging sheetrock, cabinet installation, cutting lumber—the basic stuff. Honestly, I’m capable of doing more—I’ve been learning from my dad since I was a kid. But, the older guys don’t like it when I school them in their own craft, you know what I’m saying?” I tapped her arm gently with my elbow and grinned.
“So, you’re a hero and you’re modest,” she said, allowing herself to giggle. “Very charming.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” I laughed.
“Do I want to know?”
“I’m not sure you do,” I said, tipping my head toward her. “Once the ladies know about my secret weapon, I can’t be held responsible for what happens next.”
Kylie stopped her circus act along the bricks. The blues in her eyes shifted to a moody darkness and I chewed the inside of my cheek, knowing I had stepped over some invisible line I hadn’t been aware existed. I knew I should apologize, because the last thing I wanted to do was fuck this up. Whatever this was.
“I’m not sleeping with you, Devin,” she said bluntly, threatening me with a heated glare. “I don’t do that shit.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“Is that okay though? Because I’m sorry if you thought that’s what we were doing. I mean, if that’s the only reason why you helped me, the only reason why you’re talking to—”
“Kylie,” I said, utilizing her own name the way she had used mine. Hard and edged. “When I say it’s okay, I mean it’s okay.”
Her high cheekbones reddened, the color spreading to the tips of her ears. “Sorry. I just … I hate coming to these things and being hit on, and the one time a decent guy actually has a conversation with me … I thought …”
“Stop,” I said, reaching out to gently touch her elbow. “I promise. I really am a decent guy.”
The quivering breath that exhaled through her lips was one of relief and she nodded. She glanced around me to the couple on the lounger, and her nose wrinkled. “So, do you want to show me your secret weapon? They just took their pants off and I really don’t think I want to be here to see what happens next.” Her eyes shot back to me, narrowing with threat. “Unless your secret weapon is your dick, in which case—”
Another loud and boisterous laugh broke through my lips, and I shook my head. “I swear, my dick isn’t going anywhere near you, but you do have to come to my truck.”
Her squinted eyes twinkled with laughter. “Promise not to abduct me?”
“I promise.”
♪
“Wow, that’s a big truck,” she said with awe as we approached the black D
odge Ram.
“Need a big truck with the job I have,” I pointed out.
The bed of the pickup was piled with leftover lumber from the worksite, a circular saw, and a couple of wooden horses I had slapped together. There was also my toolbox and toolbelt, both overloaded with equipment. Kylie nodded, peering into the truck as I opened the backdoor of the four-door cab and pulled out the soft case I carried with me everywhere.
“You play guitar?” she guessed by the size and shape and I nodded. “Oh, yeah, I can definitely see why the ladies would swoon over that. Are you any good?”
This was the one area where I couldn’t brag. I knew how girls felt about a guy with a guitar. I’d been with enough women to know it was an instant panty-dropper. But like any artist, I was my own worst enemy in regard to judging my level of skill. I knew what I was capable of, but was I any good at it? Hell, even if I knew that, I still wasn’t about to strut my stuff. Not when those little voices in my head knew I could be better, could push harder, and could make those calluses on my fingers just a little tougher.
“Uh,” I stammered, shoving my hand into the mess of my hair, “I mean, I guess so.”
“You guess so? You were just talking yourself up, and now you got me out here and you guess so?” She was giggling, relaxing. As she grinned, I was staring, resigning myself to the knowledge it would be my life’s mission to make her smile, as long as she’d permit me to be in hers.
I returned the grin. “I’ve been told I’m good, but I can’t say that I am.”
“And why not?”
“Because …” I began, but my words trailed off before I could conjure another meaningless line. I wasn’t trying to woo her into my bed, never to talk to each other again the next morning. I liked her—even then, more than I’d ever liked someone before. I wanted to know her and knowing her meant I needed to be honest. So I sighed, cocking my head and twisting my lips. “Because I don’t think anybody’s ever actually been honest with me about it.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“Ah, well, you know …” Now I was nervous and regretting ever starting this in the first place. I cast my gaze downward, shuffling my feet against the graveled asphalt. “My parents say I’m good, but they’re my parents. My cousin says I’m good, because he’s … you know, family. Girls say I’m good because they want in my pants, but I want in theirs, so it works out in the end. I just don’t know if they’re being real with me, you know? I don’t think anybody has ever listened to me play and told me I was good without an ulterior motive.” I was rambling, unable to look her in the eyes. To see the way my nerves and anxiety reflected off those prismatic blues.
Then she sat down on the curb, stretching her legs out. Crossing her ankles. She looked up to me and said, “Well, I’ll be honest with you.”
“What?” I asked, confused.
“Play for me right now, and I’ll be honest.”
“You want me to play here?” I asked, looking toward the house with its people-cluttered porch and littered front lawn. Whoever lived here was going to have one hell of a mess to clean up.
“Yeah!” She grinned encouragingly, patting the spot beside her. “Why? Are you nervous?”
I mustered a lopsided grin. “Well, actually, yeah.”
“Have you ever played in front of a crowd before?”
“Uh … no.”
Kylie glanced back toward the house and then up to me. “Well, looks like now’s your chance.”
I laughed. “Oh God, what the hell have I gotten myself into?” I muttered, shaking my head as I set the guitar case down beside the truck.
Kneeling to the ground, I unzipped its cloth exterior and pulled out my vintage Gibson MK53. Its body was weathered and faded, its neck and fretboard were riddled with nicks and scratches, but age couldn’t keep that thing from sounding like a fucking dream. From the corner of my eye, I caught the small smile spreading over Kylie’s lips. It wasn’t the amused grin I had seen throughout the hour I’d already spent with her, or the nervous twitch of her lips she’d thrown at Mr. Polo. I knew this was a taste of her affection. A sampling of how she could look when she cared about someone, and I dove into it as I sat beside her on the concrete. Stretching out one leg, pulling the other toward me, I situated the guitar on my right thigh.
“So, uh …” I cleared my throat. Goddamn nerves. “Uh, what do you want me to play?”
“Oh, you take requests, huh?”
I laughed awkwardly. “I, um … I didn’t say I’d know everything, but you could, uh—”
“Oh my God, you’re so anxious right now,” she teased, pressing her shoulder into mine. “Just surprise me.”
I slapped my hand over my eyes. “Oh Jesus. Okay …” Deep breath in, deep breath out. “Okay,” and I cleared my throat again and dug into my pocket for a pick.
I placed it between my teeth, strummed downward, determined I was satisfied with the sound and positioned my hands on the frets and over the strings.
“So, what are you going to play?” She wiggled her feet excitedly, and I laughed.
I squinted my eyes at her under the streetlight as I pinched the pick between my fingers. “You promise not to make fun of me?”
“I’m making no promises to a guy I just met.”
“Hey, I promised not to abduct you,” I countered, pointing my pick at her.
With a roll of her eyes, she wobbled her head. “Fine, fine. I promise to not make fun of you … much.”
I made a show of glancing around, swiveling my head this way and that, and I tipped my mouth to her ear. “I’m really, really into John Mayer.”
I was so close to her. I closed my eyes for a nanosecond and inhaled her scent. It was something floral, laced with a sweet, crisp fruitiness. Apple, maybe. I didn’t know if it was her perfume or a shampoo, but whatever it was, it calmed my nerves while perpetuating the pulsing arousal I had been plagued with since seeing her for the first time.
“You’re not going to sing ‘Your Body is a Wonderland’ to me, are you?” She was laughing lightly, freely, and I leaned away to stare into her glimmering eyes. Fucking hell, all of those blues.
“God no.” I said it with a groan and a dramatic roll of my eyes, but I was lying. I liked that song, but she didn’t need to know that.
My pick started to strum and my fingers bounced from chord to chord on the fretboard, as her feet moved in time with the tune. I opened my mouth, got out the beginning of a single word, and her jaw unhinged.
“Wait, wait, wait … you didn’t tell me you sing too!” Her hands went to her mouth to stifle her squeal and I laughed, my fingers freezing against the strings.
“Was I supposed to warn you?”
“Devin,” she said, following the roll of her eyes as she tipped her head toward my shoulder. “You can’t just serenade a girl under the stars without at least giving her a heads-up.”
I laughed again, shaking my head incredulously. “Okay, fine. I sing, I play the guitar and sometimes I do this little knocking, foot stomping thing. Happy?”
“Yes thank you, I now consider myself thoroughly warned. Please, proceed.”
I looked to her, caught the excitement in her eyes, and I knew for certain that I was in trouble and this was a trouble I had never known before. This wasn’t the condom went missing kind of trouble. This wasn’t the called her the wrong name kind of trouble. This was deeper, meaningful. It was dangerous and my heart panicked with the twitching of her lips. God, I wanted to kiss them more than I wanted to get my hands on a Gibson Hummingbird.
I managed a smile despite the rush of fear and started over. I thought a rousing rendition of “No Such Thing” was called for—a fun song that sounded the way summer felt. Except, I went slower, suddenly wanting to serenade her, despite her insistence that she wasn’t sleeping with me. That was still fine. I could take things slow, or, I could take them not at all. I just wanted to show her what I could do, what I was made of. Because for some reason, it now
felt like it all mattered.
My fingers played “Not Myself” and my voice carried the lyrics into the night. It was an odd pick, I thought, but it felt fitting somehow. As if maybe I knew where time was going to take us, or maybe it was hope; I couldn’t really say. I sang my heart out, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling the words and the music. Strumming the strings with patient perfectionism. It was one of my favorites from Mayer’s Room for Squares album. One of the songs I had practiced until the strings cut through my calluses and I had to wear a few Band-aids for a week.
My grand finale was a smooth segue into the chorus of “Bigger Than My Body.” It was unrelated in tone and meaning, but I loved that fucking song. I felt it and it felt me. It was my anthem, the musical embodiment of the feeling saying I was meant for something so much more than this. More than suburban Connecticut. More than tool belts and jigsaws. I couldn’t not play it when I already had the guitar out, when I already had the music pumping the blood in my veins.
I glanced at Kylie, at the tapping of her toes against the pavement. The chewing of her lower lip, the glint in her sapphire eyes. She grinned at me as I tipped my head back to send those high notes into the sky. Her shoulder bumped into mine, rocking with the strumming of the guitar, and when I hit that last chord, throwing my pick-hand up into the air like I belonged next to Springsteen, I beamed back at her. I felt more elated than I ever had and I let out a loud and echoed whoop toward the sky.
I continued to grin, energetic and buzzed. “So, do I suck?” I asked, cocking my brow and draping my arms over the guitar’s hollow body.
Kylie’s smile spread over her face and her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “You already know the answer to that question.”
Feeling alive and fearless, I tilted toward her, gently touching my forehead to hers. “You promised to be honest,” I reminded her.
Daisies & Devin Page 2