Rhythm and Blu

by Jennings, S. L.

  “Well, you can say it was,” Haze says. She blows on her fingernails and swipes them on the bodice of her form-fitting sheath dress. “I had a little help from a designer friend. Definitely one to watch in fashion. Jean, I must introduce you.”

  “Yes, you do, honey. But in the meantime, I must know; Rox, have you ever thought of modeling?”

  I blink, completely caught off guard. I’m way too short and curvy, not to mention I can’t even take a decent selfie with my T-Rex arms. But before I even have the chance to crack a self-deprecating joke, Poppy straight up Debo’s her way into the conversation and extends her hand.

  “Jean, it’s so great to meet you! I’m Poppy Brooks, model and Riot’s long-time girlfriend. I just did a campaign for the new Tom Ford fragrance. Maybe you’ve seen it?”

  Jean politely takes her hand, but answers, “No, sorry. Can’t say I have.” Ok, now he might get tongue-kissed.

  “I keep telling Rox that fashion is changing, along with the standard of beauty,” Haze begins, stealing Jean’s attention away from Poppy, although I’m pretty sure she never had it. “Waif-thin, tall, pale… there are a million girls like that. I’ve been featuring clothes inspired by girls who don’t fit those archaic molds. And I think designers and photographers alike have been grasping for that diversity as well.”

  “I agree,” Jean nods. “Art should be inclusive, in whatever form it is. Riot, you’re an artist. What do you think?”

  Riot nods thoughtfully. “I think you’re absolutely right. Art should reflect the world around us, in all its unique shapes, sizes, and colors. It should move us to feel, inspire us to think. It should demand we feel what’s painful, what’s scary, yet remind us what us of all the boundless beauty it has to offer. And Rox…” He smiles at me, and it feels like it’s only for me. “Rox is art.”

  “Boy, you could sell water to a well.” Jean touches a hand to the neckline of his ruffled shirt and sighs before fanning his face. “Ok, it’s settled. I need to see you through my lens. And if at all possible, you too, Mr. Blu.”

  “I’m certain we can arrange something.” Right on cue, Jonas strolls up, armed with a dashing smile. I swear, his suit has gotten even shinier. “Mr. LaRue, can I offer you a drink?”

  Jonas steers Jean to the side so they can talk business, leaving Haze and I to face off with Poppy and her glassy-eyed girl gang. Riot looks between us, unsure of what to say or even whom to stand beside.

  “So you’re the stylist, I see. Funny, I didn’t realize bloggers could call themselves stylists. Good for you,” Poppy starts in.

  “Well, I guess it’s just like girls who take pictures calling themselves models,” Haze retorts without missing a beat. “Fake it ‘til you make it.”

  Holy shit, I can almost see the steam billowing out of Poppy’s ears. Even her rat pack feels the sting of secondhand embarrassment. I’m tempted to offer them a spatula to scrape their friend off the ground.

  “I’ve actually been modeling since I was twelve,” Poppy fumes. “High fashion.”

  “Oh wow! You must have really mastered walking in a straight line in all that time. And turning. Placing your hands on your hips. Looking over your shoulder…”

  I try to bite the inside of my cheeks, but when I glance over at Riot who looks like he’s about to faint from doing the same, I bust out laughing. Poppy doesn’t like that. Actually, Poppy looks like she may take a swing at Haze, or even me. She steps forward, her lips tight and her eyes narrow.

  “If you think modeling is easy, guess again. Even at your best, you’ll never be as good as me.” She pins me with a violent stare. However, I’m not backing down.

  “Well, how hard can it be? Seems like they let any moron do it. You seem to have done pretty well.”

  I tighten my fists, bracing for a fight, but instead, Poppy huffs and twirls away, taking her pussycats with her. And leaving Riot behind.

  “Still getting me into trouble,” he muses, shaking his head. “I’ve missed you two.”

  Haze places a hand on her hip and playfully jabs a finger at Riot. “You went all Hollywood and forgot about us. It’s ok, though. We’re here to remind you.”

  “Remind me of what?”

  “Of who you are and where you came from. Maybe then you can explain why the hell you left the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

  Discreetly, I pinch Haze on the arm and she dramatically yelps as if I’ve just shanked her. This isn’t the time or the place, and frankly, I don’t know if I’m ready to hear the truth. It’s obvious that the plans we had for after graduation were my dream, not his. And maybe he didn’t know how to break it to me, so instead of potentially causing more pain, he thought a clean break was necessary.

  Or maybe I’m just making excuses for him instead of facing facts. He just didn’t want me.

  “Ok, fine. But you’re not off the hook,” Haze warns. “You’re lucky I’m looking good tonight and there are about a dozen other distractions calling my name. And there goes one right now…”

  Just like that, Haze’s attention is snagged by Riot’s friends in the VIP section. Although Dane has been staring at her like a lost puppy ever since she arrived, she pays him no mind. Tonight, she’s got her sights set on some fresh meat.

  “She hasn’t changed, has she?” Riot asks once Haze sways away to greet her new target.

  “Nope. But she wouldn’t be Haze if she did.”

  Riot takes a sip of his drink and nods. “I’m glad you still have each other. Crazy to think how long you two have been together.”

  “Yeah, about as long as we’ve known you. Hard to forget someone when they’ve been there for half your life.”

  Riot looks down. He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, wishing it was his fingernails. “I’ve missed a lot. I should’ve been there.”

  “We all make choices,” I shrug, and reflexively, my gaze goes to Poppy. “You just have to be certain you made the right one.”

  The party goes on for longer than I expect, and oddly enough, I have fun. I know Haze’s presence has a lot to do with it, but honestly, just hanging out with Riot is nice. We vibe to the music, taking a trip down memory lane as we recall where we were when he first heard each track the DJ spins. The skating rink. The park. The middle school dance. It always amazes me how music can take you back in time, conjuring the ghosts that helped raise us, helped mold us into the artists we are today. Lyrics became notes passed in class as melodic voices sang all the things our mouths were too timid to say. I fell in love to music. I had my first kiss, my first date, and every other significant first to music. But I also had my heart broken to music. And maybe those songs aren’t worth replaying.

  “Hey, everything ok?” Riot asks, peering over at me as the DJ croons into the mic, telling us it’s time to slow it down. We’re sitting on a couch watching Haze work the room while Poppy pretends that she’s not trashed on “cheap” two hundred and fifty dollar a bottle champagne. And while that’s entertaining as hell and also a little sad, I can’t help but get swept away in the hypnotic melody wrapping itself around my chest so it can vibrate through me with every heartbeat.

  “Yeah,” I nod. “This song.”

  It was the song that was playing the night I gave my entire self to Riot. It was late fall. Our parents were at a fundraising gala and would most likely be out all night. Riot told me to come over to hang out, and while we both knew it was heading in that direction, I was still nervous. We were on the floor of his bedroom, old CDs scattered around us as we played our favorite game.

  “This one is dedicated to you, Roxy,” he had said, smiling back at me just before he pressed play on his stereo system.

  All night we had been playing up-tempo hits ranging from the mid-1990s to the early 2000s, each taking turns to shout out a dedication. We dedicated songs to our favorite memories from childhood and beyond. And now, Riot was dedicating a song to me, something he’d never done before. And as Aaliyah’s sweet falsetto serenaded us, I opened
my heart and my body to the boy who already owned them both. Even as I winced in pain at the initial tear of my innocence and bled tender I love yous with every timid thrust, I knew that Riot Blufield would forever live inside me.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Riot nods thoughtfully, shaking me from those sentimental thoughts.

  We sit in silence for nearly the remainder of the song, not even so much as a glance in each other’s direction. But just as the music lead into the breakdown, I feel the back of his fingers brush against mine. It’s so light I initially think it’s just an accidental graze as he reaches for his phone. But his hand stays there, barely touching yet touching enough for me to know it’s intentional. His fingers move slowly against my knuckles, each chaste caress a forbidden kiss.

  We aren’t doing anything, but just the feel of his skin moving against mine sends pinpricks of sensation up my arm and I gasp, letting my eyes lower just so I can imagine those fingers coasting up my arm, only for him to replace them with his lips. His tongue would lave the sensitive spot on the inside of my elbow, before taking his time to trail up to my shoulder where I would feel the scrape of his teeth, warning me that although he can be an attentive lover, he plans to viciously devour me. He isn’t a boy anymore, and he’d want me to experience all the ways that he has matured and grown. He fit inside me perfectly before, but now, he would tear-

  “Hello? Earth to Rox!” Haze calls, hands on her hips. She looks between Riot and me, shaking her head. “Did y’all pop an edible and not share? Damn.”

  Riot and I both yank our hands away from each other and put them in our laps as if we were just getting each other off under the table at a dimly lit restaurant. I don’t know what Haze or anyone else has seen, but she doesn’t mention anything incriminating.

  “Come on, we’re gonna grab food at an after-hours spot. Hungry?”

  Before answering, Riot drags his teeth over his bottom lip, and I watch with rapt fascination, the movement igniting phantom tingles to my bare shoulder.

  “Starved.”

  GRABBING FOOD WAS A GOOD idea. But grabbing food with a bunch of drunken, privileged idiots? Not the brightest decision.

  We’re somehow able to find a place still open after two in the morning that’s big enough to accommodate Riot and his entourage. That, or someone made some calls and the hip, borderline pretentious diner opened especially for us. I’m leaning towards the latter, considering I’d never known the joint to stay open past midnight.

  Everything seems fine at first, considering the scene that went down with Poppy earlier. She hangs sloppily all over Riot and it’s seriously embarrassing. He tries to placate her with kisses and sweet little soothing touches through her hair, but the girl will not quit. Even from a booth away, I can see her trying to free his dick under the table, right there in front of Jonas, Jean, and Alec. After gathering her hands and placing them back in her lap for what seems like the twentieth time in as many minutes, he looks up and gazes right at me. Frustration and shame rest on his brows but he schools his features and goes back to engaging his guests.

  “You’d think Poppy would take a hint,” Kaz murmurs under his breath, stabbing at his waffles. He sits beside me in the next booth over from Riot’s with Haze and her new boo for the night—a young, hot DJ from Portland.

  Haze rolls her eyes and says loudly enough for anyone within a dozen yards to hear, “I wonder if Tom Ford knows that the face of his new fragrance is wearing a new perfume: Desperation.”

  I snicker into my cup of black coffee and nearly choke, which only encourages Haze.

  “Seriously, the girl’s so starved for attention, I’m afraid she may gnaw off Riot’s arm. Which would probably be the only decent meal she’s had in years. Like, come on. Try a biscuit, bitch.”

  I shake my head. “Haze, that’s too much. We can’t shame her for her weight. Then we’d be no better.”

  “I’m not shaming her for her weight. I’m shaming her for the fact that the only thing that’s passed her lips in the past year is Riot’s dick. I’m all for being healthy at any size, Rox; you know that. But I have it on good authority that a certain someone and her crew threw a fit during New York Fashion Week because more designers are including plus sized models. And they weren’t even plus sized! They were normal, regular chicks like you and me. She was even encouraging other models to boycott, and when it backfired, she was asked to leave. So fuck her.”

  I’m stunned, not only at the piping hot tea Haze has spilled all over the table, but by the fact that she’s really upset about this, which leads me to believe it’s true. Haze never gets in her feelings about anything. And if she says it came from a reliable source, then it damn near came from the horse’s mouth. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has receipts from Ashley Graham herself.

  “Damn,” Kaz shakes his head. “That’s messed up.”

  “It is. And it’s not a secret either.” She lowers her voice to almost a whisper. “I heard that the only reason she ran back to Riot was because no one else will deal with her and she needs the press. And she thought standing next to Riot on the end of his rehab stint would make her look like the Mother Teresa of loving girlfriends.”

  I glance up at Riot, hoping he didn’t hear any of that. I can’t stand Poppy, but I don’t want him to be hurt and humiliated, especially in front of industry people. He doesn’t deserve this. Even when I hated him, I never would have wished for him to be played like this. And I know Haze means well, and this comes from a place of love and respect for our old friend, but I can’t say I trust her new DJ with this information. I don’t even know if I trust Kaz with it.

  Luckily, I don’t have to worry if anyone heard anything for too long because Poppy jumps up like her ass is on fire and announces that she’s going to be sick. She gets two steps into the aisle and then hurls everything in her stomach, sending rancid smelling bile spraying everywhere, including onto Jean LaRue’s royal blue lizard skin Ferragamo loafers. And if that’s not bad enough, she keeps retching and crying all the way to the bathroom, leaving a sickening trail of regurgitated champagne and what looks like what was once spinach salad.

  The night officially over, Riot pays the tab and then some, tipping enough to cover the cleaning and inconvenience. I don’t think anyone could get out of there quick enough, especially the E! guys and Jean. I hope they don’t hold Riot responsible for Poppy’s behavior. For someone that was supposedly the savior of his sobriety, she sure isn’t doing her image any favors. And while I hate to admit it, I feel bad for Poppy. We’ve all been there. Luckily, most of us haven’t gotten sloppy drunk in front of some of the industry’s heaviest hitters.

  Haze and I say our goodnights outside, both feeling icky after witnessing what I can only describe as a secondhand assault. All I want to do is go back to Riot’s and wash the night off me. However, Haze has other plans in mind.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she winks.

  “You sure?”

  “He seems promising,” she shrugs before cutting her eyes to the DJ. “We’re just going to hang out.”

  “Ok.” I touch the tip of my nose, silently reminding her to be safe. And if he steps out of line, pepper spray that mofo.

  “Ok.” Haze does the same, telling me she’s locked and loaded.

  I ride back over to Riot’s apartment with Kaz since Poppy legit smells like a porta-potty in July and I’ve just had enough of her, sick or not.

  “Sure you don’t want to stay at my place tonight?” he asks as we head towards the building’s elevator bay. He doesn’t seem skeezy, just concerned. And from the looks of it, Riot will have his hands full tonight.

  “I’m good, honestly. Just going to take a hot bath, maybe do a little reading, and zonk out. Thanks, though.”

  We hug and part ways at his floor. It’s just the two of us. Riot probably had to haul pukey Poppy to the service elevator.

  Riot’s apartment is dark and quiet, and I’m more than grateful that he’s contained the mess behind closed do
ors. I would have liked to say goodnight to him, even if only to give him a nod of sympathy. Riot is a good guy. I don’t know too many young millionaires who would take care of a sick girlfriend, especially when she completely humiliated him. And considering the moment we shared in the club, even if it really wasn’t anything but the innocent brush of his hand against mine, maybe he’s finally sick of Poppy’s shit and is more in the know about her intentions than we think.

  It doesn’t matter, though.

  He’s with her. And I’m… I’m filling up my gorgeous en suite bathtub and dropping in a bath bomb, eager to soak the day away. The tub’s jets are just what I need to work the tension out of my body, so I turn them on high and watch as the water foams and fizzles around me, tickling my sensitive flesh. I peek at my phone, wondering if I should’ve taken Kaz up on his offer for a sleepover, but it’s way past booty call hours and I can’t be sure Riot doesn’t have surveillance. Which is absurd and overbearing and assholish. But I can’t help but think that it also means he cares, as barbaric as it sounds.

  The hot water feels divine on my skin, so I position my body so that a jet makes contact with the space between shoulder blades and my lower back. However, there are jets that are fixed into the seat of the tub, thrusting water up and into me. I scoop up a handful and empty it over my chest a few times, just to give my idle, curious hands something to do. Then I grab the soap and lather up my arms, my shoulders, my breasts. The sudsy bar is slick over my nipples as I tease each peak until they’re so hard they ache. Then I slide the soap down between my full breasts and over my ribs before dipping it down to my navel. When it hovers just over my hypersensitive sex, the bar of soap slides from my fingertips and I replace it with my swollen clit.

  The combination of the jets and my fingers is unlike any showerhead session I’ve ever experienced, and within seconds, I feel heat coiling in my belly and prickles racing up my thighs. It seizes my hips first, locking me in place so I can’t escape. Then it slithers to the place that yearns to be stretched and full, not with a gush of water, not with my fingers, but with the man I can’t have, even though he was mine first.