by Sunniva Dee
“Your husband is an asshole.”
She kisses my chest. It’s complicated.
“He’s not currently appreciating you the way he should.”
She nods.
“It’s been like this for months.”
“More,” she responds without nodding or shaking her head.
“A year.”
“More.”
“Damn, Nadia. A year and a half?”
She nods.
“He hits you.”
She shakes her head, adding, “Never. And that’s it. I’m done talking about Jude.”
“Ah come on. We just started!” I exclaim, surprising myself. I get focused as hell—it’s why I’m a songwriter—but unless it’s my siblings, I lose interest in people’s dramas lightning fast. Not so with Nadia.
“Never mind. Sorry. You owe me no explanations. All we’ve done together is not play kites, suck at bowling, and… totally pull off slumber parties.”
She hides her smile against my chest, and it makes me smile too.
I should let this go while she’s okay, but instead I fire off another question. And while I utter it, I think, What if someone had asked me that while Ingela and I were struggling? I know what I would have done: I would have dodged the question like a cheap-stringed guitar.
“Have you considered leaving him?”
Her reply isn’t a nod. It’s not a shake of her head or a kiss on my chest. No. It’s enunciated clearly, her eyes right on mine. “There is no leaving him behind.”
BO
Opportunities float through your sphere, and it’s up to you to seize them. Sometimes they stream back around, giving you another chance if you miss out, but that once-in-a-lifetime chance, you’ll never see again.
Troll calls me while Nadia is still asleep. I don’t release her from my arms when I grab the phone from the nightstand and answer.
“Bo. Radio One needs a fill-in. Tom Rocks was supposed to head up Luminessence on the night show, but they backed out last minute, and Luminessence’s artist manager called yours. Clown Irruption is in.”
Adrenaline rushes through my body. “Are you kidding me? Radio One?”
“Hell yeah, man. Radio Fucking One.”
I start laughing. My stomach rocks, stirring Nadia from her sleep. She uh-huhms? and I pull her close, kissing her temple way loudly for someone who’s still in dreamland.
“Better make it, son,” Troll grumbles, grouchy-sounding as usual.
“Of course, Captain. We’ll be there. Are you emailing us directions and times?” It’s a redundant question. He’s always on top of the details, and he’s snippy as hell about being second-guessed.
“Yeah, unless you’ve got Internet,” he counters. “Ooh it’s so hard to locate Radio One in L.A.”
I bite my lip, suppressing my amusement. “What time?”
“Dude, I am going to email you, okay? God forbid you girls get lost.”
“Thank you, Troll. I appreciate it,” I say, and he muffle-growls something indistinguishable before hanging up.
The girl in my bed looks up, big, beautiful eyes bright with anticipation for me. “You’re excited. What’s going on?”
She smiles when I tell her. Rolls slowly over my body and on top of me the way she lied last night, nudges her nose against my throat like a sleepy kitten. I get to see this other Nadia before she veils herself in sadness again. This early morning version of her is addictive.
I kiss her before she rethinks shit. Slide my fingers in between her butt cheeks and caress her rosebud. Then I move down, finding a warmth I already crave, slickness from yesterday, and I whisper my plea in her ear.
“Again?”
Still sleepy, she relents, her body awake enough to tremble through a climax with me, but as her mind clears fully, I watch her retract again, her eyes dimming as she gets dressed. Nadia sits through breakfast with us, that small wrinkle between her brows reappearing.
When she stands, getting ready to leave, I don’t give a damn that I look pathetic when I say, “Hey,” catch her hand in passing, and entwine our fingers. I don’t get up from my seat, but I pull her close enough to latch around her waist. “Can you make it to the show? I’d like to have you there.”
“I want to go so bad!” Zoe sings. “Emil invited me, right you did, Cupcake? Nadia, we’ll talk to Scott—figure something out. This is the awesomest reason ever to bail in the middle of our shifts.”
Nadia tenses in my hold. She doesn’t withdraw, but it’s clear that she wants to. Instinctively, I kiss her stomach the way I used to back when I had a girlfriend. Our small kitchen goes dead silent at my move, and it dawns on me how intimate that was. Much more intimate than casual sex.
“Tell me you’ll try,” I say. My voice is raspy. “We’ll kick ass if you come.” That releases the tension around the table, and with a half-hearted nod, Nadia leaves my house.
BO
We’ve been at the radio station for a few hours. They’ve provided us with a rehearsal room, we’ve been briefed on the two questions they’ll ask, and how we’ll be introduced before Luminessence. We get one song only. Troll is pissed, because he wants us to do our almost-hit, Never Ever, but I’m pretty sure we’re doing Fuck You.
“They’ll censor the crap out of your damn song,” he says.
“It’s live, isn’t it? How can they?” I retort. “Plus, it’s college radio, not FCC-governed commercial radio.”
Troll’s great, but tonight he’s not helping. I’d much rather get in my pre-show groove than deal with his BS. I end up making a run for beer to get away from him. On the way back, I make an executive decision: we’ll play Fuck You if Nadia comes. If she doesn’t, we’ll appease Troll and go with what Emil refers to as our “sad-as-shit” song.
“Dudes,” I call as soon as I’m back. Pop a few bottles open while I toe the door to the rehearsal room shut. “Get ready for extremes: it’s Never Ever or Fuck You, depending.”
“On what, man?” Troy is juggling drumsticks, his only tell of being anxious.
“We’ll be in the mood for Fuck You if we get a female audience,” I say, take a swig of beer, and start fiddling with my guitar. Yeah, fiddle. Because I need the attention off myself.
“Perfect!” Emil exclaims, insisting on a high five. “If the chicks come, I’ll be good to go. You’re right—if I don’t have a set of killer jugs to eye-fuck, I’m better off playing safe with an oldie-but-goodie.” And thus Emil’s narcissism saves me from making a lovesick fool out of myself.
NADIA
Zoe watches me, eyes soft with compassion as I sling clothes around in my closet. “I don’t know what to wear!” I yell.
“Sweetie, it’s not a big deal. Bo—”
“Don’t! Mention him here,” I shout. One of my candles has extinguished in the den. I rush out to light a new one.
I press air out through pursed lips, trying to gather my wits. Waking up with Bo this morning, hard-bodied and smooth-skinned, warm and enveloping me. It rattled me more than the sex did. Because it’s how things used to be with Jude and me.
Jude and I had issues—serious issues that disappeared with our flight from Payne Point. He saved me from the rest of my life, from old husbands and ten children. From religious extremism and painful submission. I can never pay him back for what he did, for the new, compassionate, generous world he brought me into.
But here I am, searching for an outfit for a radio show Clown Irruption has been invited to.
“How ’bout you wear one of your ankle-length skirts from your Payne Point days?” Zoe asks. I snort while rubbing my eye dry of liquid and old mascara.
“Yeah, right. I don’t have any of those left. Jude helped me burn them in the backyard as soon as we’d moved into this place.”
“I beg to differ.” She holds up a burgundy flannel ski
rt. Flannel. Do you have any idea of how much flannel sucks in a place as warm as Payne Point?
And suddenly, I’m giggling. Zoe joins me too, making pole-dancer moves with the living-room-drapes-worthy chunk of fabric she’s carrying.
“Mother would have had a heart attack,” I manage, pointing at her dancing.
“She’d deserve it,” Zoe quips, and that makes me laugh harder. Crap, I might be having a panic attack. Jude isn’t here, and I’m about to head off to Bo’s gig. Radio One is the biggest college station in Southern California, serving eight campuses at once, and the honor of playing live is beyond belief for the guys.
“Sexy, sweets. You can do it. Come on. Blow Bo’s mind, will you? He’s so freaking into you I’m jealous.”
“What, of me?”
She rolls her eyes. “Bah, I’m into the Scandinavian rocker thing, not the whatever metro-sexy, worldly, mysterious musician thingy. Though, hey, judging by the itty-bitty squeals you couldn’t hold back last night, sounds like he’d be worth a trial ride.”
“No! Oh Lord, Zoe. Please.” I slump on my bed. I’ll never put myself in that situation again. Never will Zoe and I have a single, thin wall between us when we… when we’re with…
She giggles merrily. Tosses out a small, red skirt she bought me a few months ago. “You’ve never worn this one. You’ve got ahmazing legs, all curvy and stupid, so wear it.”
“Too short.”
“Said Nadia’s grandmother.”
“Okay, fine!”
She keeps rummaging in our closet, and I’m worried. I don’t have any daring tops, I have time to think before she finds one and chucks it at my face.
“White. Super-pretty with the red skirt, and look at the cuuuut!” She drags out the last word like bubblegum.
I recognize the only item shipped to me from my family in Argentina over the last few years. My favorite aunt, Tía Rosa, sent me this sexy, half-transparent, pearly white top with a neckline so plungy it commits suicide between my breasts. I never put it on for Jude.
“No way,” I say. “I didn’t buy that thing.”
“Yep, I figured. Now, put it on. It’ll be gorgeous.”
Because Zoe doesn’t give up easily, I try it on, hating the way her eyes grow into saucers in front of me. “Dayumm,” she says. “What a rack, girl.”
“No, it’s just the top.”
“Yeah, whatevs, and done deal. It’s what you’re wearing, although Bo might be in trouble. Here’s to hoping they play their newest song.”
“Which song?”
“The crazy sexy one. The porn song? Emil says it’s about me, but Bo wrote it, and I’m purrty, purrty sure it isn’t about me,” she says, grinning.
And when I leave my house, with Jude nowhere to hug goodbye, I’m somehow wearing the short, red silk skirt, Tía Rosa’s stripper top—with a pin at the center keeping it from kamikaze-diving—and Zoe’s mile-high red Loboutins.
I don’t know me anymore.
BO
We’re on in ten minutes, the girls haven’t arrived yet, and I have a very grumpy tour manager stomping around and yapping at staff about the potential entrances they might be waiting at. Troll is opinionated, but once we make our choices, he puts one hundred and ten percent effort into them whether he agrees or not.
“And no phone numbers for any of them?” he asks me again.
“No. Well, Emil might have Zoe’s.”
The lead singer in question isn’t available. He has shut himself into the bathroom where he belts out song after song, making them bounce against the walls. He entered shirtless, so when he’s quiet it’s because he’s doing his shadowboxing thing, pumping himself up.
“Prep for Never Ever, guys,” I tell Troy and Elias.
“It’s on,” Troy nods, grabs his drumsticks, and gets up. Besides the guitars and Troy’s favorite snare drum, we’re using Luminessence’s gear in the studio, so we travel light when we stride down the hallway. Emil’s there already and sweaty as hell. With glowing eyes, he’s ready to give it all.
“Shirt?” I ask, holding it out to him, and he grabs it absentmindedly only to fling it over a shoulder. “Dude. We’re going to rock the house!”
“Hell yeah.” We run through the usual backslaps and headlocks—and straighten at the apparition at the end of the hallway. Because there, with Troll proudly in front of them, are Nadia and Zoe.
“Chicks,” Elias says. “I guess Fuck You is on?”
“Woo-hooh! And after, I’m tapping that,” Emil eloquently chimes in. He bounces to his feet and makes a run for Zoe.
But Nadia. Is with her. And she’s a goddamn vision. What the hell happened to her? She’s got the shortest little skirt on. It’s bright red, skulking over her hips, and—shit, her legs! They’re crazy—in those shoes—and, Jesus.
Boobs.
I set my longneck on the floor and cross my arms while watching her approach. She’s got red flecks of embarrassment on her cheeks, and when my eyes travel south, down her never-ending cleavage, she covers herself by mirroring my crossed arms.
“Troll,” I say. “We’re ready, and it’ll be the new song.” Then I swallow the distance to Nadia, grind her against my body, and kiss her like she’s mine.
NADIA
Bo’s kiss leaves me gasping for oxygen. His eyes burn, and he presses me so close it’s like he wants to brand me.
“You came,” he husks out. “This’ll be good.” Then he grabs my hand, swings, and marches us inside the studio. There’s a woman with headphones on, speaking into a microphone. A guy my age with his headphones half-cocked on his head nods at us. He reaches over the desk and shakes everyone’s hands.
“Bo?” he asks Bo last. Bo nods and listens to the guy’s full name. “All right. Sharon’ll introduce you in…” Radio Guy glances at a wall clock. “Thirty sec.”
The rest of the band seat themselves. Troy behind his drums and Elias on a stool with his bass guitar. Emil, still with Zoe tucked at his side, pulls the microphone up high on the stand.
Bo stares at him. “Dude.” He juts his chin at Zoe, and Emil rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, dude. She’ll be sitting over there”—he points at three chairs along the wall—“before you’re done talking.”
“Listeners!” Sharon sings into her microphone. “I have a treat for you! With us tonight is a brand new band that was discovered by none other than our beloved Luminessence. Well, I guess they’ve been around for a little while, but mostly in their home country, Sweden. Now, here I am, chitchatting with bandleader Bo Lindgren. Bo, what made you guys drift over to America?”
“Hey, Sharon, thanks for having us,” Bo murmurs. His voice has changed. It’s the melodic, deeper one he uses when he does backup vocals for Clown Irruption. He hasn’t let go of my hand and nods toward the only seat available by their desk. I shake my head and drop back toward the three chairs by the wall.
“Well, we figured we’d take on this village and see if anyone liked us—even though Sweden is the center of the universe.”
Sharon launches into a gorgeous radio laughter. “Right? Oh isn’t that so sweet of you to think of little us from all the way across the ocean. Now, I’ll let you get down and dirty. Why don’t you play us a song? You have a couple of records out already, I hear from Pop in Luminessence, all of which are, and I quote, ‘flippin’ radical.’ Which one are you going to share with us?”
Bo’s laughter is bedroom-low. “Hmm, is it after ten p.m. yet?” he asks, turning to wink at me. My body reacts instantly, and I find myself pressing my thighs together under the flimsy skirt I’m wearing.
“Why, I believe it is, Mr. Lindgren.” Sharon chuckles conspiratorially. “And for the benefit of all of you wonderful listeners, that means there’s no need for censorship to our music. Bo?”
“Well, thank you, God, because this tune is so new
it’s not available on CD, and we don’t have a bland version of it yet. I wanted to play it because…” He swipes another glance my way. When he continues, his voice is so loaded with sexual innuendo, Zoe titters like a schoolgirl at Emil’s side. “Well, because we like playing it.”
“Okey-dokey! Friends,” Sharon says into the microphone. “I think you’d enjoy the view I have now. These musicians are not only talented but some fine-looking young men. It’s Bo Lindgren on guitar, Troy Armstrong on drums, Elias Mikaelsson on bass, and Emil Vinter on lead vocals. Singing what again? Are you going to tell us the name of this song?” she teases.
“Fuck you.” The quicksilver-smooth lilt of Bo’s words makes me suck in a breath. It’s obvious that he’s not swearing at the radio host.
“Oh my,” Sharon lilts back, and their little interaction causes the slightest stir of something at the bottom of my belly. “And that, listeners, was not Bo cussing me out. I believe it is the title of the song. Am I correct?”
“You sure are,” he says.
“Aaaallllrighty then!” she trills. “I’ll let you do this thing. And we’ll get to hear the latest, very latest song from Clown Irruption!”
BO
We’re kings. On top of the world!
Between Emil’s and my energy, we’ve pumped the band up so high the only one sitting is Troy.
The bass line. Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud. The whoosh of Troy’s brushes against the skins of the drums before he flings them at the wall and snatches the sticks.
Emil is bare-chested, already sweaty and horny as hell, mm-hmm-ing out his tribute to Zoe. My riff layers over, adding to his foreplay.
In my peripheral vision, I see Nadia as Emil whispers his first “Fuck you. I want to fuck you.” Eyes wide with surprise, her hands clench in her lap, tugging nervously at her skirt. She’s so damn sweet, I’d pull that skirt up and fuck her this minute.
I let my voice grate low, accompanying Emil’s and husking out what I want to do to her. The drums insist as Troy increases our speed, whipping, whipping them until they obey. The volume skyrockets at Emil’s, “Come for me, why don’t you—come again, again, again. I love you when you come!”