He shakes his head, sitting straight up. “I will have zero manly pride then.” He wobbles slightly, then stands, holding his arms out wide. “See? Machismo restored.”
He grabs my palm and then skates with me, holding hands.
That shiver returns. And it’s not from the chilly air. It’s from Miller. From these naughty comments he’s always made, which feel a little different now. I do my best to talk myself out of it since we’ve always been a little flirty, a little playful.
But when we reach the skate stand and he slowly lets go of my hand, he looks at me that way again.
The trouble is there’s a new fire in my body that doesn’t feel particularly friendly either. I do my best to dismiss it.
But it’s under my skin.
Chapter 13
Miller
When it comes to nightmares, I’m familiar with the standard repertoire.
You’ve got “Teeth Falling Out,” a classic. Shudder.
There’s “Back in High School Having Forgotten Everything I Ever Knew about the War of 1812,” a horror that hits a little too close to reality.
And, of course, “Naked on Stage.” Though, oddly, considering the amount of time I’ve spent on stage, I’ve never had that one.
But nothing compares to the line at the Office of Public Records.
Jackson’s mom lost his birth certificate in an apartment fire a few years ago. He needs it for the scholarship application, so about a century ago, I brought him here to order a copy.
Fine, maybe we’ve been waiting more like twenty-eight minutes, but I’m eager to get back to songwriting, something I’ve been doing every night at my piano for the last several days—fine-tuning the songs I’ve had in my back pocket.
At twenty-nine minutes, we make it to the front, where Jackson requests the duplicate. The bedraggled clerk, strands of hair slipping from her bun, pops a Skittle between bubble-gum-pink-colored lips, then taps the details out on her keyboard. She reaches for another candy, then frowns, forlorn, at the empty bag.
“What’s your favorite color of Skittle?” I inquire.
She looks up and blinks in slow-motion, as if not sure who I’m asking. “I like the red ones best. But the purple ones are pretty tasty too.”
“I heard a story the other day that all Skittles actually taste the same,” I say. Jackson gives me a look like I’ve started talking to a houseplant. “Maybe”—I pause to read her name tag—“Beverly feels that way too.”
She tilts her head and scratches her jaw. “Huh. I always thought they tasted different.”
“So do I. But somebody did a test, and apparently, it’s really the same flavor.”
“That’s crazy. I know the green tastes like lime,” Jackson says.
I give him a serious look. “But do you really? Or do you just think it tastes like lime? That’s the question.”
Slowly, as if it’s the first time in ages, Beverly smiles. “Do you think it’s like the Matrix, and we’re all experiencing a programmed reality?”
I widen my eyes. “Maybe that’s why they don’t make blue Skittles, just red ones. So we have to stay in the Matrix.”
Beverly slaps the counter, cackling so loud that heads turn across the musty records office. “That must be it.” She returns to the computer screen and says, “I can have that copy ready for you on Monday.”
Jackson sighs. “We have to come back?”
She looks sympathetic. “Either that or I can mail it to you, and it’ll arrive in a week.”
He turns to me. “The application isn’t due until right before Christmas, but I need to get the preliminary paperwork filed next week to be eligible. Only, I have to take my grandpa to the doctor after school on Monday.”
“Can your dad pick it up for you?” Beverly suggests, meaning me.
I laugh. “I’m just a friend. But I can definitely pick it up for him if that’s allowed.”
“You can do that. We just need you both to sign a form, granting permission.” She slides a piece of paper to us that we both sign.
Jackson smiles. “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
I wave a hand. “It’s nothing.” I grin at Beverly. “I’ll bring the Skittles.”
She laughs then beckons for me to lean closer as she whispers, “Come at 12:35. I return from my lunch then, but the office doesn’t reopen till 12:45. We’ll get you in and out quickly.”
“You’re a goddess, Beverly.”
She smiles, and Jackson says thank you.
As we take the hallway to the exit, Jackson looks at me as if I’m wearing a cape and rippling with muscles. Well, I do have muscles.
“Dude. That was majestic.” He holds up a palm for a high-five, and I deliver. “Did you do that with the Skittles to get a better appointment?”
I shake my head, laughing. “No. I had no idea she’d be so cool. I just like making conversation.”
“With anyone?”
“Think about how her day must be—cranky people asking the same thing over and over. It’s as easy to strike up a conversation as stand there staring at my phone, and nicer for everyone.”
“You are the master.”
“Tell that to my mom. When I was a kid, she said she couldn’t get me to shut up, so I’m glad someone finally appreciates my gift for gab.”
“I definitely appreciate it,” he says as we reach the door. “When do you go back in the studio again so I can start recording? I’m antsy to make some videos.”
“Tomorrow,” I tell him, and I’m fired up for Jackson. Watching this kid grow from a boy to a man over the last ten years has been an incomparable joy. He’s learned to navigate a world that’s been merciless to him and his family. He’s tackled it with his camera and his wits, and now he’s just steps away from being the first in his family to go to college.
I’m fired up for other reasons too. I cannot wait to start making new music again. For the last week, since we decided to duet together, Ally and I have been planning our song list and writing some new ones, and already I feel invigorated.
But there’s more. A reason I haven’t made sense of yet.
I’m excited for the chance to get up close to Ally again. Maybe to dance together, to see how our chemistry plays out the second time. To look into her eyes, and to feel that wild spark.
I want that for the sake of the music, of course.
Not because my heart was on fire when she sang sweet dirty words to me from inches away.
Once we’re back in the city, I say goodbye to Jackson and head to Dr. Insomnia’s to meet Ally and Chloe.
Note to self: don’t let on you just thought about how Ally’s lush body would feel pressed against you.
Dammit. Now I’m thinking about how she’d feel pressed against me naked.
The answer?
Spectacular.
Maybe I need a red Skittle to enter an artificial reality where I’m not inappropriately attracted to my best friend.
Chapter 14
Ally
At Dr. Insomnia’s, I study the close-up image of the chalk-covered sidewalk.
“This is Washington Square Park?”
Chloe nods. “Can you tell where I took this from?”
I peer more closely at the image on her laptop, where she’s showing me the pictures she shot and edited for her photography class. Then, a burst of clarity. “You shot the picture from the ground, right?”
She wiggles her eyebrows, like a delighted cartoon character. “The teacher challenged us to work on different and unusual angles. I went down on my belly and took the picture from there.”
My smile widens. “Brilliant. That’s a fantastic approach, and I love that it makes me think about the park in a new way.”
She clicks to the next one. It’s a close-up of a water pipe in black-and-white, with a drop of water falling from the opening. “It has a very spooky feel. Is that what you were going for?”
She thrusts a victorious fist into the air, shouting yes. “That’s exactly what
I was going for,” she says at a more normal volume.
“Do you like taking pictures of spooky stuff?”
“I like shooting weird things. Different things. I like finding new angles. When we were taking pictures in the park, I did a super close-up on an empty swing at the swing set.” With the lightning speed of Generation iPad, she flicks through her photos to find the swing in question.
In the image, she’s zeroed in on the chains of the swing as it twists in the wind.
It’s evocative and unusual, but it’s definitely creepy. Enough that I wonder—is this a sign that Chloe has issues? Is she trying to tell me something? I’m no expert on parenting, but my approach with Chloe has always been to be direct. To talk to her. To ask her.
I lean on that. “Level with me. Should I be worried that you’re taking pictures of creepy things?”
“You think I’m going to go even more emo on you?”
I laugh lightly. “I’m a little worried.”
“I thought about it,” she says, drily. “But I decided I’m done with the emo phase. I’m going to work on my Wendy phase.”
I furrow my brow, laughing still. “What is a Wendy phase?”
“Aren’t all happy girls named Wendy?” She taps her chin. “Well, that girl who takes our orders at the Chinese place is super happy, and her name is Wendy.”
“I like this Wendy phase. And if you decide to revisit the emo days, please give me a heads-up. Like a note on the fridge?”
“You don’t want me to Snapchat you the news?”
“Preferably not. But skywriter is acceptable.” I nod to the screen. “What else do you have, Annie Leibovitz?”
She clicks to the next shot. It’s a completely goofy selfie where she sticks out her tongue, tilts her head sideways, and makes her eyes bug out. “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to show that to you,” she mutters, covering the screen with her hand as she navigates away from the image.
“Why?” I ask curiously.
She mumbles, “It’s for your Christmas present.”
And my heart melts into a huge puddle. I wrap an arm around her and squeeze her shoulder. “I won’t tell Santa you’re giving it to me. I love it.”
“You do?” she asks, both hope and worry in her tone.
“Of course. It’s amazing. In fact, I can’t think of a thing I’d rather have.” I mean it from the bottom of my heart. This is the perfect gift. Because she knew I’d love it. Because she did it for me. Because she’s smiling, and being silly, and knowing I love her.
“Are you enjoying your photography class?” I ask as I take a drink of my honey-drenched tea. I need to keep my vocal cords well-lubed since I’m asking them to do more heavy lifting than usual.
She pushes her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “It’s a lot of fun. You should take a photography class.”
“You think so?”
She shrugs. “Or take whatever you like. If you could learn something just for fun, what would it be?”
I consider that for a minute, and the answer arrives as Chloe moves her mittens away from her hot chocolate.
“Knitting,” I say with certainty. “I’d like to take my knitting to the next level.”
“I love your mittens though,” she says, holding up the red and gray pair I made for her last year.
“But I want to learn cool patterns and stuff. And I want to make sassier hats. All I make are these standard ones.” I tap my seashell-pink hat.
“Sassy Hats,” she says, as if she’s testing out the words together. “Sassy Hats by Ally.”
“My next career.”
“I’d buy a sassy hat from you, Aunt Ally.”
I force my smile not to slip when she calls me that. Really, what do I expect? I’m not her mom. I’m her aunt, the sassy hatmaker.
She shuts down the computer and reaches for her hot chocolate, wrapping her hands around it as she takes a sip. A dash of whipped cream decorates her top lip.
“You have a mustache,” I tell her as I take another drink of tea.
“Maybe I want to have one,” she says in a silly voice.
“Maybe add a beard, then,” I say, and then I tell myself it doesn’t matter what she calls me. This matters. How she is with me. She’s playful and sharp, and she’s shared her work with me. That matters more than a name, more than a title.
She dips her finger in the mug, scoops off some whipped cream, and slashes some over her chin.
“No fair. No one told me we were making whipped cream beards today,” a deep baritone booms.
I look up to see Miller joining us. His hazel eyes sparkle with delight, and his smile makes my heart do a little kick.
My stomach decides to get in on the action, flipping and flopping as I linger on his square jawline, his lips, his lean, ropy body.
I grab my tea and take another drink, desperately needing something to do besides gawk at my best friend like I’ve only just noticed he’s one of the most attractive men ever in the history of the universe.
“I better get two hot chocolates, then, if we’re making beards,” he says.
I rise and grab his arm. “No.”
“What?”
“That night you had two, remember? After we went to see Jumanji? You made me promise to never let you drink that many again.”
“That’s true,” Chloe chimes in. “I pinky-swore to hold you back.”
“Ladies,” he says with a sigh as he shakes his head, “I’m a lost cause. I had a half dozen with Campbell the other week. You can’t save me. Save yourselves.”
“Can I have another, then?” Chloe chimes in sweetly.
“Because Miller is a piggy?” I ask.
Chloe laughs. “Seems fair.”
“Yes,” I say, giving her permission.
Soon, he returns with the drinks, adding a dollop above his lips.
Grabbing her camera, Chloe snaps a picture of him. Then she takes one of me when Miller swipes some whipped cream under my nose. I laugh, then wipe it off as Chloe gives him the same tour of her pictures she gave me. He pays rapt attention, asks questions, and shares his thoughts.
And the whole time, I’m thinking about licking that dollop of whipped cream off his lips.
* * *
Later, after Chloe goes to bed, Miller and I spit-shine and polish our song at my kitchen counter while I start on a new hat with a pink skull-and-crossbones design for Sam.
“Are you ready to record tomorrow?”
“I am,” I say, and that’s the understatement of the year.
“Will you be wearing your wig?”
“I should, right?”
“If it’s part of your persona, yeah. Are you going to keep up the whole Honey Lavender style?”
As my needles click, I swallow and ask nervously, “Do you like it?”
He looks me over and licks his lips. “Hell, yeah.”
I want to ditch the yarn, yank on the wig, and model it for him, then ask in a sexy, sultry tone if I turn him on.
But I can’t give voice to those feelings, nor can I give in to them. I’m doing this with Miller for the chance to make a little extra to support Chloe and me. I’m not doing this to scratch an itch for thirty days.
Sex itches can be scratched with battery-operated friends.
I’ll do what any brave heroine faced with a challenging task would do—badass her way through it with a sword, never giving in, never surrendering.
Before he leaves, we play a quick game of Bananagrams, unleashing our inner twelve-year-olds when he plays titular and I build dongle off his L. We decide that those two words are so quintessentially dirty-but-not that we might as well make the game a tie.
“I wish you a titular goodnight,” he says with a wink as he heads to the door.
“May you have a wonderful dongle,” I say, but I can’t stop laughing, and I’m glad Bananagrams has rerouted my racing hormones.
Once he’s gone, though, the silliness stops, and so does my laughter.
Instea
d, all night long I fight off images of him. His hazel eyes flickering with desire. His strong body, moving over me. His lips brushing mine.
The next day, those images intensify, so I take out my imaginary sword of resolve and slash them to tattered bits.
I head to the recording studio, prepared to do battle with my newfound and most inconvenient lust.
Chapter 15
Miller
As I sing to Ally, I tell myself I could just as well be singing with Campbell or Miles. “Maybe, if you come back to me . . .”
But hell, I wouldn’t sing those words to my brothers. We’d sing them together to an audience of faceless thousands.
Only, Ally is my audience, and I’m hers, and I should not be thinking of what my audience would look like in my bed.
Stunning, and hovering on the edge of pleasure.
I part my lips to sing the next line. “Maybe if you come hard with me.”
I groan in frustration as I botch the line of a song I wrote a few months ago and tweaked on my piano the other day for the two of us. My hormones are having a fucking field day. Little evil imps.
Ally stops, gesturing take five to the engineer in the sound booth.
She closes the distance. “You’re stiff.”
Stiff. She doesn’t know the half of it. Iron spikes have nothing on me. Because Honey Lavender is in the house, singing, dancing, shimmying, and raising my flagpole.
“You need to let go,” she tells me, smoothing her hands over my shoulders, and even that’s arousing.
Everything is with her today.
She’s like a sultry torch singer. She might as well don a red satin dress and slink her way across a baby grand piano, singing Billie Holiday’s “These Foolish Things.”
And I’d be that guy in the smoky, dimly lit jazz club, wearing a dapper suit, unable to take my eyes off her as she seduces me with bedroom eyes and her bourbon voice.
Only, I can’t be that guy. I can’t let my best friend turn me into a full-blown horndog.
So instead, I’m a robot today.
Clunky and awkward and banging into everything.
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