by Emme Burton
“Good to meet you, too, Mitch.”
My dad and Mitch discuss where he’s taking me tonight.
My mother and I discuss the boys’ bedtime and that she should order pizza for dinner.
It’s clear that neither Mitch nor I are attending to our respective conversations, because our eyes are not engaged fully with the other people in the room, but instead are constantly searching for each other.
Mitch breaks up the discourse. “Well, I think we should be going, Posey. We need to get a table and something to eat before I have to play.”
Mom and Dad walk us to the door. Van and Shane have already gone to the family room to play a video game and shout their goodbyes over their shoulders.
When they close the door behind us, I can make out my parents loud whispering and my mother saying “handsome.”
Mitch and I stop on the porch, turn and smile at each other, and laugh simultaneously. He shakes his head.
Between laughs I comment, “Meeting the parents…”
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “Never gets less awkward. No matter how old you are.”
There’s that word again. Old. How old is he? I know he’s been to college. So at least twenty-two? Oh God, don’t let him be twenty-two. That would be too young. That would be wrong.
Chapter 10
“I hope this is OK?” Mitch asks as we head into a local pizza place on the strip by the beach. It’s called Princiotti’s. It’s supposed to be really good. Real New York–style pizza. Where I used to live, in St. Louis, pizza is a hot topic. There’s a very particular kind there, obviously called St. Louis style. Thin crust, cut in squares with gooey cheese that sticks to the roof of your mouth. You can’t get it anywhere else in the world.
With my mind still rhapsodizing about pizza as a distraction, I reply, “Sure, I’ve wanted to bring the kids here.”
“It’s one of my favorite places to eat. And Snapback is close, so we can get there in time for the sound check.”
“You’re playing at a sports bar?” I tease. I didn’t take Mitch as the sporto type, although he’s fit enough that he could be. We’ve just never discussed sports.
“Yes,” Mitch bugs his eyes out and tilts his head in response to my teasing. “But the band doesn’t play in the bar. There’s an outdoor patio with a stage for those who don’t need to have their eyes constantly glued to an eighty-inch flat-screen.”
The hostess shows us to our booth and hands us menus.
“Do you like sports?” It’s one of those things I don’t know about him and maybe I should.
“Baseball’s OK, but we don’t really have a good team here.”
In St. Louis everybody had Cardinals fever whether you liked sports or not. Donnie was a huge fan.
Mitch continues, “Football’s a little better. I’d watch a Gators game if it was on and I wasn’t doing something else. So yeah, I like it OK. I’m not, like, a huge obsessive, sit on the couch on a Saturday kind of guy.”
I’m relieved. “I was sort of thinking that, but there’s still a lot we don’t know about each other.”
Mitch reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “We have plenty of time.” He holds me with his jade green gaze. I nod. Plenty of time. Donnie used to say that, too.
“Ahem.” We are so wrapped up in each other, I don’t even notice the waitress standing at the end of the booth until she clears her throat.
Mitch and I jump away from each other, releasing our hands and looking up at her. Interruptions are becoming more and more annoying. Mitch rolls his eyes and laughs. The waitress must think we’re nuts.
Mitch orders the pizza, but not before asking me if his choice is OK with me. He asks me if I want a beer, and when I say yes, he orders two draft light beers. This is not the kind of place with a large selection of craft beers. They have regular, light and nonalcoholic. That’s it.
We eat and talk and debate the merits of New York– versus Chicago- versus St. Louis–style pizza. Mitch fakes being appalled when I describe the flat cracker-like pizza of my hometown. I find out he is originally from a suburb of Chicago and a lover of deep dish. We agree that the pizza we’re eating is a good compromise between the two. I also discover he moved here to go to college. I’m just about to ask when that was when Mitch looks at his watch.
“Hey, we gotta go! Sound check is in five. You are extremely distracting, Ms. Garrett.” Mitch throws some money on the table with the check.
Ms. Garrett. He said Ms., not Mrs. I’d never thought of myself that way, until now.
***
We turn left as we exit Princiotti’s and Mitch detours to grab his guitar out of his truck. Walking hand in hand, we arrive at Snapback in short order—literally one hundred feet.
“Wow, you were right. The bar is close.”
The place is packed with people waiting to get in and others spilling out onto the sidewalk as they exit.
Mitch greets the bouncer and says, “She’s with the band.”
I giggle when the bouncer lets us right in.
We weave our way through the crowd and the noise of the multiple televisions blaring games I can only assume are being played on the West Coast. The air is close and tight. I finally exhale when we make it through to a large patio area facing the beach. There’s a stage to the left and tables and chairs to the right. Even though the band doesn’t play for a while, the tables are filling up.
“Uhm, let’s grab a table. I need to get up there.” Mitch points to the stage. We find an empty one in the middle near the front by the sound booth. Mitch pulls out a chair and I sit. He kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be back after sound check,” he whispers in my ear.
On his way up to the stage, he stops a waitress and points back to me. She reaches up and runs her hand down his arm. I don’t like it. Thank God, Mitch shrugged her touch away.
The waitress walks straight up to the table. “Mitch said to get you whatever you want. So, what do you want?” She’s less than hospitable.
“PBR?”
“We only got that in cans. That OK?”
“Sure.”
She smiles broadly. “You probably remember PBR from before it was trendy.” Her voice is rife with sarcasm.
I just smile and huff out an equally sarcastic, “Yeah, right.” Bitch!
Actually, I do remember when PBR was just the cheapest beer you could buy, and Donnie and I were living on a rookie cop’s salary. She’s right. It wasn’t cool then, but that waitress doesn’t need to, not so subtly, comment on my age.
The band checks the sound, making an adjustment here and there. They sound good. Their music is the driving guitar rock that Van likes and is learning from Mitch. Mitch lifts his head from his guitar to sing into his mike. Every time he sings he looks straight down at me.
Waitress chick comes back with my beer. Slams it down so that foam fountains out of the top and says, “That’ll be five ninety-nine.”
I pull some cash out from my jeans.
Suddenly Mitch’s voice over the speaker stops all the noise in the bar.
“Stacy, I told you to run a tab for me. Put anything Posey wants on it.”
Every woman standing in the bar sighs audibly. Someone whispers, “Who’s Posey?”
I turn red with embarrassment.
“Fine!” Stacy whispers angrily. “Posey? That’s your name?” More snottiness as she twists her face up in disgust.
I put my money back in my pocket. “Yes, and now that Mitch has told everyone here”—I smile overly sweetly and run my hand through my hair—“I’m sure you won’t forget.”
Mitch hops off the stage when the band and sound technician are sure they have all the levels right for tonight. He makes a beeline to our table. The rest of the band follows him. I guess I’m meeting the band now.
“Posey, meet my band. Dave plays guitar, Dave the bass, and Hermione on the drums.”
I shake hands with everyone. “So nice to meet you.”
“We’re glad to mee
t you. Mitch talks about you all the time, but since we’ve never seen you we though he was making you up.”
“No, I’m real.”
“You sure are,” Mitch declares as he sits in the chair next to me, runs his hand down my arm and squeezes my hand.
Three girls slowly make their way to our table. Dave, Dave and Hermione’s girlfriends introduce themselves and welcome me to the “band widows” table.
I wince internally. Better a band widow than a real one.
Mitch slides an arm around my waist as he pulls himself closer and whispers in my ear, “You OK?”
“Yeah, yes. ‘Widow’ is just a word. I know they don’t mean to be hurtful.”
“They don’t know about your past. I didn’t let them know.”
“I figured. It’s OK, really.”
Mitch kisses me softly on the neck below my ear. Right there for everyone to see.
The Daves and Hermione greet their girlfriends with hugs and kisses. After I learn that Jane is guitar Dave’s girl, Gwen, bass Dave’s girl, and Rhonda, Hermione’s girlfriend, they sit. Stacy comes over to get their drink orders. It doesn’t escape my notice that she does so without any snark or commentary. She’s actually friendly to them.
As Stacy takes the drink orders, Hermione lifts her chin at Mitch.
Looks like it’s time for them to play. He scoots away from the table, but not before leaning in again and saying, “Be back soon.” He kisses me. This time right on the lips. I kiss him right back.
When he’s gone, I turn my attention back to the table. All eyes are on me, and Stacy’s not just staring, she’s glaring at me.
She turns abruptly and marches off, but not until she says to everyone but me, “So, if there’s nothing else, I’ll get your drinks.”
I wait until she’s out of range before saying, “Wow, Stacy actually likes you guys.”
Jane answers, “Sure, we’re here a lot. Why? Was Stacy snarky to you?”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“Aaah!” Rhonda chimes in. “That’s probably because she’s had a thing for Mitch for-ever. I think he was drunk on New Year’s and kissed her, and she thinks it meant something.”
I must have frowned because Gwen reaches over and grabs my hand. “Posey, it didn’t mean a thing to Mitch. If you didn’t know it, we’ve nicknamed him ‘The Monk’ because he’s never brought a girl to a gig, ever. Sure, girls throw themselves at him all the time, but he never responds. I actually almost fell out of my chair when he kissed you. That was fucking hot!”
“I can’t believe he’s never brought a girl”—I leave out the word friend—“to a gig before.”
“Nope, you’re the first,” Rhonda adds, confirming it.
“Someone in his past must have hurt him real bad,” Gwen says.
The band widows all nod in agreement.
I have an important question. “And how long has the band been together?”
“About three years.”
“After college.”
“Forever.” They answer in unison.
So, if the band has been together since college and that was three years ago, Mitch must be about… twenty-fi—
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mitch’s amplified voice interrupts my rudimentary mental math.
“We are…” Mitch and the band take their places on stage and a large banner drops behind them: The Band That Must Not Be Named.
Mitch and everyone in the venue whisper-shout, “Bandemort!”
I laugh. Very clever.
Rhonda shouts across the table, “That was Hermione’s idea! She figured if she had Hermione for a handle, she had a right to choose that name for the band. Plus, they’re all ginormous Harry Potter nerds.” Another thing I didn’t know about Mitch. I’m learning more about him by the minute.
The band has the place rocking. Watching Mitch in action, I can see he’s ridiculously talented and this is clearly his passion. He’s as good as Sid Cooper from #coolNerd. I can’t help the shiver that runs up my spine each time he turns his head and sings directly to me.
Jane, Rhonda and Gwen tease me. “Are you picking up how he looks right at you every time he sings the words love and baby?”
Sheepishly I answer, “Yeah.” I can’t begin to describe the way I feel when he does.
Rhonda leans in to me to avoid yelling. “We’re so glad he met you. He’s a much happier camper these days.”
I learn from the girls that Mitch had garnered interest from a couple of touring bands to join them recently. He turned them down.
I should spend more time with these ladies. They’re like a Mitch Morgan Wikipedia page.
The band plays for an hour and half with no break. They do cover songs with the occasional original song. One of them is titled “Cul-de-sac Love.” Mitch dedicates it to “my special girl from Juniper Court.” My heart is so full. I must confess, I’m falling hard.
After two encores, the band leaves the stage for good. Mitch wastes no time making his way back to me. He has a beer in hand and is mopping sweat from his face and hair, and I can’t wait to be close to him. Without a second thought, I push away from the table and navigate my way through the crowd to meet him halfway. I rush into his arms, spilling his beer a little, and look into his stunning, sweaty face. Damp from perspiration, he smells like sandalwood and warmth and dare I think it… sex.
Mitch laughs. “Well, hi! Did you miss me?”
“Yeah, I did.” I didn’t know it until I said it. Up onstage, he was right there in front of me, but the more he sang and the longer he wasn’t right next to me, the more I missed him.
It can wait no longer, I want to feel his lips on mine. I reach up and twist my fingers into his wet hair at the nape of his neck. I push up on my toes and kiss him, slow and soft, and then fast and deep. So deep, my core floods with heat and desire. I need to be with him in a less populated place. A place with no chance of interruptions.
If the physical reaction his body is having to my kiss is any indication, he wants the same thing.
Mitch pulls away. “Oh God, Posey, babe… let’s get out of here.”
He called me babe. “OK.”
“I gotta get my guitar.”
“I gotta get my purse.” Our directives are clear and meaningful.
I turn and head back to the table to get my purse and say goodbye to the girls. As I do, I overhear a group of men congratulating Mitch.
“Man, that was awesome!”
“When are you playing again?”
“Dude, didn’t know you were with a cougar!”
I look up to see Mitch’s reaction to the cougar comment. He’s shaking hands and nodding as he moves away from the praise of a group of college guys.
Was he agreeing with them?
Chapter 11
Mitch and I make small talk while we caress and tangle our hands together on the center console of his truck on the way over to Mitch’s place. It isn’t far from the bar, maybe seven blocks at most. Once he parks, we’re out of the car and racing hand in hand across the parking lot in record time.
I stop suddenly. “You live here?”
“Yes,” Mitch says, a little frustrated, and tugs me forward.
We’re at the edge of a little bridge that spans a canal. On the other side is an adorable house. It’s located on a small strip of land between the canal and the intercoastal waterway. It’s one of many tall, narrow, two-story, wood frame homes.
“You live on the intercoastal?”
“Yes,” Mitch says again but doesn’t stop to explain or elaborate. He finally herds me across the bridge to the house. Mitch directs me to the outside stairs that lead to the upper level. “Up here.”
I follow him up. How can a struggling musician afford a waterfront apartment on the intercoastal?
Reaching the top landing, Mitch releases my hand. I gasp at how beautiful the view is, but only for a second. My focus shifts from the breathtaking vista to the sound of a key turning a lock and the b
reathtaking man I’m with. I admire Mitch’s strong shoulders and arms opening the door to me. He smiles and waves me inside with a chivalrous bow of the head.
I don’t go in. Instead, I charge into his arms, back him against the doorjamb and thrust my hands into his hair to bring his lips to mine. We kiss. Short, frantic kisses. One landing milliseconds after the next. As our kisses lengthen and deepen, Mitch backs me up against the opposite side of the doorjamb. He firmly holds me with one hand at the nape of my neck and the other cupping my hip. His long, capable fingers grasp the top of my butt while his thumb skates down my hipbone.
We stay in the doorway only moments before we twirl and tangle, our bodies moving like molecules that have been kept apart too long and finally crash together and fuse. I tear at the buttons on his shirt. He, in turn, pushes my jacket over my shoulders and down my arms. He flings it away to who knows where. I’ve managed to get his shirt off and start tugging on the sleeveless T-shirt partly tucked into his jeans that are straining under the pressure of a growing erection. All the time we are walking backward and sideways, a tornado of passion trying to touch down.
Mitch pulls his lips away, but we are still touching, grasping, caressing. Anything to get closer.
Mitch rests his forehead on mine and asks, earnestly, “Is this OK?”
“Yes.”
“Really? You? You want this? Want me?”
“Yes, Mitch. Yes. So much.”
No other confirmation is needed. Mitch’s lips crash down on mine. He grabs my knee and pulls it up around his waist. I jump slightly and hook my other leg around him. I can feel his hardness and I slide against it greedily. Mitch’s arms encircle me completely. He carries me into the next room. He’s half naked, and touching the ripples and bulges of his back muscles sends scorching sensations to my breasts and sensitive places even lower.
Mitch lowers me to the floor. Never breaking contact, we give minimal directions to get out of our clothes.