Cherry Beats

by Vicki James

  This was torture.

  “Okay, so I’m just going to go over there,” I thumbed towards the bar, “and let you stay there for a while to get over the trauma of what you’ve just seen. I have bleach in the back if you need it for your eyes, although I’ve heard that stings a lot and healthcare isn’t what it used to be, so you could be trapped in A&E for a while.”

  Presley’s mouth twitched on one side.

  “Not that I should be criticising the good old British NHS. That’s not what I’m about.” I spun around carefully to grip the back of the chair, and then I lifted it and turned it upside down before dropping it on top of the table. “My Auntie Catherine had her appendix rushed out only last week by those nurses and doctors. If she hadn’t been admitted as quickly as she was, it could have burst. She could have died.” I dusted my hands off. “Died! So, yeah. Use the bleach if you need it. They’ll probably save you anyway—”

  I didn’t get a chance to finish.

  Presley closed the distance between us and was on me before I could blink, turning me around his arms and pulling me closer to him until I had nowhere else to steal oxygen from except his breaths.

  His sweet, minty, tequila-tainted breaths.

  My fists were bunched up, resting against his chest as I leaned back and looked up into his eyes.

  “You talk too much, Cherry,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  “But, fuck, can you dance.”

  My eyes were wide and waiting until they fell to the plumpness of his lips, and then I wanted to cry. Everywhere wanted to cry. He was so perfect, and he was holding me, and I couldn’t speak.

  “You. Speechless. I feel like I should take a picture.”

  “W-what are you doing?” I asked weakly.

  “What I’ve been thinking about doing for a while.”

  “Tying me up in rope, throwing me in the back of your car, and letting me rot in a forest so you can’t hear my snark anymore?”

  “Tempting.” He wrinkled his nose. “But your mouth is entirely too good at what it does to waste it. I’d rather just kiss you and swallow that snark so only I can taste it.”

  “You want to kiss me?”

  “It’s either kiss your lips, bite your arse, or leave. Your choice, Cherry.”

  “Oh…”

  “And you can choose. Just say no, and I’ll turn around and walk back out of that door, and you can return to your ridiculously endearing performance.”

  Michael Hutchence sang his chorus from the speakers above, and I looked up to the ceiling, letting the words filter through. Presley looked up, too, catching up with what I was trying to tell him before I actually told him.

  When our eyes met again, he was smirking, and I was smiling. It was a girly smile. Something you’d imagine on a pretty little blonde, girl-next-door, virginal type.

  “Nothing tells you what a girl really wants to say like the song she’s begging you to listen to. At least that’s what they say,” he whispered roughly, and just like that, his lips finally pressed against mine.

  He kissed better than I’d ever dreamt he could.

  Chapter Four

  “Glenn Medeiros? I can’t kiss you to this,” Presley mumbled against my lips as one of my all-time guilty pleasures poured through the speakers, his eyes aimed at the ceiling as a sexy as sin scowl creased his forehead.

  “You know this one?”

  “There isn’t much I don’t know about music.” His fingers rose to flex against my scalp, and he gripped my hair tightly, forcing me to moan softly. “But you have the worst taste in songs.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. “Whatever, know-it-all.”

  “This is truly horrendous.” He laughed with me. “The worst.”

  Nothing’s Gonna Change My Love For You suddenly seemed like the best damn love song in the world to me, and if I wasn’t in the middle of making all my dreams come true, I would have made sure Presley took my hand and spun me around this empty bar in a slow dance to beat all slow dances.

  “Opinions are like arseholes. Everyone has one. And I bet my taste and knowledge trumps yours, rock star.”

  “I’m not the kind of guy you want to challenge like that.”

  “And you’re kissing the wrong girl if you want an easy ride.”

  “Drop the mask.”

  “Not a chance. You have to work to see me completely naked. I’m no Anna, Blossom, or—”

  He pushed his hips against mine until there wasn’t a single inch between us, cutting me off completely, and I felt his fingers pulsate and twitch against me.

  Touch. It was the single most seductive sense out of them all. You could be deaf or blind and still fall in love from a well-placed caress.

  “Then put me to work. I want to see you naked,” he breathed.

  “Sure,” I sighed, not making him work for it at all.

  In one swift move, he’d grabbed my arse cheeks, picked me up and wrapped my legs around his waist. He held me high as he walked me backwards until it was my turn to look down on him, my arms wrapped possessively around his neck. He was even more perfect from up here, staring up at me with wide eyes, his wavy hair falling away from his face. I wanted to run my fingertips through the perfectly sculptured stubble on his jaw. I wanted to lick his cheek. I wanted to steal his lips to take home with me and keep them forever. I wanted all of him, and I wanted to remember this feeling for the rest of my life.

  Presley dropped me on the bar with a thud, keeping his hands under my arse and letting his fingers make waves against the leather pants he seemed infatuated with. He remained standing between my parted legs. Without him kissing me, and nothing but the music wrapping itself around us, I began to feel like I was in some Brat Pack movie from the 80s, and this was finally my happy ending.

  “You’re here,” I whispered.

  “Mmhmm,” he moaned, moving his hands to glide up my thighs.

  “I thought you took the other girl home. You always take the other girl home.”

  Presley watched his hands sliding up and down my legs, his knees bending and his body rising and falling as he felt all of me before his fingertips found their way under the edge of my very loose T-shirt.

  “Not always,” he said softly. “And I never take them home.”

  I tilted his chin up with a single finger. “What are you doing here, Presley?”

  “Acting on impulse.”

  “For what?”

  “You.”

  “Me?”

  Presley pursed his lips, watching as his fingers disappeared under my top and began to stroke tenderly across my ribs. I had no idea my ribs were a g-spot for me, but he did, and when my skin peppered beneath his fingertips, Presley looked up at me through hooded eyes and smirked, just as Whitesnake’s Is This Love? poured out of the speakers.

  “The dick wants what it wants. Right now, it has a fetish for leather, cherry red hair, and eyes that sparkle with mischief.”

  “Spoken like a man who writes music in his spare time.”

  “I’m no Whitesnake.” He grinned widely.

  “Nobody is Whitesnake.”

  “Except Bon Jovi.

  “Except Bon fucking Jovi.” I giggled, smiling brightly. Giggled. Me. Shit. I felt bad for calling Gertrude all those bimbo names now, but Presley was a force of nature, a silent hurricane who stormed into my bar when it was closed and let the gusts of wind swirl around me.

  “Before we do this, I have something I should tell you, Cherry.”

  “Let me guess. You’re really a woman, which explains your amazing hair and sharp cheekbones?” I arched a brow, aiming for comedy and, thankfully, getting a small huff of approval from him.

  He shook his head, and his hands went around to the back of my bra. With one simple click of his fingers, it came undone and set me free.

  “I’m going to try not to focus on the fact that you must have had a lot of practice with women to be able to do that.”

  “Probably best.” He wrinkled hi
s nose again, smiling sarcastically. “Now, let me speak my truths.”

  “Let me hear them.”

  “Truth number one: I’m sorry I never really paid much attention to you at school.”

  “Ouch,” I winced, swallowing the ridiculous rejection I felt, choosing instead to remain focused on my fingers pushing through his hair like a dream. “Not many people did, so I guess you’re forgiven.”

  “Truth number two: I think you serve a really shitty pint.”

  “Yeah, well, I think you drink like a girl. Not forgiven.”

  Presley’s hands slid underneath my loose bra until he had both my breasts cupped in his hands, heavy and waiting, my nipples harder than they’d ever been.

  “Truth number three: I think you have the most perfect tits I have ever felt in the palms of my hands. Jesus, Cherry.”

  I didn’t have a response for that, especially not when he squeezed them with such perfect pressure that I was getting worried I was going to orgasm right there and then. With closed eyes, I let my head fall back, my throat straining as the moan of approval rose free.

  “Truth number four: those noises you make are the sweetest sounds I’ve heard in all my life.”

  Of course, I moaned again, letting my arms rest on his shoulders and pulling his head closer.

  “Truth number five: I’m pretty sure I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

  “That’s enough honesty. Stop there,” I gasped, feeling dizzy and lightheaded, wrapping my legs tight around him just so I had something to keep me upright.

  “Truth number six…” he whispered. “Tonight is all we have. I won’t be back next week.”

  I froze instantly, and my eyes snapped open like someone had just poured a bucket of ice-cold water over me.

  Presley’s sad eyes found mine as he wrapped his arms around my body and pressed me to him tightly. I could hardly breathe. I could hardly do anything. Was this his offer? A screw, dump, and run? Had this all just been a game of cat and mouse for him?

  “I have to go away for a while,” he clarified. “My band have been asked to go to a recording studio in London. We have three months to make decent music in the hopes that we finally get to put some good shit out into the world.”

  “Are you serious?” I squeaked, and that squeak represented excitement because even though I wanted to be the queen who held the rock star beneath her high-heeled boot and made him pray, I also wanted Presley Aron West to be known in this world for his exceptional drumming skills. Behind his kit, he was unleashed, free, and wild. He had a talent few wished they had a tenth of, and a huge part of me was glad he was trying to use it rather than sticking around in this dingy town bringing lame-arsed women for a drink to the same lame-arsed place every weekend. “Shit, Presley, I’m so happy for you.” I beamed.

  “Thanks, Cherry.”

  “So, you want to know if I’m going with this being a one-time-only thing?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Wow,” I mouthed.

  Presley’s eyes searched mine. “Is that a good wow or a You’re a cheeky motherfucker wow.”

  “A bit of both,” I admitted, scrunching one eye shut to hide my discomfort.

  “You have a right to choose. You always have a right to choose.”

  The dramatic pause was only for effect. I knew my answer before he’d even told me any of his truths. He could have told me he’d just murdered a defenceless old lady in the alleyway and thrown knives at homeless men, and I’d still have bent over for him. You didn’t spend your life falling in love with a man like Presley only to get a set of never-before-seen morals and ethical codes the moment he unclipped your bra.

  “I know what I want,” I said, looking into his eyes.

  “You sure?”

  “Surer than I’ve ever been about anything.”

  His responding grin would stay with me for the rest of my life.

  As would the night we were about to spend together.

  Chapter Five

  Three Years Later

  “Yo, Tess! Get your head out of the clouds. I need your hands over here at the bar. I can’t do this shit all by myself.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me, Bourbon?”

  I moved away from the heavy box of bottles I’d just carried up twenty steep stairs from the cellar. It was a busy Friday night, and I was wearing more sweat than clothes.

  “Hurry!” he called out.

  “Patience, boss. My feet, hands, waist, and head are all ten-feet underground, nowhere near the clouds, because I’m doing shitty jobs for you.” I muttered the word dick under my breath.

  Bourbon was unusually frantic, turning around and going one way, only to backtrack and then spin the other way to reach for whatever it was he needed. Unfortunately, we didn’t have Valium on our shelves.

  I wiped my dirty hands on the thighs of my jeans and strapped on a smile as I walked over to the next waiting customer. “Sorry for your wait.” I pushed my new fringe away from my forehead. “What can I get ya?”

  “Two pints of San Miguel, two white wine and sodas—one of those with ice—and… do you have any nuts?”

  “Salted, roasted, or sweet chilli.”

  “Roasted.” The guy gave me a wink that made my insides shrivel.

  “Sure thing.” I smiled sarcastically.

  I got to work, handing over his order as quickly and as smoothly as I could, not wanting to make it seem like I was trying to balance champagne flutes while running on a treadmill.

  In the last three years, since Presley had gone to London to try and crack the industry and become involved in band life, Bourbon’s bar—BB’s—had seen a rise in popularity. A huge rise. A rise we couldn’t deny came from it being mentioned in Presley’s press interviews at least half a dozen times in the last eighteen months alone. But I couldn’t even think about him, let alone let his name roll around in my brain like he lived there, so I shook my head, quietly reprimanded myself, and focused on the blaring music.

  The boss had installed new high definition TV screens in every corner, and we had this crazy mood lighting that made me feel like I was working for Tom Cruise in Cocktail when he’s in that multi-storey prison bar. Still, it kept the customers turning over, the tills full of purple notes, and it had given me the promotion I’d never expected from Bourbon.

  I was now bar manager numero uno, working with a full time salary that had allowed me enough security to buy my first one-bed apartment—fine, you couldn’t swing a dead cat around, but at least it was mine—while also having enough money every month to start a little savings fund and know that I had a pension in the bag. It was more than I could ever have expected from bartending at twenty-two years old.

  My parents hadn’t batted an eyelash when I’d told them I didn’t have any more exciting plans than bar work. I think they were just glad I had a job and was getting out of their way, given the fact that my younger brother still didn’t know how to put on his socks by himself. Two years my junior, Freddie Lisbon was a bit of a dick, but only I was allowed to say that because I was his big sister, and I had rights others didn’t.

  “Tess. Tessa!” Bourbon called out, just as I was mixing a stupid Pina fucking Colada. Yeah, we were serving fancy arse rock star drinks now. I was going to kill He Who Shall Not Be Named if I ever saw him again.

  Which was unlikely.

  And probably for the best.

  The crowds weren’t getting any quieter as they all began to push forward and get testy.

  “Tess!”

  “Yes, captain?” I called out over the sound of Led Zepplin’s How Many More Times. It sounded like Robert Plant was on my side, screaming at my boss, How Many More Times you gonna call her name, idiot?

  “The draft ale has run out.”

  “Then grab the bottles.”

  “The guy wants draft.”

  “This is your bar. Why am I telling you what to do when it’s your bar?”

  “Because I pay you to manage the place, that’s wh
y.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed my lips together. Growling deep in my soul, I looked up at Bourbon’s customer and leaned over so he could hear me. “Sorry, doll, but we’re all out of draft. I’m up to my tits in customers wanting drinks, and I think we’re about to get trampled faster than Mufasa in Lion King if we don’t keep serving—you’re included in the ‘we’ there, by the way. I don’t have time to sort out the ale for at least another ten minutes. If you want to wait, fine. If you want a bottle, take one, and I’ll get the boss to throw in a round of shots for you as an apology. If that isn’t good enough for you, I suggest the quieter bar down the road, Pear Tree. They do all sorts of ale, beer, cider and none of their shit is served with a side order of attitude or sass from a fiery little redhead like me.”

  “Tess!” Bourbon scolded.

  His customer burst out laughing.

  They always did.

  Drunk people loved a bit of fire when they knew there was no real malice behind it.

  “Who can refuse an offer like that? Double up my order. We’re staying here for the night.”

  I let my head fall in Bourbon’s direction and offered him a smug smirk.

  The night wore on…

  And on.

  And on.

  Even when I was certain I was going to be able to take ten minutes to go pee, wash my hands, and grab a packet of crisps, I was proven wrong by another swarm of women rolling in with balloons wrapped around their necks, or a group full of rugby players pushing and shoving each other through the doors, a little worse for wear.

  By the time midnight struck, I was a hot, sweaty mess. I looked like crap, stank even worse, and my mouth tasted like it had been chewing on stale bread. Bourbon didn’t have to say anything when he flopped back against the back shelf of the bar. His exhaustion was draped around his features like an ugly balaclava. He stared straight ahead at the double glass doors, and I knew he was praying that the customers had all been sated for the night. The place was still busy, but everyone was either dancing, sitting, or passed out somewhere we couldn’t see them.

  I stuck an empty glass under the tap and waited for the water to fill it, so thirsty, I thought I might die.