Wicked White

by Michelle A. Valentine

  I nod and then turn and head to the small ten-by-ten blue-and-white tin shed. The door creaks on its hinges as I pull it open. As soon as my eyes adjust to the dim light, I’m shocked by what I see.

  It’s not cluttered in here like I expected a shed would be. Walking in, I imagined random junk would be piled from floor to ceiling, but only the back wall has shelves, lined with boxes of items that are clearly labeled. The rest of the shed is lined with thick blankets, while a microphone rests on a stand in the middle of the small space. A karaoke machine sits on a small, wooden table.

  I walk over and pick through the stack of CDs piled next to the machine, each containing music from Broadway musicals. I smile, loving the idea that Iris is into a more classic sound that focuses on the voice of the song.

  “Did you find any cables?” Iris calls from the doorway.

  I turn to look at her and find an odd expression on her face when she notices I’m going through her things, so I decide to just ask about what I’ve found. “You sing?”

  She hesitates for a long moment and then nods. “Yes, but as you can tell, I only really sing one sort of thing.”

  I hold up the soundtrack of Wicked, and she smiles as she approaches me. “That’s one of my favorites.”

  The curiosity of what her angel’s voice would sound like singing flows through me, and I ask, “Would you sing for me?”

  She bites her lip and the shy expression on her face causes my heart to race. Every time I think she can’t possibly be any more attractive to me, she finds a new way to surprise and excite me, making her even more beautiful. “Okay.”

  She flips a couple switches, and red lights on the machine turn to green as a tiny screen lights up. “This little machine doesn’t have the best sound, but it works. Gran got this for my seventeenth birthday—back when I decided being on Broadway was what I wanted to do after I graduated from high school.”

  “What happened with that dream?” I ask, trying to figure her out. “Did you ever give it a shot?”

  She slides the CD into the slot and then works on selecting a track. “I did, or, well, still am, rather. I moved to New York a year ago after working for two years to save up some money, but came back here when Gran passed to get things in order.”

  I nod, remembering how not too long ago I set off to California in search of a music career as a soulful indie artist. Iris and I aren’t so different after all. Matter of fact, it’s almost as if we were cut from the same cloth.

  I’m not sure where her parents are, but I’ve been around her long enough to figure out that they aren’t in her life—that her grandmother raised her. So there’s that, which we have in common, but we also both apparently really dig music, and not just any music, but music that almost takes on a life of its own—music that we can throw ourselves into and sing with every inch of our beings because we love it. In order to sing show tunes, you have to feel the music. Emotion is impossible to fake through them if performed well.

  Iris sighs, pulling me out of my thought. “I started going to every open audition I could find. So far, I haven’t had much luck, so I’m waiting tables until I can catch a break, but I know it’s going to happen for me one day, because I’m never going to give up.”

  I smile, excited by her passion. “Well, let’s hear it then.”

  “This one’s my favorite. It’s called ‘I’m Not That Girl.’”

  The music plays softly, and she steps up to the stand and licks her lips as she wraps her hands around the mic. Even though I don’t know this particular song, the symphonic melody sets a dreamy atmosphere, and I already know she’s about to blow me away before she even has the chance to open her mouth.

  She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes like she can’t bear to look at me while she sings. The moment the first word leaves her mouth, I smile at the buttery tone of her voice.

  I was right. This girl is a fucking angel.

  The pitch of her voice is perfect as she lands every note that the song calls for. I get lost in watching her perform this song, but I wish she would look at me. That’s where I feel she’s losing connection. If she does that when she auditions, it’s the one thing holding her back from getting those parts she wants.

  There’s so much with the performance aspect of her singing I could help her with, but if I do that, I’ll be opening myself up for a string of questions that I know inevitably will come—questions I don’t think I’m ready to answer.

  Finally, as she ends with the last note of the song, she opens her eyes to find me studying her intently.

  A fierce blush rushes to her cheeks and she shrugs, like she doesn’t know what to say under the scrutiny of my stare.

  She bites her lip nervously. “Obviously, I still have a lot to work on . . . I’m self-taught, so my singing is still a work in progress.”

  I shake my head and, going against everything I just said I wouldn’t do in my head, I step toward her, wanting to help. I want to tell her what I think she’s doing wrong so that she can have a shot at her dream, even if that means I could out myself. Helping her also seems like a good way to apologize for being a dick.

  “Iris . . . that was amazing. You’ve got so much talent,” I praise.

  Her green eyes light up with excitement like a child’s do on Christmas morning. “You really think so? You’re not just saying that?”

  “No. I never bullshit about music. You’ve definitely got the chops for Broadway, it’s just . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but I know that in order for her to get better, she has to be told what she’s doing wrong.

  She lays her hand on my forearm. “Please, tell me. I can take it. Promise.”

  I stand beside her, so close that my chest nearly touches her shoulder. I’m itching to touch her, but I won’t do it without permission. “May I touch you?”

  She draws in a ragged breath and then nods. “Yes.”

  I curl the fingers of my right hand around her right shoulder and pull back a little so that her posture is perpendicular to the floor. At this angle, I can’t help but notice her heaving chest and how her perky tits move in sync with each breath she takes.

  I slide my left hand against her toned stomach and my pinkie grazes the warm patch of skin that’s exposed between her T-shirt and the waistband of her jeans.

  Our contact is fucking electric, and my own breathing picks up speed as I attempt to fight back the arousal I feel for her boiling beneath my surface.

  “Everything about you is magnetic,” I whisper in her ear, and she shivers at my words. “Don’t be afraid to open your eyes and watch your audience enjoy you. Be confident and project. Let go.”

  I let go of her shoulder, and move to face her before pressing the repeat button on the machine. As the intro of the song plays, I say, “Do it again, but this time I want you to look at me.”

  This time when she opens her mouth to sing, when she begins to tip her head down, I slide my index finger under her chin and angle her head so that she’s forced to peer into my eyes.

  Her words are just barely above a whisper, so I slip my hand back on her abdomen and say, “Project—from here. Sing it like you mean it.”

  It’s like lightning strikes this beautiful woman in my arms as she sings to me without fear. The words of the song come out effortlessly, and her voice could rival any of the greatest female vocalists of all time.

  She’s that damn stunning.

  I nod approvingly and smile. “Yes!”

  With that little bit of encouragement, she shocks me even more when she pushes herself to hit notes that are above and beyond what she reached the first time.

  Only on the last lyric does she close her eyes while she holds the note there until the music stops. She releases a contented sigh as soon as the music ends, and when her beautiful eyes meet mine again, they swirl with emotion.

  Completely blown away, I fumble with the words to tell her just how impressed I am. “Iris, that was—”

  Without
warning, she throws her arms around my neck and crushes her lips against mine. I know kissing her back is wrong, but I’ll be damned if I don’t want her so badly at this point that I can’t stop myself from giving in. I’ve been so good with restraining myself when it comes to Iris, because protecting her from the chaos that I’ll bring her is what’s always been on the forefront of my mind.

  Her fingers thrust into my hair, and I reach down and curl my hands around her thighs before hoisting her into the air. Instinctively she wraps her legs around my waist, and I thread one of my hands into her tousled curls while the other is busy cupping that perfect ass of hers.

  “I’ve wanted you since you walked into my trailer,” she breathes against my lips.

  A thrill shoots through me at her admission of how long she’s wanted me. “You’ve been driving me out of my mind from the moment I first saw you.”

  “Then take me.” Her words leave her mouth in a breathy sigh as she gives me permission to ravage her body.

  I’ve wanted her so much for so long, it would easy for me to say fuck it and give in and fuck her right here in this shed, but I know that’s a dick move on my part. Iris Easton is not the kind of girl you can sleep with one time and never see again. She’s the kind of girl that makes you change everything you thought you ever wanted in life just to be with her.

  And I know for a fact I won’t be living in Sarahsville long-term. If I want to keep avoiding Jane Ann and Mopar Records, then I have to keep moving, which means one day I’ll leave this place and Iris behind.

  Sleeping with her now, knowing that, would make me a fucking prick.

  I pull back, breaking the lingering kiss we were just sharing, and sigh. “We can’t do this, Iris.”

  A confused expression crosses her face. “Is it me? Did I do something wrong?”

  I shake my head. “God no. It’s me. I don’t want to tangle you up with what’s following me. I’m not looking to put down roots here, and I’ll be leaving soon. I won’t hurt you that way.”

  She blinks a couple times as she sets her feet back on the ground but leaves her fingers wound into the hair on my nape. “You can trust me, Ace. I like you. I want you. Whatever it is that you’re running from—”

  I cut her off. “Isn’t your problem and I won’t drag you into the crazy life I lead. Maybe someday when I get everything sorted out, I’ll come back for you and we can try being together when everything calms down, but I don’t know how long that will be. And I won’t be a selfish bastard and ask you to wait while I figure it out. I don’t want to make my issues your problem.”

  Tears drop out of her eyes and then roll down her cheeks. I’m doing exactly what I didn’t want to do. I’m hurting her and it’s killing me. I want to be with her. I want her to know the real me, but until I can figure out who the real me is now, I can’t mix her up in my madness.

  She pulls away from me, and I’m tempted to grab her wrist to stop her—force her to stay with me while I spill my guts out—but I’m afraid of how she’ll react after finding out who I really am.

  I don’t want to lose the realness I feel with her.

  So instead, I let her go while I watch the only person I care about walk away, hurt by me.

  IRIS

  I haven’t spoken to Ace in over a week. Every time he’s outside and I go out to talk to him, he walks away from me and either goes inside or jumps on his bike and speeds away, making it impossible for me to make him see that no matter what he’s running from, we can work if he would give us a shot.

  I know we can.

  It’s like every time we take a few baby steps forward, we tumble back down the ever-growing mountain he puts up between us. I’m not sure if the two of us will ever get over it at this point.

  We’ve both admitted that we’re attracted to one another, and we’ve both voiced how much we want to be together, but whatever Ace is hiding holds him back from allowing a relationship between us to progress.

  I’ve been out in the shed every day since we kissed, practicing my posture and eye contact when I sing, just like he taught me. It’s easy for me to remember how his hands felt on me—how electric his touch was, forcing the things he taught me to stay sharp in my mind.

  I don’t know how he knew how to fix my performance, but he did. The crazy thing is, he gave me tips like a professional would. He was totally comfortable performing, like he’d done it a million times before. He was able to instill confidence in me. He made me feel sexy, and the looks he threw me as I sang made me feel desired—wanted. That’s why I couldn’t keep from practically jumping his bones when I was through.

  Even though he’s back to avoiding me like the plague, Ace has still been doing things to help me, which shows me that he still cares about me.

  He fixed Gran’s car sometime during the night after we kissed. When Birdie and I went out to jump-start the car, we were shocked to see that we no longer needed to do that. I know it was Ace who fixed the car, because how else does a brand-new battery randomly show up in a nearly twenty-year-old car?

  That man is exceedingly thoughtful. I just wish he’d let me in.

  I sip the last bit of my morning coffee as an idea strikes me. When I was in New York and had Internet on my mini tablet, I could Google just about anything I wanted and find an answer. It’s completely wrong of me to invade Ace’s privacy like this, but I just have to know more about him. He acts like what he’s hiding could hurt me, and if that’s the case, maybe I should really heed his advice and leave him to his solitude.

  I think about the tablet I have in my suitcase in my room, knowing there’s no Internet connection available for miles around here, and just decide to do the easy thing and head back to the library to use their computer terminal.

  After I get dressed, I make my way out to Gran’s car and hop inside. The car cranks alive on the first try, and I carefully back out of the parking spot in front of my trailer and pull onto the street leading to the main road.

  While driving, I sing some of my favorite show tunes to pass the time, since the radio in the car is broken and picks up only AM stations. I lift my chin as I sing one of my favorites from The Phantom of the Opera and remember to adjust the way I hold my body to reflect that I’m proud of the way I sing.

  Once I park my car in the small lot in front of the library, I make my way inside and sit down at the first open terminal I see. I pull up a web browser and enter Ace Johnson into the search engine. Within seconds, millions of hits on Ace Johnson pop up. I begin clicking through the list, but each link leads me to a person who is not the Ace Johnson I’m looking for.

  After going through two pages of links and not finding a social media page, mug shot, or anything on Ace, I decide to try clicking on the image tab to see what my search yielded.

  I scroll down the sea of pictures, ready to give up, until a bearded man with similar features to Ace’s catches my eye.

  I click on the picture, and it leads me to a tabloid website with an article about that missing rock star that Birdie and I were talking about a couple weeks ago.

  Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly’s report focuses on the mysterious Ace White, who has been missing since he stormed off stage before playing to a sold-out crowd in Detroit. It goes on to say that no one has heard from him since then. The last part of the article catches my attention.

  “Any information regarding the whereabouts of Ace White can be reported to the LAPD. Mr. White’s tour manager, Jane Ann Rogers, is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for any information that leads to finding Ace White.”

  I lean back in the small swivel chair and stare at the screen, completely shocked by what I’m seeing. Is it possible that my new hunky next-door neighbor is this missing rock star, Ace White? The name fits, and the features, and banging body, but the man pictured in this article has long hair and a beard. It’s possible it might not be him either.

  Before I start jumping to some major conclusions, I open a new tab on the browser and search the name “Ace
White.” The first article I select shows Ace at a concert, singing from center stage and staring out to the crowd. His russet eyes are focused on the people he’s singing to, and as I stare at his face, I know without a shadow of a doubt this is the man I’ve been pining over for the last few weeks.

  This is what he’s trying to protect me from? The media? There has to be something going on for him to walk away. I mean, he’s living in my run-down rental when he can afford a swanky hotel. This man can have anything he wants. Why is he running from it?

  Whatever it is, it must’ve been bad, and he obviously doesn’t want to be discovered.

  Everything starts to click now—his freak-outs when I question him about his past, how he knows so much about performing, the sexy way he carries himself, the vibe I got when I first laid eyes on him that he’s far too good to be in a place like Willow Acres.

  Quickly I close down my web browser before anyone notices what I’ve just been looking up, and I log out of the computer.

  Despite the omission of the truth about his past, Ace is still someone I care a lot about, and if he doesn’t want to be found, I’m going to help him keep his secret.

  ACE

  It’s an unseasonably warm day in Ohio for November. Growing up here, fall was one of those times of year when it seemed like Mother Nature couldn’t make up her mind if she wanted to freeze Ohio’s residents to death or cause them to run up their electric bills by cranking up the air conditioning. Today seems like she’s doing the latter.

  Sweat drips down my back as the afternoon sun beats down on me. After a solid couple of weeks of mowing the grass around the trailer park, I’m finally on the last section of weeds.

  After a couple more swipes I’ve managed to cut all the nearly knee-high grass around the place, and I feel good knowing that’s the last time Iris will have to worry about it until next spring.

  I cut the engine on the mower and then grab the hem of my T-shirt and bend to wipe the sweat from my face with it.