Crocodile Tears: A Boy Meets Girl Story

by Daya Daniels

  “Zane,” she says.

  Her blonde wavy hair fans out behind her. Against the backdrop of the green couch, it reminds me of the yellow brick road in that movie. I can’t remember what the fuck it is. At the end of that road is Liv and that’s where I want to be—no place else. I tense when her thighs quiver. I’m going crazy, pushing myself deep inside of her, splitting her wide open.

  Liv mumbles something. I kiss her lips and slow, sliding in and out of her. Tears slip from her eyes down into her ears. She grabs a hold of my neck. The sound of her wetness fills my ears. I open my mouth and growl at how fucking incredible this feels—how beautiful she looks. This woman is undoing me and I’m not sure I like it. I fuck her harder, plowing into her like she’s a target I need to hit and she takes it all.

  A loud cry leaves her mouth and she sits up partly, holding on to me like she’ll never see me again. She clenches around me and a painful groan escapes my throat. She’s coming and so am I. I kiss her lips when she screams. I take in every whimper, gasp, and cry that she lets out, when she wrings out my dick with her orgasm. I growl into her neck and she stills. Her thighs continue to quiver. I place a soft kiss on the skin at the inside of her knee and just look at her. She’s panting and her eyes are glassy. I run my fingers over her pussy and pull out slow, taking in the milky mark I’ve left there. It dribbles from her slit and splatters on the hardwood floor beneath us.

  I brush my hair out of my face and rest my head on her stomach for a moment, while she caresses my face.

  “That was nice.”

  I groan into her hot skin. “I’m not finished with you.”

  Liv giggles. “I don’t think I can come anymore.”

  “Says who?”

  Liv chuckles. “Says me. I think.”

  Straightening myself up, I look down at my semi. “I have a lot more to give.”

  I yank her from the sofa down to the floor on her knees and face her forward.

  “Okay,” she whispers, looking over her shoulder. “Then give it to me.”

  Liv

  I awake in the morning, squinting my eyes at the sunlight. The room is quiet. I gaze out the window, taking in the view of the Empire State Building in the distance.

  Tomorrow by Daughter echoes low from the speaker dock on the nightstand.

  I roll over to Zane’s side, only to see him sitting up on the edge of the bed. I eye over the colorful tattoos that cover his back, like vivid art on canvas. I hear a familiar snorting sound, just as his head jerks back a few times. He growls, drops his head low and runs his fingers through the thick, inky strands. I skim my hand over the skin on his back.

  He shifts to face me, wiping his nose. “I didn’t know you were up.”

  I shrug and look him over, taking in his tired face and muted grey eyes. I drag my fingers along the script writing of his shoulders. “What does this mean?” I ask him. “It’s the same writing on the bracelet you gave me?”

  Zane shifts to sit on the edge of the bed. His brows are cinched together and a small laugh falls from his mouth at my question, as if I’d asked something clever.

  “AURIBUS TENEO LUPUM, was once a popular proverb in ancient Rome. It means ‘holding a wolf by the ears.” He chuckles, then wiggles his thick black brows. “Probably not a good idea, right?”

  “No.” I giggle.

  “Yeah, definitely not. It’s a line taken from Phormio circa 161 BC, which was a work by Roman playwright Terence. I read some of it when I was fourteen or fifteen.

  “It’s what people often do to me or try to. Little do they know, they’re holding a wolf by the ears.” He laughs. “It’s never a smart idea.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “I already ate. You should get them to bring something up for you. I have to go to the studio today and tomorrow, so I won’t be able to be with you. Plus, we have a show tonight.”

  “Cool,” I whisper, looking around the room.

  There’s piles of clothes everywhere and guitars against the bedroom walls.

  “How many songs have you written so far?”

  Zane laughs. “Four.”

  I smile. “That’s good, isn’t it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s a great thing.”

  Zane places a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll see you later. Yandi might be able to take you around the city.”

  “I will explore on my own, I think.”

  “Okay, just text me if you have to.”

  I give him a half-hearted smile, not at all impressed that I’ll be on my own today, while he works. I snuggle deeper into the comforter, reveling in how my naked skin feels under its softness. I find the television remote and click the 4K TV on. Scrolling through the channels, I click through everything from news, sports, and music and land on the entertainment channel, E News. I stop there, when I see a band photo of The Vigilantes. The headline reads “The Vigilantes Sign Multi-Million-Dollar Contract with Rogue Records.”

  The faces of two entertainment reporters fill the sixty-inch 4K TV on the wall. The man has had way too much sun and bright pink blush dusts the apples of the woman’s brown cheeks.

  “The band will be releasing two albums a year under the RR label,” the woman with pink hair informs her wingman.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot but I guess it can be done. They’ve sold out Madison Square Garden tonight. We’re looking forward to seeing them at venues through the rest of the US this summer on their RIOT Tour.”

  “I have a delicious tidbit,” he offers up with a Southern drawl and bright eyes.

  “What? What is it?” The woman bounces up and down in her seat, while clapping her hands.

  “Well, the word on the street is that lead guitarist Zane Presley...”

  The woman purses her lips. “He’s hot! Isn’t he hot?”

  The man’s eyes flash and a brilliant smile takes over his face. He flicks his wrist in the direction of the camera. I didn’t think he could be any more flamboyant. “Yes, he’s hot—smokin’ hot. That dark hair and those hypnotizing grey eyes. Oh, my,” he says dramatically. “He is rocker cool.”

  I giggle. Yes, he is.

  “Let me get back to the story.” He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Well, the word on the street is that lead guitarist Zane Presley, is dating RR executive Tom Stanton’s only daughter, Liv, as everyone calls her, or Olivia Stanton.

  “We wonder how Tom Stanton really feels about that?”

  He doesn’t care.

  The woman lifts a brow in the direction of the orange man. “Zane Presley? You sure? Bona fide loner, bachelor, anti-social, insanely private, Zane Presley?” She laughs. “How old is Olivia?”

  “We’re told she’s around nineteen or twenty,” the man says. “Which, I suppose is perfect since the music prodigy is only twenty-one. He’s accomplished so much in his young life.”

  The woman nods and gives the camera a serious expression. She clutches her wingman’s arm and leans forward. “He. Is. Amazing. I don’t think there’s one instrument he can’t play and he writes all the band’s music.”

  “We’re told front man Cash Warren will be writing a few songs on the next album also.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  “Does he have his drug problem under control now?” the woman asks in a high-pitched voice, lifting a brow.

  Her statement stuns me.

  “Lord, I hope so. This is a big tour. The Vigilantes or The Vs, have a lot of fans out there they can’t afford to disappoint.

  “When we come back...” the man goes on, while the music queues right before they go to commercial.

  I sigh and shut off the television. It appears my name and affiliation with Zane is already out there. I don’t know if I give a shit. I sit up on the edge of the bed and place my feet on the hardwood floors. I stare out the window, taking in the sunlight that peeks through the large window across the room. I have a few hours to burn in the city and I know exactly where to go.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Liv


  The crowd goes wild. Cash, The Vs’ front man puts his boot on one of the massive speakers at the front of the stage. His voice is deep and raw. He hits the kind of chords that make you pay attention.

  Zane steps towards the edge of the stage, holding his Les Paul Fender Stratocaster, when the song breaks into his solo. He’s shirtless wearing a pair of black True Religions that fall just below his hips, with a red scarf tied to one loop. Sweat drips down his chest, then down the line of his carved abs. His black hair is matted to his forehead and the sides of his face and neck. He’s bleeding under the heat of the stage lights but still he’s absolutely fucking gorgeous.

  The sounds that explode from the guitar are incredible, lush, orgasmic as they amplify through the Garden. His left hand slides along the guitar’s neck, while the fingers on his right hand holds the strings, moving over them as deftly as they moved over the piano keys a few days ago. He’s making love to the music. Heat spreads through me and settles somewhere in my stomach. The guitar in his grip moans. It groans. It whines. Then it screams! The crowd goes crazy. I’m hot all over, trying to find much needed oxygen. I lean against the wall just watching him, pulling his jacket tighter around me, inhaling his smell. Zane’s eyes are shut and his head hangs low and I know in this moment, he just loves the music.

  The twenty thousand people in the crowd cheer and sing. The atmosphere is electric. I bite my nails, stifling my laugh as I listen to the crowd sing along to a haunting tune. They know every word! The stage flashes green and then red, until the music fades and you can only hear the bass. Dexter hits a few notes, strumming the bass guitar in his hands like he hasn’t a care in the world. The Afro pick that he seems to keep in his thick hair 24/7 is still there. Rose is covered in sweat and beating on the drums, like he’s their pimp.

  The crowd roars once more and I shiver. I feel so alive being here. Everything about the music just gets in your veins and wants to live there forever. Yandi stands off to the side, watching the concert a few feet from where I stand. It’s the second time she’s returned.

  “Are you okay?” she yells.

  I smile, nod, and then laugh loud when the band breaks into their next song. Zane sidles up to a mic to sing backup for Cash. I giggle at the confusing sight in front of me. He’s playing guitar, singing as well as smoking a cigarette at the same time and he looks absolutely breathtaking doing-it-all.

  “You must be Liv!” a man shouts, leaning into me. “I’m Barry Michaels. We haven’t met but I’ve been to your home.”

  I turn to my right to find a very large man that closely resembles Santa Claus, ex the grey. He shoves a hand towards me. I take his. He pulls mine to his lips and presses a kiss to it. I look at him stunned but still giggle. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Zane watching me for a moment.

  I only nod. “Yes, I think I remember your face.”

  “Your father is very well-respected man in this industry,” he says. “If you need anything or if there’s something I can do to make you more comfortable while you’re with us, let me know.”

  I give him a smile and nod. Barry looks over a clipboard and speaks into a walkie-talkie. Then he’s gone. I hug myself, while people rush and skate by me. I inhale the leather of the jacket around me and I miss the man who stands fifteen feet away from me even more. I scan the wide walkway to the stage and find a woman already staring at me. I meet her gaze. She gives me a small smile and approaches me. I pull my beanie down, covering my forehead.

  “I’m Rachel!” she shouts, finding a spot along the wall next to me.

  “Hi,” I say, inhaling the putrid floral scent she wears that is murdering my senses.

  I allow my eyes to scan her. She’s tall, thin, blonde—which isn’t natural because I can see her roots. She pulls a cigarette from a box and lights it. I swear the music goes low, or all my focus is simply on her and her voice. I’m not sure which.

  She stares at the stage curiously, then smiles when her brown eyes meet mine again. “You’re wearing his jacket.”

  I nod slowly and give her a wry smile. “Yeah.”

  She puffs on her cigarette, while her eyes visibly rake over me from head to toe.

  “I used to date him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah!” she shouts. “He’s a fucking asshole.”

  I lift my brows. “Excuse me.”

  The starving woman in front of me laughs. “Yeah, so you better watch out. He’s not exactly boyfriend material,” she says, putting the cigarette out beneath her five-inch heel. “Don’t be surprised when he tosses you out like an old, broken guitar.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I say before twisting back around to watch the show.

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  She lingers and taps me on the shoulder. I roll my eyes before looking at her again. “I date Cash now.”

  Groupie.

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, he’s cool,” she says, staring out at the stage.

  The crowd roars once more before the intermission. Zane arches his neck towards the sky and chugs some water, then dumps it over his head. I lean against the wall as he approaches, with his guitar still slung over his shoulder.

  When I turn to my right, Rachel has disappeared.

  Zane places a kiss to my lips and captures my arm, pulling me down the wide hallway to his dressing room. The music gets louder, when another band takes the stage for the break. Once we get inside, I take a seat on one of the sofas. It’s cozy and quiet in here despite the noise. Zane rushes to the bathroom to wash his face and change his shirt. He’s breathing heavy and a permanent dent seems to be etched between his brows.

  “I thought you said Rachel was no one.”

  “Yeah, I did because she is no one.”

  “Oh.

  “She told me the two of you used to date.”

  Zane laughs but seems unamused. He drops his head, shakes it and then laughs some more. “Rachel’s always been insane.”

  I take off his jacket and sling it over the arm of the sofa, find my hoodie and put it on.

  “She’s Cash’s girlfriend now.”

  Zane shrugs. “Yeah, I guess you can say that. She’s Cash’s stylist. Takes a prima donna motherfucker like him to have a fucking stylist. Surely, he can pick out his own clothes. But she was never my girlfriend, Liv.”

  “Okay, then,” I whisper mockingly, turning away from him.

  “What did you do today?” he asks, running his fingers through his hair violently.

  I spent the day strolling the city, block by block. I’d visited MOMA and took the time to look at the original Picassos there. It was peaceful, quiet and just what I needed. Olga also had my stuff sent here. I still hadn’t heard from Audrey and Tom.

  “I spent the day at MOMA.”

  Zane makes a face. “Oh, that’s cool, Liv.”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  “You like art?”

  “Yeah.” I push my hands in my pockets.

  He steps towards me and takes my face in his hands, forcing me to look up at him. He’s hot and still breathing heavy. He’s a sexy mess. A soft kiss is pressed to my lips that leaves me feeling completely adorable, cherished, desired. I smile when he pulls away and I meet his smoky eyes. They blink slowly. I take in that his pupils are dilated, otherwise he looks completely normal.

  “We should have some time tonight, after the party.”

  “Okay.”

  “I really don’t want to introduce you to these assholes but...I don’t want you at the hotel alone, since I’ve been away from you all day, Liv.”

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  A few hard bangs land on the door. “Time!” Barry thunders.

  “I have to go,” Zane says kissing me for a second time.

  “Yeah,” I breathe out.

  Zane

  “She’s pretty,” Cash huffs out.

  I only hum and focus on the equalizer that’s lit up in front of me. The room is low lit and the familiar smell of expensive ci
gars settles in the air around us.

  “Tom Stanton’s daughter, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “None of your business,” I grumble, reading over a few lyrics.

  “I’m the rattlesnake to your heart. I’m the shovel that digs deep, tunneling through the matter in your pretty head of purple.

  “Gunshot. Gunshot. Then you’re gone to pillow-soft clouds that turn black,” I whisper, one line to myself.

  What the fuck?

  Cash and my relationship had always been complicated. We were brothers. He was a founding member of this band and I had a lot of respect for his talent but song writing wasn’t one of them. We shared everything, sometimes even women. The band lived together for about a year before we got a record deal. Cash loved me but in a lot of ways he was cruel and vindictive. He had always resented my talent. We were too alike in some ways—the same ways I hated to admit but it was true. We were both foster kids. Only Rose in the band was from a wealthy family. The rest of us were from the group home.

  Cash laughs and takes a long draw of his cigarette. My eyes linger over the inside of his forearms, which look like a human pin board between all the ink and injection sites that cover his skin. I slide a pair of headphones over my ears, leaving one free.

  Tonight, the two of us sit in the recording studio kept in Barry Michaels’ penthouse apartment on the Lower East Side. The loud party goes on upstairs while we work. I was tired, hungry, and desperate for a fucking beer. I was also in no mood to listen to Cash’s bullshit.

  “Rachel is still in love with you, man,” he drawls out.

  I chuckle and shake my head. Cash’s words are slurred and his eyelids are heavy and nearly shut.

  He runs a hand over his blond buzz cut. “I love her. I thought maybe by now she would love me too but I know it’s you that’s all up in her head.” He laughs.