by Kelly Moore
“Do you want a tour of the recording studio?”
She shakes her head. “I’d rather see your apartment.”
I hold out my hand for her to take, and she does. I lead her through the back to the stairs. She stops and takes another drink.
I find the key to the door and unlock it. “Alexa, turn on the living room light.”
“Another chandelier.” She looks up. “What’s the story behind them?”
“The house I grew up in had one. My mom would sell baked goods to earn extra money. One year she saved every dime to buy it. She had seen it in some magazine and fell in love with it. I guess it makes me feel like home.”
“I like that story.”
“Would you like a glass?” I hang my keys on the peg by the door.
She raises the bottle in the air. “No, I’m good.” She smiles and drinks more. When she’s done, she places it on the hand-carved coffee table and walks over to me. I look down into her dark eyes. Lifting her hand, she brushes a piece of hair off my forehead.
“You’re very handsome,” she whispers and licks her lips that still have a hint of red on them. Standing on her tiptoes, she places her hands around my neck and draws me toward her. I tilt my head and steal a taste of her mouth. It’s soft and sweet, laced with the taste of vodka and apple pie. She opens, and our tongues dance together like they know one another and what they like.
I’m panting when she pulls away. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m not.” She takes a step back, a little off-balance.
“Why do you think you’re not?” I whisper.
“Is your bedroom in here.” She points to a door, and I nod. She opens it, walks inside, and checks out the artwork that I’ve collected over the years.
“There was a time in my life that I wanted to be a star.” She keeps walking around the room. I feel like she’s revealing a secret.
“I was sixteen when I recorded my first song. It was my song, one that I had written. It was turned down at least a dozen times.”
I stand next to her. “What was their reason?”
“They loved my voice, but I wasn’t pretty enough, and they wanted some plastic blonde to sing my song.”
“They were blind, and idiots.” I run the back of my hand down her arm.
She smiles and then sits on the end of the bed and starts removing her boots.
I squat in front of her and halt her hands. I slowly unzip one boot, and she lifts her leg so I can remove it. Then I repeat it on the other side.
“I could have you a contract tomorrow.”
“It’s not something I want anymore.” She scoots back on the bed and removes her top, revealing a black lacy bra that fits her nicely.
“Do you mind if I get in the shower? I smell like a mix of alcohol and smoke from the bar.”
She inclines her head in acknowledgment.
I start unbuttoning my long sleeve shirt on the way to the bathroom.
“Don’t be too long.” She rolls to her side and tucks my pillow under her head.
I strip out of my clothes and get under the spray of the hot water raining down from the center of the shower. My hard cock bobs up and down as I think about the sexy woman lying in my bed. I quickly wash, dry off, and wrap the towel low around my waist.
Opening the medicine cabinet, I pull out a packet of condoms. I don’t know how old they are, but they should still work. Gripping them, I return to the bedroom. Gypsy is sound asleep in the middle of my bed with the sheet tucked under her chin.
I pull on a pair of boxers and sit next to her, brushing the hair from her sweet face. She mumbles something and burrows further into the pillow.
“What’s your story?” I whisper. I want to know everything about this woman, and now that I have her in my bed, I don’t ever want to let her go. I softly pull the blanket up and cover her.
I get in beside her, and my mind starts digging in with thoughts of the sexy woman lying beside me. I curl up next to her and ever so softly, trace my fingers down her arm. Her skin is silky and delicate like a flower. She has small curves in all the right places. I close my eyes and try to picture our bodies mingling together, but something about her presence cuddled up in my bed, lulls me to sleep.
* * *
A bright light creeping through one slat in the blinds, shines right in my eye, waking me up. It takes my brain a few minutes to recall the wee hours of the morning and crawling into bed with Gypsy. I roll from my stomach to find her gone. I throw back my sheets and hop out of bed.
“Gypsy!” I yell as I make my way through my apartment. The latch on the front door is unlocked. I hustle downstairs to see if she’s exploring the studio, but it’s empty, just like my bed. Still in my boxers, I sit behind the glass partition in the recording area. Putting on my high-tech headphones, I play the soundtrack of the last artist I signed. It’s a cool and easy reggae sound that hit the top one hundred the first week it was released. I’d love to do this for Gypsy if she’d let me.
I open the laptop sitting beside my sound equipment, and I do a Google search for Gypsy. I don’t find anything on a singer named Gypsy or a band. Maybe she’s got something recorded under her name, but I don’t know what that is. Why would a woman with one of the most talented voices I’ve ever heard, not want to record her music? She obviously loves it, and the crowd eats her up.
I lean back in my chair and brace my head in my hands locked behind it. I’m not going to give up that easily. There has to be someone out in the music world that knows her. She said she moves about every three months. I sit straight and put in another search of bars outside Nashville.
I spend my morning calling the different ones to see if she’s played at any of them. By mid-afternoon, I’ve extended my search to Georgia, where she said she was from. One of the biggest bars outside Atlanta remembers her well but only knew her by the name Gypsy. He said she kept to herself most of the time, and she shied away from the crowds of people that wanted to meet her. After three months, he said she disappeared.
Gypsy really is a gypsy. I run upstairs more determined than ever to get what I want. I’m not sure if it’s a contract with her, or simply her. I get dressed and put on a pair of loose, low-fitting blue jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. It’s one of my old favorites before I fell in love with all kinds of music. I run a brush through my hair and consider shaving, and think twice, remembering that she liked it. I stop in the mirror, thinking I never look this casual and I’m not sure why I chose to now. I’m dressed like I’m in my twenties, not in my thirties. I rip my shirt off over my head, messing up my hair, and I throw it in the clothes basket beside the shower. Rummaging through my closet, I pull out a white button down from its hanger but decide not to change out of my jeans. Brown leather loafers and a lightweight jacket, and I’m out the door, headed straight for the bar.
It’s only three, and I don’t really expect her to be there, but I want to find her. There are a few patrons at the bar and some at the tables. I overhear a couple of the guys at the bar talking about the band last night. They’re raving about Gypsy. If she steers away from the crowd, I bet she never hears what anyone says about her music.
I knock on the closed door to Boomer’s office.
“Come in,” his gruff-sounding voice bellows out.
Opening the door, I’m greeted by a billow of smoke.
“Damn, Boomer. That shits going to kill you one day.”
He coughs and waves through the white smoke. “Something has to, it might as well be these. What are you doing here so early, Jameson?”
“I’m looking for Gypsy. Have you seen her since last night?”
“Nope. She’s probably sleeping, getting rest before tonight’s show. You know I’ve made more money off her in the two nights she’s performed than I have off the last three bands that’ve been here.” He flips over papers in front of him on his desk.
“I believe it, especially with the way the crowd responded to her.”
“I
’ve had to hire security for tonight. We’ve already sold more tickets than we have room for. We had to sell two shows rather than one in order to let people in to hear her.”
“More money for you. Look if you see her before her first set, will you tell her to call me? You have my number.”
“Is she playing hard to get?” He chuckles and coughs again.
“Something like that.” I close his door and walk out into the bar to see her guitar player ordering some food. I wait until he's done giving his order and walk up to him.
“Elliot, is that right?”
“Yeah,” he answers, with a deep scowl.
“Where’s Gypsy?”
“She’s sleeping off a hangover. She didn’t get in until early this morning.”
I want to ask him which hotel they’re staying in, but I don’t think he’d tell me. “Did she say anything about the three of you coming to the recording studio?”
“She’s not going to record for you so just give it up.” He goes to walk away, and I grab his elbow. He glares at me and yanks his arm free. “She’s more trouble than you want, so I’d stay clear of her if I were you.” He storms off toward their dressing room.
Is he warning me because he’s in love with her, or is there another reason? Whichever it is, I need to see for myself.
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Boomer was right; the bar is a madhouse. Angry words from people waiting in line were thrown at me when I walked past all of them and into the front door. The bouncer knows me well and doesn’t hesitate to let me in.
Tyler is sitting at a table with two women, just off the dance floor. He waves me over when he sees me, and I sit in the remaining open chair at the table.
“This is Kathleen and Katy.”
I nod to both of them.
“They’re twins,” Tyler says with a plastered-on smile.
“How’s Megan?” I ask.
He gives me the evil eye and mouths that they’re here for me.
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “I’m working,” I scoff.
“You didn’t get her to sign yet?”
“It’s a work in progress.” The waiter stops at our table, and the girls order a glass of wine, Tyler a refill on his bourbon, and I order sparkling water with a lime.
“You’re not drinking?” Katy asks, batting her long lashes at me.
“No.” I’d say because I’m working, but it’s really because of Gypsy. In my mind, maybe if I don’t drink, she won’t.
The crowd starts to cheer as the band takes the stage. Boomer joins them and does his usual introductions. This time, Gypsy comes out right on cue. Her loose, baby-blue pant legs flow as she walks, exposing her heeled tan suede shoes. When she hits the stage and grabs the microphone, a string from one of her quarter-length sleeves dangles down. Her hair is drawn up into a messy bun, and no sunglasses cover her eyes. Eyes that start searching for me in the crowd.
She’s introducing Elliot when she finds me. A scowl mars her brow as she looks at the two women at the table with me. I know she’s thinking I’m with one of them, and I’m pissed off at Tyler for inviting them.
“Excuse me,” I say as I get up and move my way to the edge of the dance floor, where I remained until the end of the first set.
She literally runs off the stage, and I chase after her and stop the door from slamming in my face as she goes to her break room.
“I wasn’t with those girls,” I say, catching her by the arm.
“It makes no difference to me who you’re with,” she snarls.
I release her arm when Elliot barges in the door.
“Please, just meet me at the studio when your second set is done,” I say and leave, hoping like hell she shows up.
I stare at the records behind glass frames on the wall. I’ve been waiting an hour past the time she got done last night and hopes of her showing are dwindling. I’m so deep in thought, I almost don’t hear the light knock on the glass door.
I hold my breath and let it out when I see it’s her. She’s got a familiar brown bag in her grip, and she’s rubbing her hand down her arm like she’s cold.
I push open the door, and she sashays by me. “I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up.”
“I almost did,” she says, turning around to look at me.
I step up close to her and run my knuckles down her cool skin and stop on the top of the bottle. She releases it when I grasp it. “How about we get through tonight without this?” I walk to the control room and the bottle clinks when I toss it in the trash.
She crosses her arms. “You could’ve saved it for later.”
“You’re on my time now, and there will be no drinking.” I reach down to the small fridge. “Unless it’s water to moisten your vocal cords.” I toss a bottle to her.
She catches it and unscrews the lid, taking a sip. “This place is nice. State of the art equipment.” She runs her hand down the multiple consoles and mixers.
“So you’ve been in a studio before?” I lean against the console.
She nods. “I’ve been to plenty.”
“And yet, you’ve never recorded a song.”
“I’ll let you record me on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I get to keep the only copy. It never gets sold.”
“I get a copy.” I hike an eyebrow at her.
“Are you bartering with me?” she snorts.
“Yes.”
She looks through the partition into the dark live room as she searches the console until she finds the switch. The dim room lights up. “Deal,” she finally says and walks out of the control room in through the door of the live room.
I sit in the chair and watch her walk around the room, looking at the instruments and racks of gear with headphones hanging off them. She makes her way over to the mic on a boom. “Is this on?”
I push a button so she can hear me. “Yes.” I reach over and turn on the “on-air” recording light.
She picks up a guitar, strums a few notes, and then tunes it by ear.
“Do you have any music you want me to play?” I ask through the speaker.
She pulls a tape out of her back pocket and holds it in the air. I hop out of my seat and go get it from her. “Little old-fashioned.” I laugh.
“Take what you can get.” She smiles.
I go back into the control room and dig out a piece of equipment I haven’t used in a long time, but it’ll play the tape. I put it in and let the music seep in as she continues to ready herself. She’s not nervous like I thought she’d be. Quite the opposite. She’s more relaxed than I’ve seen her.
She takes a pair of headphones off the rack and places them over her ears, then the guitar strap goes over her head.
I start the tape over and adjust the mixer to where I think her tone will be and grab a headset. A beautiful humming noise comes from her as she presses the cans to her ears. I squeeze my eyes shut, with two fingers on the sliders, tuning out everything but the sound of Gypsy’s voice coming through my own headset. She starts to sing, and her voice is a sexy, raspy, beautifully textured tone. I nudge the slider, handling it like a newborn baby, and her pitch levels even more. I open my eyes when it’s perfect.
Her lips are caressing the mic, lulling it to her will. Her eyes are shut, and her hands are firmly on the cans pressing them into her ears. I’m hypnotized by her voice and drawn into every word.
* * *
I Don’t Want to Hurt Anymore
* * *
I’m not stronger than the storm
And I can’t take it anymore
I no longer have wings to fly
And I never wanted to say goodbye
* * *
My heart doesn’t feel the beat
I’m losing all sleep
I’m supposed to be strong
To find a way to carry on
* * *
All that’s left is empty tears
/>
I cry, but no one hears
I’m broken every time I see your face
In the shadows of this empty place
* * *
I’d do anything to have you here
Just to be with you
It would fix what’s broken
And stop my heart from bleeding
I don’t want to hurt anymore
(Ohhhh, baby)
Come back, and I’ll hold you safe
I don’t want to hurt anymore
* * *
They say time will heal the pain
Every day the ache remains
I find myself waiting
Down on my knees praying
* * *
I scream, curse, pray
Beg to see your face every day
Is anyone out there?
To tell me I’ll be all right
* * *
I’d do anything to have you here
Just to be with you
It would fix what’s broken
And stop my heart from bleeding
I don’t want to hurt anymore
(Ohhhh, baby)
Come back, and I’ll hold you safe
I don’t want to hurt anymore
* * *
As she softly hums the last part, I jump out of my chair. My heart aches at her words, and a need I’ve never felt is pulsing through my blood. I felt the storm inside her, and I want to be that person to fix what’s broken, to hold her and let her know, she’ll be all right.
Like a bolt of thunder, I swing open the door to the live room. Her tear-filled eyes lock on me as I close the gap between us. I push the microphone over to get to her. She places the guitar against a speaker when she sees me storming toward her. My body connects so hard with hers that it pushes her backward to a small empty space against the wall. I lift her up, and she wraps her legs around my hips. Our lips crash together like they’re angry, but settle into something deep, darker than the both of us. Heat comes off her body and soaks me further into her. Her pain is real, and it scares me how alone she must feel.
