Smoke and Lyrics

by Holly Hall

My head jerks back. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “That pause. You said allegedly.”

  She avoids my eyes. “I don’t know. I just thought maybe . . . you were tired of everything.”

  And then it dawns on me. “You don’t think. . . Look, if I were going to kill myself, I wouldn’t risk possibly surviving third-degree burns.”

  “Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

  “I may not like my life sometimes, but I do like living. Just so you know.” I catch her eye. “And I’m not suicidal.”

  Shaking her head, she starts to giggle. It’s a throaty little noise deep in her throat that makes me wonder what a full-on, uninhibited laugh would sound like.

  “What?”

  “It’s so wrong to laugh right now. We’re a disaster,” she says once she’s caught her breath.

  “No. We’re magic.” I say it as a joke, but the words ring in my head. Magic. Like love, I once believed in such things. “Have you ever been in love?” I ask her. She seems young, maybe a little jaded, but I can’t tell why. Open, but not at all predictable.

  “I’ve loved, but I’ve never been in love,” she answers, taking another pull directly from the bottle.

  “Are they not the same thing?”

  “No. I mean, I haven’t lived a lot of life, but I think true love is when your head and your heart fall together. Love is just one or the other; you either feel that it’s good or you know that it’s good, not both.”

  I stare at her full lips while I mull that over. How can someone so goddamn mysterious say something that makes so much sense? “I guess I can see that. And you’ve not had both?”

  “Nope. I dated Pierce Perkins and loved him with my mind. He made sense on paper. He was going to be an accountant, his daddy was a banker and his mom was a homemaker. I could’ve had a Golden Retriever and a picket fence, and two-point-five kids. It would’ve been a good life, but my heart didn’t want that. Then I fell head over heels for Kinser Williams. My heart was a goner, but I knew in my mind we weren’t right. He cared too much about pussy and weed to care about me. When someone consumes both, then I’ll know I’m really in love.” There’s a drop of blood-red wine on her bottom lip, and she sucks it into her mouth to lick it off. My insides burn. Before I consider the consequences, I set down the bag of popcorn and wipe my hands on my jeans, before sliding my hand around the back of her neck and pulling her to me.

  The first taste of her is cabernet-flavored, rich with smoke and cherry. Then I catch the salt from the popcorn as I run my tongue along hers. A rare groan rips from her throat, and she returns my movements with one of her own, biting down on my lip and dragging her teeth across it. We’re twisted toward each other, the angle limiting access to her body. So I hop down off the counter and rotate so I’m in between her legs, one hand in her hair and the other sliding across the velvet of her dress to wrap around her waist and pull her to me. I’ve had plenty of whiskey tonight, but it’s the taste of her that’s going straight to my head. And somewhere else. But I can’t think too hard about that, or else this is going to end soon, and badly.

  Then she’s wrapping her legs around me and pulling me as close to her as I can get, her feet digging into my ass, so I take that as my cue. I tug her to the edge of the counter so the heat of her is right up against me and hoist her up, keeping one hand on her thigh while my other arm supports her body. I’m walking blindly, my face in her neck, and she guides me vaguely through her apartment. The sound of explosions emanates from the living area without pause, so I assume her roommates have no idea what’s occurring just down the hall.

  “No. Next one. Yeah, there,” she says as I approach the last door, her hands in my hair, clutching my face to her. Then we’re through the door and I’m backing her against it to close it, pinning her between me and the wood. The dress I’ve been imagining as a pool of fabric on the floor all night is bunched around her hips, giving me easy access to the soft skin of her thighs and her ass. I grind into her and her head falls back against the door with a thump.

  “What are the chances of your roommate coming home?” I ask, catching sight of not one bed but two when I come up for breath.

  “Not great enough for me to stop.”

  It’s all she needs to say for it to be game on. My eyes adjust enough to where I can navigate the room in the darkness, and I go for one of the beds, dropping her onto the covers before grabbing the hem of my shirt to take it off.

  “Let me, I love this part,” she says, coming up onto her knees. I drop my hands and grin, stepping closer so she can strip me herself. My view is obstructed by fabric for what I think is only going to be a moment, only realizing something’s gone awry when she wraps my shirt around and around my head until I’m stuck, rendering me blind and useless.

  “Really?” Without sight, I struggle to free myself so I can at least see, only knowing where she is because of her relentless giggling.

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” she says breathlessly. Finally ripping my shirt off my head, I catch sight of her against the headboard, clutching her belly with one hand and covering a grin with the other. I fumble for the string on the blinds, wrenching them up so I can get a better look at her. Silver moonlight bathes her skin and hair.

  I lean closer and run my fingers from her thigh down her calf, lowering my voice and giving her my most seductive look. “And I’ve always wanted to do this,” I say, wrapping my fingers around her ankle and yanking her toward me. She squeals and giggles softly, only sobering when she realizes her dress is hiked up around her waist and her thighs are parted. Then she’s reaching up and hooking her finger in my necklace, pulling me down to her. It’s all the encouragement I need.

  And to think that all of this started with a song.

  I cover her body with mine and explore her with my hands and my mouth. She tastes a little like wine and little like sweat from her solo dance marathon earlier. When I drag her dress over her head, she wiggles a little to get out of it, and I suppress a laugh. It’s a change of pace from the way we’ve been going. Uninhibited, as well as honest. I kiss my way from her ankle up to her inner thigh, sucking the skin between my teeth and biting softly. She sighs and writhes against me, and when I look up at her, her expression is expectant.

  Then I’m dragging her panties down her legs, and she points her toe to get out of them too.

  Everything about her, her smell, her taste, her sound, directs more songs in my head. Music. The soundtrack of us. It’s a strange thought, knowing we’re not anything and feeling things deeper than I should. Things I can’t tell her about because she will run. I know that while hardly knowing her. Instead, I keep the words inside. I let every lick and tug and moan orchestrate the melody in my mind, and our bodies create the music I haven’t been able to capture in almost a year.

  Lindsey

  We lie on our sides afterward, my back to Jenson’s chest, our proximity a byproduct of what we’ve just done. I become more aware of our closeness as the minutes tick by and the serotonin high my body’s been sailing on settles. It’s difficult to grasp a coherent thought in the whirlwind, but I know I won’t find a regret or complaint. For all intents and purposes, Jenson just rocked my world. It’s the best I can expect from a one-night stand. The wind from the ceiling fan cools my skin and I shiver.

  Jenson stirs, putting space between us and slipping out of me. Then I feel his fingers on my spine as he brushes my hair aside. He took it out of the elastic at some point mid-romp.

  “What does your tattoo mean?” His husky, post-sex voice awakens something. A sleeping beast I thought was sated for the night.

  I rub my pillowcase between two fingers, thinking. I’ve fended off his questions to keep him at a distance, but it’s not easy always pushing people away. It doesn’t come naturally. There was a time when I wasn’t afraid of anything.

  “Growing up, I didn’t have to work for much. My parents are both pretty successful, and I want
ed for nothing. I grew into this mindset that good things just happened to decent people. Like I deserved opportunities. When I said something to that effect out loud, my high school English teacher all but laughed in my face. He was blunt like that. He said that no dream worth having will just fall into your lap, you have to go out there and get it. He told me it was up to me to decide what to believe, but to come back to him in a few years and tell him which made me happier—thinking I deserved it, or truly earning it. That stuck with me. Ever since, I’ve been working to earn it.”

  “Ahh. Dream catcher.”

  “Exactly. It probably sounds stupid to you after seeing my shitty apartment, not knowing my name when everyone knows yours.”

  He pushes gently on my shoulder until I’m on my back looking up at him. “More stupid than a guy who had it all and shot every opportunity he was given to hell?”

  I examine his expression, gauging his feelings on the subject. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t bitter about people like him—the ones entitled enough to take once-in-a-lifetime opportunities for granted. And I’m not entirely convinced he’s regretful about the whole situation. He seems sincere, but he’s probably as schooled in charm as he is in music. Before I can push him on the subject, he asks for the bathroom.

  “Across the hall.”

  I’m given an uninterrupted view of Jenson’s backside before he drags on his jeans and slips out the door. Ink decorates almost the entire right side of his torso, in addition to what’s visible on his arms. I wonder if every piece means something to him, or if there are some that were done on a whim, maybe in a moment of weakness or extreme stupidity.

  I shimmy beneath the sheets and turn over, tracing my eyes over the Polaroid photos strung across my wall—reminders of my adventures, both cities and people alike. Twenty-three years old and my wanderlust isn’t even close to being satisfied. I can’t imagine being so unhappy with something I was once passionate about. And then the sheets are being drawn back, and I feel the dip of the bed when Jenson returns.

  “If this isn’t what you want to be doing, why don’t you quit?” It’s not pillow talk by any means, but I can’t stop myself from asking it. There has to be a reason why he’s become the man who drinks alone, and I want to understand him, even if it’s only because he’s someone I’ve yet to fully explore.

  A careful pause transpires before he responds. “It’s not that simple. There are people to think about besides me.”

  Turning to face him fully, I prop myself up on my elbow. In that moment, a selfless answer was the last thing I expected. “Okay, but what happens when you forget about the expectations and the people you’ll let down? Yeah, they’ll be disappointed, but disappointment is temporary. Selfishly speaking, this is your life. The only thing you owe it is to live it as best as you can.”

  His eyes narrow. “This is awfully deep for something that was just supposed to be a fun night out. Did Carter put you up to this?”

  “What?”

  “If not, this is one hell of a coincidence.” When my confusion remains, he goes on. “My band ambushed me earlier this week as part of some intervention. Then I got my ass handed to me by the VP of my label. I could stand to be dropped, lose the last thing I love. Now I get to hear it from you.” He slides out of the sheets and starts rooting around for his shirt.

  “This coming from the person who wanted to pry into my life and ask me about my hair and my tattoo. I guess it’s true that nothing’s harder to swallow than your own medicine.”

  Jenson doesn’t stop to look at me, just buttons his jeans and wedges his feet into his boots. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes.”

  “Whatever.” I flop down on my back and try not to watch him as he leaves. I resist saying anything else despite the pressing urge to be petty. There are already years that separate us, I don’t want to emphasize that age gap further.

  So, I listen to him go, and I try not to wonder why I have the sudden urge to stop him.

  Chapter 8

  Jenson

  I pop the top on a cold beer and take a long gulp, taking another look around. I’m not sure what to feel. When I told Carter I would be out by the end of the week, I meant it. I’ve broken too many promises in the past few years not to take something like moving out, leaving the nest, seriously. Call it turning over a new leaf. A clean start.

  Hollow relief, that’s what I feel. Respite from knowing someone is always there to look over my shoulder, casting judgment. Hollow because I know how lonely it will get.

  Regarding the perspiring bottle in my hand, I take another long chug. So maybe it’s not a completely new start, but you don’t just change your entire life overnight and expect instant success. Everyone knows that.

  After the impromptu intervention with the band, this studio loft was all I could get on short notice. Exposed brick walls ensconce an open living and kitchen area near the front door, which doglegs into the bedroom. I paid a horrific amount for a six-month lease, determined to find a house by the time it’s up. I’m giving myself half a year to get sober and sort my life out. Six months to break a decade of bad habits. It sounds impossible when I put it like that.

  Then again, the Shiner Bock in my hand isn’t helping anything. But I finish it anyways, because I’m not someone who’s going to quit anything cold-turkey and be successful at it. Besides, this is an occasion to celebrate—the movers may have done most of the work, but this is my first place living solo. Being thirty-three, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but I’ve always had a roommate, be it a friend or my ex-wife. It’s a little freeing knowing nobody knows my address and I won’t ever have to come home to a room full of interventionists again.

  My belongings are all still packed in boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner, my few pieces of furniture bare of any of the usual mementos. And still, my thoughts wander to her and the bold way she called me out. The conversation the other night felt like rusty nails scraping over raw skin. Painfully intrusive. I had to get out of there.

  But today, for once, the craving for another beer wrestles with the draw of something else. Her and her brazen truth. It’s been a long time since anyone aside from my band or the gossip columnists has freely given me their opinion on something.

  Abandoning the bottle on the counter, I grab my keys and lock up, taking the elevator to the ground floor. One reason this place works for me is the concierge in the lobby who won’t let anyone past without a visitor’s badge. I tip my head toward her on the way out, barely missing the answering grin that overtakes her face.

  The loft is a mile or so from the heart of the city, and being October, the walk is more pleasant than it would’ve been a month ago. The leaves are changing, and there’s a hint of crispness in the air that reminds me of those holiday-edition beers everyone comes out with. I’m not big on the pumpkin-spice bullshit, but everything else is fine by me.

  I dodge traffic to reach Rhythm on the opposite side of the street and duck inside. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust, and until then I browse the aisles of records. I’d enjoy this place more if it wasn’t for the merch area, where bright letters scream the name of the shop across every available surface. T-shirts, koozies, mugs, you name it. If not for that, the chipped walls, signed band posters, and polished concrete floors would have a more authentic feel to them.

  I scan the hard rock section without really seeing anything, my gaze drifting past all the vinyl to the dining area on the opposite side of the space. Two baristas behind the counter are doing more chatting than working, a few customers thumb their magazines or scroll through their phones. Then Lindsey emerges from the back, carrying a box on one shoulder. To anyone else, she might be just another beat in the background noise. A beautiful one, but there’s no shortage of beautiful women in this town. But when I see her walk out, my world seems to sway on its feet. I spin my thumb ring, giving myself a reality check.

  Get your shit together, Jenson. She’s just a girl.

  I don’t ne
ed to follow the stirrings of feelings down a rabbit hole of hurt to shock my heart from its tragedy-induced coma. I should walk out, find someone who’s less likely to be a loose cannon to expend my wound-up energy with. But that messy hair and defiant glare have me snagged, and I know I don’t have a hope of walking away until I’ve figured her out.

  Feeling the weight of my gaze, her eyes meet mine. She’s quick to correct herself, looking back at the box she’s propped on the edge of the counter, where she’s unloading various supplies. I make my way over and am greeted by only her back until one of the baristas slides into place behind the register.

  “What can I get for you?”

  If I wasn’t so focused on the woman behind her, maybe I’d pay more attention to the way one unruly corner of her mouth turns up like she’s fending off a grin. There are those, and there are the ones who scream bloody murder when they realize you’re the face behind the songs they hear on the radio.

  “I’ll take a regular coffee, please. Black.” I flip open my wallet to grab a few bucks, then add, “Make that two.”

  “Sure! Do you want those in mugs or to-go cups?”

  I watch Lindsey stiffen when I say, “Mugs. I’ll be here awhile.” Her hands pause for a split second, then she resumes her task as if she didn’t even hear me.

  “If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll bring them to you in a sec.”

  I nod, handing her a ten and waving off the change. Lindsey can’t ignore the dining area forever. Along with the preexisting customers, a couple’s just walked in the door.

  But she does her best to do just that. For half an hour, she avoids my eyes and skirts my table, pouring water here, exchanging a mug for a to-go cup there, delivering crepes and sandwiches in between. But I can tell she’s aware of me. Maybe she thinks she’s being subtle, but she adjusts her clothing a little too often to be casual, pulling down her shorts or tugging at her apron. She plays with the tendril that always seems to be pulled out from whatever she’s done to her hair—It’s in some sort of weird braid today.