Dirty Laundry

by Lauren Landish

  She’s wearing a t-shirt with a logo I don’t recognize stretched across her tits, a slim cotton skirt, and a pair of low-top Chuck Taylors that are cute as fuck on her. She looks young, bite-able like a fresh cherry, and curvier than a mountain road.

  Thank God I wore tight jeans today because I need that pressure to keep my cock from growing too big in their stretched confines. Even my workout isn’t helping. I can feel the tingle already.

  My body’s immediate and fierce reaction to her presence pisses me off. It makes me feel wild and out of control, and I don’t like it. I’m the one in control. Always.

  So I take out my body’s betrayal on her, barely grunting before turning and walking, not to the living room, but deeper into the house this time. We didn’t get through the whole house. She might as well see some more this time.

  I hear her sigh of frustration behind me. I can virtually hear the eye roll too, but she closes the door and follows me without complaining. It gives me an ounce of satisfaction that even if my body’s out of control, she’s still doing what I want her to do.

  That slight lift is broken when I hear her behind me, her shoes squeaking quietly on the tile flooring of my hallway. “So, we’re back to grumpy and asshole-y? I’d hoped we’d made some progress yesterday.”

  I don’t answer, just head into my music room. I have an office as well, but this room is where I’ve done some of my best recent work. As she walks through the door, I close it behind her, locking us inside these four walls without ever turning the actual lock.

  Elise looks around, eyes jumping from the art on the dark-paneled walls, to the awards in a case in the corner, to the bar, to my collection of old vinyl and their record player. “You jam in here? Or is this where you come to brood about how you want your girl back, your dog back, and your truck back?”

  I hold back the chuckle, not wanting to give in an inch, not even for an old joke about country music. “This is my cave, basically,” I admit, letting my voice be honest, slightly soft, and in reverence for what this place means to me. “It’s a warm and cozy place that I can hole up and do my music away from everyone and everything. I write all the time these days, in little notebooks I always carry with me, but this is where it all comes together. This is where scribbled notes turn into songs, where melodies that play on repeat in my head become harmonies between instruments and voices. This room is my music. The recording studio’s just . . . production. This is where the magic happens.”

  Elise looks taken aback at the openness in my voice, in what I’m telling her. And it’s hard, so fucking hard to let her into this room, this place in my soul, but somehow, talking about my music feels safer, easier than anything else she might ask about me, my history, or this supposed mystery woman I’m hiding. Music. I can always take it back to the music because I can talk about that for hours.

  “It feels sacred in here. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  There’s no insincerity to her voice, no note of teasing, just truth, and it makes me feel better for sharing something so personal. She’s right. The music has always been pure, even when sometimes performing hasn’t always felt pure. But that’s not the music’s fault. Here, I can tell the truth. I can take my soul out for inspection, see where it’s tattered and frayed, and see if I can somehow stitch it all back together long enough to make it through the next day.

  And Elise seems to understand this. It’s because of that, more than anything else, that lets me gesture to the couch. She plops down on the end, pulling her recorder out of her bag before slipping her shoes off.

  Once she’s satisfied with the recorder setup on the table, she curls up in the corner of the couch like a kitten, ready to ask me questions. But I have one for her first as I sit on the opposite end.

  “Do you listen to my music?” I ask, maybe a bit more harshly than I intended. “To country at all? Or are you into like electronica dance shit?”

  I gesture at her shirt, taking in the logo and the lushness of her tits all at once. She looks down at her shirt, then back to me. “Actually, I do listen to country some. It’s not always my first choice, although that’s definitely not EDM either. If I’m jamming on my own, I’ll usually pick rock . . . Highly Suspect, which is who this t-shirt depicts, or Cage the Elephant, stuff like that. But if a song is good, the beat hits you in your chest and the lyrics make you feel, I’ll listen to any genre. Even country.”

  She says the last part teasingly, and I’m a little relieved to hear she’s not some super-fan who’s just trying to get closer to me with these interviews. I’ve been lucky to not have any obsessively dangerous fans like some artists have. My fans seem to be mostly down-to-earth folks who just like to two-step a bit, maybe get a little rowdy for a party anthem, or have something to keep the dusty roads a little more tolerable as they get to work. But I’ll admit that I wanted her to at least be familiar with my music. It’s integral to my soul, and I’m curious to know what she thinks about my music, even if that makes me vulnerable.

  Elise takes my question and turns it around smoothly, not like an interview but . . . almost like a date or something. “What about your musical tastes? What do you listen to?”

  Been there, done this question before, so I answer using my usual country charm story. “My mom used to sing Patsy Cline to us, played us all the classics . . . Johnny Cash, Hank Williams One and Two, Reba McIntyre, George Strait, and more, so I always have a soft spot for those. She also played a lot of that sixties rock, when country and rock were sort of walking hand in hand some. The Doors, CCR, and of course, Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

  Elise smiles, humming a few bars. “I’ve jammed a little CCR. Run Through The Jungle is a damn good tune.”

  I nod, impressed. Most people who only pretend to like Creedence use one of their more famous songs, but Elise somehow plucked my favorite right out of her head. “But I like newer country too . . . Jason Aldean, Dierks Bentley, even Blake Shelton, but don’t tell him I said that. Can barely get a hat to fit on that melon of his already.”

  She grins, but I’d bet my favorite guitar she doesn’t even know who Blake Shelton is beyond his TV show fame or maybe his famous blonde girlfriend.

  “You said you write all the time. What inspires you to write a song?”

  I think for a moment, then shrug. “Everything. You ever go about your day, see a mom sitting on a park bench with a baby in a stroller and then a guy in a suit walks up? That’s a song . . . about love, responsibility, doing whatever it takes to make your woman light up when she sees you at the end of a long day. Or the guy on the side of the road, lost in his own mind and missing the life he once had. His story is a song. Watching the news and seeing a tragedy, that’s a song too. Even a party, letting loose and having a great time with friends. That’s a song. Every experience, every emotion . . . they’re worth having, worth feeling, worth sharing. It’s addicting, that ability to connect through words and notes, transform something surreal and hazy into something palpable and visceral.”

  Elise is biting her lip, looking at me with delight, and I realize I think I just gave her a good quote for her article even though I was talking off the top of my head. Guess I can talk smoothly without even trying.

  My attention is drawn to Elise’s mouth, watching the small white flash as her teeth press into her bottom lip before her pink tongue darts out, licking her lips to soothe the bite and leaving them shiny.

  I want to taste her mouth, to abandon myself to my inner desires and let loose the reins of my lust. Before I can move from the other end of the couch, though, she asks another question, saving me. Or maybe saving her, I don’t know. “So once inspiration strikes, how do you get it to song . . . music first, lyrics first, both simultaneously?”

  There’s a dirty joke in there if ever I heard one, but I try to refrain, sticking to the safer topic of music, especially since it’s why she’s here. It’ll help me just enough to stay in control of myself.

  Although I can’t help riling her up.
It’s just so damn fun. “The short answer is yes, all of those. Depends on the song. I’ve had melodies that I couldn’t find words to, or lyrics all laid out that just needed a tune, or sometimes, I just sit and pick at a guitar and see what happens. I had one set of lyrics that sat in the drawer for three years before I got the music right, and another that hit full on, both coming hard at once.”

  Elise looks around the room again, her voice a little shaky at my last words. “And this is where the magic happens?”

  I wonder what she sees when she sees this space, my private place. Does she feel the music in every molecule the way I do? Does she see the awards, the lineup of guitars, the pictures of me with favorite artists I’ve met, or does she see the hours I’ve spent in here with my eyes closed or staring at the guitar in my hands, sweating bullets as I try to combine inspiration with perspiration? I wonder what she would say if I told her about that side of things, but that’s not what I ask her.

  “So that was a bunch of questions in a row. Seems like it’s my turn now, according to our deal.”

  She laughs, a soft acquiescence in her nod. “Hit me. What do you want to know?”

  God, woman . . . so much. Everything. What’s her favorite flavor of ice cream? Does she like candlelit dinners or fun nights out? Has she ever had eight and a half inches of thick cock up her ass?

  But I try to focus, or at least to keep my horniness in check. What do I really want to know about her?

  I eyeball her, curled up in the corner of the couch with her arms wrapped around her knees, perfectly at home in my room, my presence, her cheeks flushed as she waits to see what I’m going to ask.

  Finally, I know. “Tell me a secret.”

  It’s not a question but a demand, and I want to see what she shares when given an open-ended opportunity. She’s demanding all of my deepest, darkest secrets, so it seems only fair to own hers too. And I want to see . . . she’s filling my head with all these dirty thoughts and desires. Just how dirty is that mind of hers?

  Her puffy lips frown, but it seems to be in thought as she searches her mind for what she wants to say.

  Finally, she narrows her eyes, looking at me defensively. “Okay, this might not seem like a big deal at first, but let me tell the whole thing before you judge.”

  I nod, and she takes a steadying breath, which makes me curious what exactly she’s about to spill. “I like to . . . knit. Scarves, sweaters, socks, hats, anything I can get a pattern for. I knit.”

  I can feel my face scrunch up in confusion. “Knit? Sweaters? This is your big secret?”

  I know I just said I wouldn’t judge, but come on. She’s gotta be fucking with me, especially after all the emotional shit I just shared about my music. She wants my deepest secret, wants my daughter exposed even if she doesn’t realize that’s what she’s doing, and she tells me that she knits? Seriously?

  I can feel the flames of anger licking at me from inside, and I shake my head, poison dropping from every word. “I thought we had a deal, Elise. But if you want to shit on the arrangement, fine. We’ll go back to pat PR answers. Get up, get out of my room. Let’s go back to the living room, the kitchen . . . somewhere less personal to me.”

  She stands, breath heaving as her tits rise and fall, pointing a maroon-tipped finger at me as she speaks just short of a yell, her eyes sparkling with anger. “I said to wait to judge, you asshole! But by all means, jump to conclusions that I’m giving you a superficial answer. FYI . . . I’ve literally never told anyone that.”

  She grabs her bag and shoes, stomping barefooted toward the door. I can hear the truth in her vehemence, and it surprises me. I jump to my feet, reaching out but not stepping toward her. “Wait.”

  Again with the orders, but she doesn’t seem to mind given that she stops immediately, looking back at me over her shoulder but not saying a word.

  I sigh, gesturing toward the end of the couch. “You’re right, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Sit back down. Please.”

  The nicety feels foreign on my tongue. I’m used to telling people what to do and they do it, no please or thank you required, except maybe to Carsen or Sarah since I try to be less of an ass to them.

  Elise returns to the couch but perches on the edge, ready to rage again at any second as I stand in front of her, looming. It feels telling, symbolic. She’s wild chaos, on the edge, and I’m ordered control, caging her in.

  I keep my voice steady and look her directly in the eye. “So you knit.”

  She lifts her chin, and the posture suddenly feels very heated with her lips mere inches from my crotch, looking up at me with fire in her eyes. I feel my cock twitch in my jeans, thickening and straining to be closer to her. My fingers dance over my thighs, playing invisible chords to keep from grabbing her by the hair and taking what I already know I want so desperately.

  Needing to stop that freight train from crashing into us for both of our sakes, I sit on the coffee table, my knees wide on either side of hers, my eyes waiting impatiently for her to continue. Finally, she sighs and nods, relenting to my unspoken request for her to continue.

  “Yes, I knit. So the story is two-sided, I guess. When I was a kid, my parents would ship me off to my Gran’s house every summer. It was awesome and occasionally boring as hell, especially for an active kid. I couldn’t run through the house. She had all of these really fragile things that I swear only old people or people with too much money have.”

  I chuckle. I know just what she means. My grandmother had a carnival glass lampshade in her dining room. God help anyone who even stomped through that room and made the shade even twitch.

  “So Gran taught me to knit, probably to keep her doll collection in one piece,” Elise says before I can interrupt. “Every night after dinner, we’d sit on the porch and listen to the cicadas buzz, and we’d knit. That first summer, I made my first scarf. I was so damn proud of that ugly thing that I wore it to school every day, no matter the weather.”

  I’m trying to picture a miniature Elise, blonde hair sticking up every which way and wearing a scarf with shorts and a tank top. It’s cute and makes me smile a little. “What color?”

  She tilts her head at the question. “It was yellow, like the sunflowers in Gran’s yard.” She smiles too, but I can see she’s not really here with me. Instead, her mind’s far away, long ago in this moment.

  Blinking, she continues. “So I kept at it, making stuff all through school and eventually nobody even wanted the things I made any more, so I started shipping them off to charities. That’s one side, that I honor this gift of a skill my Gran gave me by helping as much as I can, anonymously of course. And the other side of the story? Why the big secret?” Elise grins saucily. “Well, I have an image to maintain. Part of my work is going to clubs, the whole party scene . . . seeing who’s there and what’s happening and reporting on it. I’m spontaneous, a fly by the seat of my pants kinda girl most of the time and that’s what everyone expects of me. But knitting is my time to recharge, just me in the silence of my apartment.”

  I can see that she’s telling the truth. Never would’ve seen that coming, and maybe that’s the point. “Okay, so you knit. I promise not to tell.” I make a zipper motion across my lips and she grins. My eyes focus in on that smile, her lush lips pulled wide and I want to devour her. She must feel the pull she has on me because her smile falters, her lips parting slightly to invite me in. I meet her gaze, knowing my lust must be written all over my face, but I’m surprised to see the need so plainly on hers too. It’s all I can do to stop from moving closer, but I restrain myself by sheer will. My voice is gravel as I try to force lightness into the heavy moment.

  “I think I’d like to see that. Think you could model some for me?”

  She giggles a feather-soft baby’s breath of a laugh, which suddenly becomes vibrant and bubbly as she plants her palms on my chest and pushes me. I’m aware of her touch on an animal level, wanting to push her back, down on the couch, pinned underneath me as I ravish thos
e lips and neck along the way to tying up her wrists with her old yellow scarf.

  She keeps laughing, shaking her head. “Asshole, just for that, I might actually do it! I’ll expect pictures of you in it to go along with the story in return though.”

  She thinks I’m kidding, but in this moment, I’d probably do that . . . for her.

  Chapter 7

  Elise

  Settling into my desk at the office, I'm already sipping on a huge coffee knowing I'm going to need the caffeine hit today. I've barely even turned my laptop on when Maggie stops by, perching daintily on the corner of my desk, her feet swinging.

  "So, what's he like?” she asks, almost vibrating. “Tell me everything!"

  Her excitement is infectious, especially since she's truly excited for me, not just pumping me for info to steal my story. Well, maybe a little jealous too. She is the office’s self-proclaimed biggest country fan.

  I grin, teasing her with a long, dramatic pause. "Why, Maggie,” I finally say after taking a long sip of my coffee and setting the mug down, “you’re an eager little beaver, aren't you?"

  Maggie laughs, tugging at a lock of her hair. "Of course! This is like the assignment of the year, and we're all curious about what you're going to write up on the elusive Mr. Perkins."

  We? Yeah, right. I know quite a few people who don’t really care, but for Maggie, Keith Perkins is right up her alley. I look up, trying to collect my thoughts, both for the first article in the series and to explain our encounters, knowing that I can't possibly explain how he makes me feel . . . how his powerful presence makes me want to climb him like a tree or maybe kneel at his feet.

  For my own safety, I'm definitely leaving out the bit where I swore he was going to lean in to kiss me yesterday after I pushed him in the chest, and definitely how fucking bad I wanted him to.