Plus, our band was on the same lineup as the three big headliners that were on the top of the music industry: Sudden Enemy, a Seattle rock band that had been around since the late 1990s; Taz Jones, a hip-hop artist from the Bronx who’d only been around for four years but had already won six Grammys since his debut album; and Reagan Moore. Along with a bunch of other musicians I’d written for who were attending, like Isaac Ball, Brandy Strong, Rex Silver, and Nora Laine. And in the mix of all that talent, there was our little band, Midnight Konfusion, which I guess wasn’t so little anymore if we were going to Meraki.
We had a very great Christmas, to say the least.
“So, to celebrate all the great things happening to you, I have a surprise,” she said with a salacious smirk. “Follow me.”
She took my hand and weaved me all around the hallways until we made it into her green room. She closed the door, pressed in the lock, and then pushed me into the wall. When she kissed me, I tugged her waist toward me, and I just sort of sank into the wall, remembering how wonderful it was to kiss her again. One hand slid into my hair and grabbed a fistful. Every time she did it, it was like experiencing it for the first time. I murmured into her mouth, surrendering my body, and that was when her hands crept underneath my shirt, feeling my skin, and my arm hairs rose like they always did when she first touched me. As her tongue skimmed my bottom lip, she unbuttoned my pants and pulled down the zipper, and my heart sort of just leapt out of my chest as everything below my underwear begged for her touch.
She made me feel so amazing, I sometimes couldn’t handle it.
“Reagan, what are you doing?” I said when I pulled away, nervously laughing at her assertiveness. What happened to the overly cautious Reagan Moore?
“About to get you off,” she said.
I pulled away again, and my heart started thrumming. “You know anyone can walk in at any time?”
She blinked a few times. “That’s what the lock is for.”
She slid her hand underneath my underwear, eliciting a sharp gasp from me. Who the hell was this Reagan? Was this the same girl who was terrified of going swimming after hours? She looked a lot like her.
Her hands crawled down to my center, pushing away the folds so she could go inside me. At the sudden insertion, I had to trap another moan in my throat because I was so terrified about someone walking in, even though the thrill of getting caught caused my pulse to dance faster in my neck. Maybe I was only scared because I thought Reagan would be scared, but once she put her fingers inside me, and I clawed her back, I took that as a sign that she might have started to love the thrills I introduced to her.
“I can’t wait until later,” she whispered into my ear, and then her fingers sped up, and she lightly bit my earlobe. “I’ve waited long enough.”
I gave up. I allowed her weight to hold me against the wall because all the rhythms inside me were too much for my knees to withstand. Two months without her pressed up against me, mouth on my neck, fingers moving in insistent strokes. I knew this was going to be a quick adventure because Reagan slamming me against the wall and being adamant about giving me an orgasm despite her whole army being on the other side of the door had me instantly wet and ready for her to do whatever she wanted to me.
I nuzzled into her neck as the sensation started to overpower me. I pulled her back for some kind of stabilization to keep my knees gradually weakening from giving out. Her free hand slipped underneath my shirt and crawled up to my breasts, twisting my nipple for even more pleasure, and my whole body buzzed with warmth. My breathing accelerated in unison with her fingers as I moved my hips against her, and it quickly brought me the sharp release I’d been looking forward to since the last time I saw her. I buried my mouth into the fabric of her shirt to mute the strong cries she pulled out of me. As the aftershocks ran from my center, down my shaking legs and up to my chest, I pulled away to look at her only to find a wide, playful grin.
“There, that was my surprise,” she said before she retrieved her hand.
I could feel the the blush hit my cheeks. “That was…wow…that was a good surprise. My legs feel weird.”
“Good. I did you right, then.”
I’m sure she would have wanted to know that, even during our set, I still felt the aftereffects of that intense orgasm and used the very little strength in my legs to prevent myself from collapsing. So, unfortunately for the Greenville crowd, I couldn’t hop on the speakers to wave to the upper level or hop off the stage onto the floor to high-five the front row. Nope, my legs were too wobbly from the headliner of the tour fucking me before the show.
During her set, Reagan invited us on the stage to sing “Patience, Love” for the first time live. I spotted all the girls in the front row eyeing each other like the people on Ellen’s Twelve Days of Giveaways when Ellen broke the news. It was one thing to know that the song you wrote was at number one. It was another thing to see in the eyes of fans that your song was at number one. Their glowing beams, rounded eyes, hands tossed up in the air: all of that was better than the “one” placed in front of the song name. As we performed, trying to ooze chemistry out on stage, I couldn’t erase the smile from my face, knowing how much the crowd loved the song.
And then in Charlotte, Reagan asked me to ditch my own room and bunk with her. So, obviously I didn’t have to think more than half a second before I said yes. What was a close second was that Finn didn’t ask any questions when Reagan informed him of the change, didn’t raise a skeptical eyebrow, or give me a lecture about how I should be careful with Reagan. Corbin gave me a firm, curious eye, warning me with just his strong furrowed eyebrows that I better not fuck it up. And once I got my key and walked into my hotel room with my new roommate, our bodies got even more reacquainted after being apart for so long.
Everything was back to normal…with the added bonus of my hotel room being Reagan’s.
* * *
We all flew back to LA for the Grammys two weeks later. Walking down the red carpet, Mom—my date—looked absolutely gorgeous in her knee-length, over the shoulder red dress. Miles rocked a velvet tux jacket. Yes, velvet. He thought it was a genius idea as we got ready, throwing it over his suspenders, white shirt, and black bowtie. Oh, and his black-rimmed glasses he brought out on special occasions to trick people into thinking he was much classier than he was. But once we hit the red carpet and a bunch of reporters, paparazzi, and fans crammed underneath the white tent that ran over the carpet, I could tell by the glistening sweat on his face that he severely regretted that velvet. As for me, I decided to go bold and wore an all black pantsuit, the jacket dipping halfway to my belly button and held together by fashion tape on my boobs, and black skinny slacks that stopped at my ankles. Unlike my friend Miles, I opted out of wearing any sort of shirt or cami underneath, and it paid off because the stale air somewhat wafted underneath my jacket and prevented me from overheating on a surprisingly hot February day in LA.
“I’m melting,” Miles said through his teeth. The gel that pushed back his hair started melting from the heat.
A million flashes went off in front of us as we posed for the cameras while the paparazzi yelled to get our attention.
Much to my surprise, many of the interviewers and paparazzi yelled at me.
“Blair! Blair! Where’s Reagan?”
“Blair! Can you confirm or deny that you’re dating Reagan Moore?”
But to fuck with them because it was fun to watch them squirm, I just smiled and waved as I continued down the red carpet.
“Blair, you’re not going to go talk to them?” Mom asked.
“Mom, they only want to find out all the juicy info about Reagan. Plus, we need to get Miles into some air-conditioning, or he’s going to turn into a puddle.”
He fanned his white shirt. “Yes, please. I’m halfway there.”
As the three of us were a few steps from making it inside, we heard the fans on the bleachers bellowing out frantic cheers. Like a concert sonic boom made for the re
d carpet. I turned around to see which celebrity was causing the commotion. Beyoncé? Lady Gaga? Justin Timberlake? But no. It was my girlfriend, wrapped up in a shimmering gold sleeveless dress that hung to the floor. She waved to the fans on the bleachers, who turned into paparazzi by snapping pictures of her on their phones in the same cadence as the actual paparazzi, a storm of flashes and constant clicking taking over the red carpet. She stepped toward the bleachers to let a few fans take selfies with her, and then she hiked up her dress to climb the stairs to talk to the red carpet interviewers. No matter how cold the drinks would be at the bar inside, I couldn’t peel my eyes off her.
“Blair. Air-conditioning. So close,” Miles said.
“Wow, your girlfriend looks stunning, Blair,” Mom said with a hint of teasing in her tone.
She was the most beautiful person on that carpet, so beautiful that I knew if I continued to gawk at her, at least one paparazzo would snap the picture of my drooling, sell it to TMZ for the price of one month’s LA rent, and then it would make its rounds all over the internet. So, I dragged Mom and Miles inside where the air-conditioning and alcohol would cool us down.
An hour and a half later, I finally got the chance to talk to Reagan backstage since the three of us were pushed back in the sixth row with Isaac Ball. It was an hour into the ceremony, and the three of us prepared for our performance. She opted out of the gold dress and wore her familiar black sparkly bodysuit. That outfit would never get old.
“Hey!” she said, adjusting her in-ear as she flashed her wide smile, and then grabbed my hand for a quick thumb caress.
“Finally, I get to see you.”
“I know, I know. How are you feeling? You ready for this?”
I was. Miles had snuck in a flask of Jack in his jacket pocket, which we shared with Isaac, even though Mom kept telling us to put it away so we wouldn’t be kicked out. Isaac Ball suggested we switch seats so he could charm Mom into letting us drink. She enjoyed the flirting from a successful, attractive, early thirties musician. So, she hushed and enjoyed the show. At least the whiskey had shoved my nerves deep inside my stomach.
“Born ready.”
She squeezed my hand and then took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll see you out there. Ready, Miles?”
Instead of her drummer, she invited Miles to play for both songs. He took a deep breath, and then one of the backstage workers in all black, wearing an earpiece walkie-talkie, escorted them out on the stage while the show went to commercial. When the commercial ended, the presenter took the stage, introduced Reagan Moore, and then the music started. The audience stood and danced along to the latest single off her current album. Miles played the drums like the pro that he was, and no one could tell he was extremely nervous getting in front of all those people. She sang half of her single, and then she transitioned into the song we wrote, singing the first verse. When she reached the bridge, that was my cue, and out I walked from backstage. She faced me at the same time the lights shone down on me. The audience cheered at the surprise duet, probably all gleeful that the internet rumors popped up on stage.
As well as all the people in the arena, there were millions of viewers all over the world. I decided that instead of focusing on the cameras that reminded me how many people were actually watching, I focused on Reagan, pretending I was singing to her and only her. By the time the chorus came around again, the stage fright subsided. I was comfortable walking up and down, not holding back on letting my chemistry with Reagan pour out. We walked close to each other, eyes locked, flirtatious smiles naturally seeping out of us, the crowd growing louder. When the song ended and I finally looked at the audience, they gave us a standing ovation, and the group of fans in the general admission section right up on the stage had the same faces as when we first performed the song live in Greenville: mouths dropped, wide smirks, phones out to capture the moment.
The only somber moment of the night came when the In Memoriam played, and Gramp’s face and name flashed on the screen above the stage. Mom and I grabbed each other’s hand, Miles grabbed my other hand, but the sad moment of missing him didn’t last too long because a few minutes later, our night ended with Isaac Ball and me winning the Grammy for Best Song. It completely surprised me because I could have sworn Reagan was going to win it. One moment I was in my seat, the next I was on the stage looking at all the people and the tiers of floors that comprised the Staples Center. All the cameras pointed to me. All the lights heated my body and produced sweat that cascaded down the valley of my chest. Everything in front of me warped in a daze once I clasped that six-pound Grammy. I searched for Mom and Miles in the sixth row. Mom dabbed her eyes. Miles gave me a thumbs-up. And then across the aisle from them was Reagan in the first row. Her eyes fixated on me, and a tooth-revealing beam reached both of her ears as Isaac started off by thanking his manager, his record label, and then he went on about how working with me was an honor, and I was some musical genius. Then he faced me, and words just slipped out of me, and I thanked my family, Isaac, and my grandpa. I tried to make it as brief as possible because I was so warm from shock, the beaming lights, all the people watching me, and the realization that my lifelong dream just unveiled in front of me.
To celebrate, Miles and I begged Reagan to take us to In-N-Out Burger because we were starving and drunk—drunk because we had nothing in our systems.
“Anything for this Grammy winner,” she said and kissed me without caring that Miles and Mom shared the limo, and then they teamed up to tease me for the rest of the night.
“Reagan and Blair sitting in a tree,” Miles sang, and Mom stooped down to his level to join him, knowing that it would easily get to me.
But Reagan’s eyes and smile made it easy for me to block out the heckling.
“I’m so proud of you, Blair,” she said and looped an arm through mine. “Even if you were my competition. You deserve it. And you know what, your grandparents are throwing a party up there.”
I had no idea what to say. Ever since the presenters said my name and Isaac’s for the winners of Best Song, this ball of emotion hung in my throat. I had never been prouder of myself; I had never been happier knowing that I got to share the night with the three most important people in my life. But as much as I was happy, I was so sad I couldn’t share it with the man who made me fall in love with music. I couldn’t even imagine the night if Gramps was still alive. He would be hollering, probably crying, and then he would have bought the most expensive whiskey out there for us to enjoy together. That ball of emotion prevented me from saying anything because I knew once I tried speaking, my voice would start shaking. I couldn’t cry. Tonight was not a night for crying. So, I just kissed her forehead instead.
Miles and I each scarfed two burgers and French fries while Reagan and Mom each ate one. And then, since Reagan and I weren’t in the mood to drive all the way out to Calabasas where she lived, the limo dropped us off at our place before taking Mom back to Los Feliz. Once we got to my room, we stripped out of red carpet attire, switched into our pj’s, and plopped on my bed, both of us chugging water before curling up with each other. At least with the burgers and fries in my stomach, the world wasn’t spinning anymore.
“Did I tell you how amazing you looked in that jacket?” Reagan said with her head resting on my shoulder. “Because damn, I couldn’t stop staring at your boobs.”
“Did I tell you how amazing you looked? You were, by far, the most beautiful woman on that red carpet.”
“That’s not even accurate. Did you not see Beyoncé?”
“I did, and she was a very close second to you.”
She placed her hand in the valley between my breasts and rubbed the palm of her hand where my skin had been showing all night. “You know, I never went to an award show with the person I was dating.”
“Really?”
“No. Knowing I got to dress up and see you all dressed up, it kinda felt like prom. Or what I thought prom would be like, right?”
“Miles snuck a f
lask of whiskey in his jacket. He did that at our actual prom too.”
“Seriously? Blair!” But she laughed.
“What? It makes it all better. Oh, and you came home with me. That’s an important detail.” I kissed her cheek. “Very prom-esque.”
“Yup. That’s how I imagined prom would be.”
“Wait,” I said as I positioned myself so my hand propped up my head. “You never went to prom?”
“I never went to prom. My school only had senior prom, so you could only go if you were a senior or if a senior asked you. The only person I dated in high school was the same age as me.”
“The one who used you for your Nashville connections?”
“Yes. Brett.”
I shuddered at the name. Anyone named Brett sounded as if they dressed in a camo hat with an over-cupped brim and had a gross toothpick hanging in between his lips…because, you know, that was really sexy.
“By the time I was a senior, I was touring with the Bartlett Belles, and I was homeschooled. So, there wasn’t really a chance for me.”
“That sounds really depressing.”
She shrugged as if it was no big deal. “I mean, I was bummed about it for a little bit, especially when all my friends were talking about what they were going to wear, and what restaurant they were going to eat at, and then I had to hear all their stories, but I felt as if I couldn’t complain because I had a record deal and was touring. I went to homecoming all three years, so there’s the alternative.”
“But prom is like the Super Bowl of school dances.”
She laughed. “I kind of find it funny that you’re so concerned about my lack of prom experience. You went to prom?”
“Of course I did. I went with my girlfriend, Rachel.”
“And did you take forever to ask her?”
“No. She asked me. She wrote me a poem and put it in my locker.”
Hammers, Strings, and Beautiful Things Page 17
