“I won’t just make you come, I’ll make you scream,” he said in a low rumble.
Oh, gods I hope so. I wasn’t sure if I said that with my outside voice or not. I hadn’t been kissed like that in a very, very long time.
“I, I can’t tonight,” I stammered.
“I know,” he said, then he kissed me again. It was full of passion and promise. “When I’m back. I fly out in the morning, but we will be recording back here in four months.”
I felt like pleading “yes please,” but restrained myself with a simple, “Yes.”
He took a sip of his drink, and grinned at me, I leaned into him as he placed his drink on the shelf then wrapped both arms around me. I felt like a silly girl with a huge crush that just found out he liked me too. I did not feel like an adult, I was entirely too giddy.
When the alarm on my phone started vibrating in my pocket, I really wanted to ignore it. It was time for me to go back to reality.
“I have to go,” I said into his ear. He nodded, and escorted me toward the door. After checking he could get back into the club with the appropriate hand stamp, we left the club. I’m not sure why I thought it was an issue, the front of the club was surrounded by all the smokers who could not smoke inside. I forgot club policies for in-and-out, would have changed with the no smoking laws. That spoke volumes to my age, and how often I went clubbing, more than anything else. My car wasn’t far, so the walk was too short. I ran out of time just to be near him before I had to say good-bye.
I felt awkward and stupid once we got to my van, the same generic silver mini-van every third soccer mom drove. He didn’t say anything, just folded me in for an unforgettable kiss. If I thought our first kiss in the club caused fireworks, I think this one blew the top of my head off. It was still just a kiss, no additional groping, but lips and tongues delivering a powerful payload of explosive urges. It was the first time I noticed his hair, it must not have been down in the club, because it fell around us like a curtain. It brushed my cheek and was so amazingly soft. I had never kissed a man with long hair before. The added caress of his hair heightened the sensations. If this is what it did for a kiss, what did it do for everything else?
I don’t know how long we were there, long enough to know I didn’t want it to end, long enough for him to caress my lips with his fingers and stroked them up the side of my face.
“Four months is going to be a long time,” he said.
“I agree. I, I really have to go.” I really didn’t want to. I wanted him to say, ‘stay with me tonight.’ I would text Lydia, she would understand, I could be home by six am, the girls would never need to know.
But he didn’t say stay, he said, “I’ll see you in four months,” and then he kissed me again. A kiss good-bye.
Three
After I left Rockstar at the club it was a struggle to not stalk him online or sink into a dark depression. I failed at both. It had been such a long time since anyone paid that type of attention to me. And he was so sexy. It was hard not to replay every word he said to me, or not to tear up every time I thought about when he told me he couldn’t help but see me, or when he kissed me. Sigh.
I was pitiful. My thoughts lingered on his warmth, and how soft his lips were, and the soft tickling of his hair as it fell around us.
I had a mundane life to manage, I had children who didn’t need their mommy to be any gloomier than I already was on a daily basis. I had a beautiful memory to hold tight to.
I waited at least a whole two days after we departed company before I jumped online to do my research. I was a thirty-something with a rock star crush, the rest of the world didn’t need to know that, so I called it research.
I showed great restraint by not covering my walls with posters of him. My computer and my phone were different matters. I ordered an old concert T-shirt online. It had all five of AudioVox’s faces on it. It was a bit tight, but I wore it cleaning, this gave it a nice worn patina, so that if and when I went out in public in it, I had the appearance of being a longtime fan, and not some new fan, wannabe dork in a band shirt.
Rockstar’s name was Thomas Ares Martin. He dropped the Thomas and went by Ares with the stage name Mars. His parents were Macedonian-Rom and French, among other things, and he had two older sisters. I did not need the internet to tell me he was incredibly tall, or that he had long glorious black hair. Like any good fangirl, I learned his personal details as if he were actually in my life, and not some nice passing dream of a chance encounter. Favorite color red; prefers pepperoni and extra cheese on his pizza; I became a walking teen-beat encyclopedia of all things Ares.
I found out more band history than I really needed to know, after all, I was more interested in Ares than anything else. His standard band profile always started with his height, and then followed with his credentials: bass player, backup singer, song writer.
As a band, they had been together over twenty years, having gained popularity at the end of the grunge rock era. Before AudioVox, Rockstar had been in an all-boy pop band for a short time. He’d even had bleached bangs and pouty lips.
Pushing the envelope of the aged rock star— no comparisons to the Rolling Stones who’ve transcended the rules of rock and where age doesn’t matter anymore— the members of AudioVox were getting up there. To the rest of the rock world, over forty was definitely old, and they were rapidly approaching middle age. To my eyes they weren’t that old, to a nineteen-year-old they probably resembled a bunch of dads. After all, Rockstar was only six years older than me.
I couldn’t help myself but play compare and contrast, Rockstar— it was hard for me to call him Ares when I thought about him, like I knew him or something— with Richard. Maybe it was because Richard was actually the last boyfriend I had, and I hoped Ares would be the next boyfriend? Maybe it was because they were so very different, and I kept wondering how I managed that? How had I been in love with someone so bland and now I was falling for someone who was so vivid?
The two men were polar opposites. Richard was everything expected from a Docker wearing, middle management, light beer drinking, bro-country listening, all-star high school jock-hole. Someone who had never gone in for simple public displays of affection, not even handholding.
Ares was a dark angel in comparison, He was pale as snow, like a male Snow White, a vampire with elaborate tattoos hidden under his clothes. The kisses he gave me in public curled my toes and stopped my brain.
The biggest difference between them was Richard knew my name and Ares did not. I tried to not think about that part. I knew how to find Richard, even if I really didn’t want to. I was lost when it came to knowing if I would see Ares again.
I couldn’t decide if I owed Trish or not. If I gave her positive reinforcement for standing me up, then she would get the wrong idea. Like training a puppy, it was a negative behavior I couldn’t praise her for it, or she might do it again. But if she hadn’t stood me up, I never would have met Ares, never experienced those toe curling kisses.
“Are you saying I did you a favor?” Trish sipped her martini. She loved her cocktails, even if chain restaurants over charged for them.
“No, yes, I’m saying you lucked out. I should be pissed off. You ditched me.”
She batted her lashes over the rim of her drink.
“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t ditch me. It doesn’t feel good, and I burned through some of Miss Angie’s good will toward me. I don’t know why she continues to babysit the girls when she clearly doesn’t approve of my lifestyle,” I complained.
“Your lifestyle?” Trish laughed. “Single divorced mom who never does anything fun? She might not like you, but she loves those girls. You’re lucky.”
“So lucky. I got divorced and got to keep the dishes and the mother-in-law.”
“Hey, you got out didn’t you?”
She was right. Trish was one of the few friends I was able to keep from work. A friend who frequently put men before her friends, but still a friend. I hadn�
��t realized how much Richard had been isolating me from other people after Cassidy was born.
I sighed. “Yep. So, how was he? Good D?”
Trish’s eyes went wide, and she made one of those unfortunate face-melting expressions that could only mean the D was so good she had no bone structure left.
“Lizzie, he ruined my lady bits. When I say wrecked, I mean wrecked. The D is amazing. And he’s helping get rid of that janky couch I have. He’s bringing his over this weekend.”
“That sounds serious.” I said.
I was happy for her. She deserved a good man who treated her right. From everything she said this guy seemed to be just the type she needed. I had to curb my typical judgmental self over how fast she fell for the guy. I mean, Rockstar had me hooked the second he walked into that bar. I was ready, willing, and able to sleep with him if he had just said the word. Even so, Trish didn’t need the rest of the details about who I met.
“Not terribly. At least not yet. I mean he’s not going with me to Thanksgiving or anything.”
Uh, she was right. Turkey day was around the corner. “I’m not ready for Thanksgiving yet. Cause that means Christmas is next,” I whined.
“Next?” she laughed. “It’s that time of year Happy Hallothankmasnukkawanza. It’s all one holiday anymore.”
“True, true.”
“You haven’t made your Thanksgiving plans yet?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know if it’s my year or Richard’s.” I closed my eyes. I needed to talk to my parents about getting tickets to Tucson. I opened my eyes and felt them roll around in my skull. “Christmas is with my folks, so that means it is Richard’s year. I don’t know what I’ll do. Last time it was his year, Bree was too little, and I had to be there with everyone at Miss Angie’s.”
As much as I didn’t want that memory, I was stuck with it. My mother-in-law had made a small turkey and the standard fixings. It had been the four of us for most of the day, with Richard only making a brief appearance which had been tolerable, until it wasn’t. I had to have been on mind numbing drugs the entire time I was married to the man. And I thought I had been in love with him. That Thanksgiving meal had been the longest amount of time we spent together since the divorce was finalized. I attempted to make nice on a few occasions, after all we did share custody of the girls. It was in their best interest for us to get along, but it never seemed to work. Once I even had visions of us as one of those extended happy families, where me and my future new husband, and Richard and his future new wife and all the children could get together for large family gatherings.
But I knew differently. Richard resented me completely. It was always all my fault. Even though he was the one fooling around on me. I guess because I wouldn’t let him have a girlfriend, or I expected him to fork over substantial amounts in child support and alimony.
“Maybe you should find that guy you met? Shuffle the girls off to their grandmother and see if he wants to come over and help stuff your turkey.” She waggled her eyebrows and puckered her lips. “You know what I mean?”
“Are you calling me a turkey?”
“Gobble, gobble.”
I plastered a fake smile on my face and tried not to think about how many more months before Ares would be in town. Three months, two weeks, four days.
Winter leveled its gloom and indecisive weather patterns on us before I just about got back to a normal mentality regarding Ares, when Lydia spun me back into obsessive mode. It was one of those gray cold days, the kids wished for more snow and another snow day, and parents wished for no more snow. Lydia came to retrieve me for lunch. I was at the mercy of Miss Angie for help picking up the girls after school and getting my car later in the day. It was in the shop, and I was stuck at home with laundry and the TV.
Lydia stood on my door stoop dressed perfectly for the day: perfect boots, gloves matched the hat and scarf, the coat was warm and had enough color not to be obnoxious but enough to imply the wearer was sick of dreary gray days. Lydia always had the perfect outfit. Some people might think she had too many clothes. I knew for a fact, she did. Her last ex converted the small bedroom in her house into a walk-in closet.
She held up a copy of the Street Scene. “Have you seen this?”
As a Christmas present to myself, and my sanity, I gave up checking the Street Scene, the local free weekly newspaper that focused on local music industry and listed club happenings. So when Lydia showed up at my house on that day at the end of January to show me a tiny article, really just a press release, stating that goth-grunge band AudioVox would be recording their next album with Studio Guy’s company I went giddy.
Flipping through that paper every week had been making me nuts, so I stopped. Other than the few words of conversation that could have been a dream, I had no proof that AudioVox was in fact planning on recording in town. Roughly two months after I met the man who I hadn’t realized was the embodiment of my erotic fantasies, I packed that away— no more Street Scene for me. I had to get on with my life.
Lydia had not taken over the job for me, she just happened upon the article. I stood there with the front door open heating the neighborhood, allowing my bestie to freeze on my stoop while I gripped the newspaper in two fists and stared at the few lines of text. It was real, he was coming back. There were times I thought I had made up the whole thing, and I either only met him that first time, or not at all.
But there it was in black and white, he was coming back. It did not state exact dates just ‘early spring.’
“Oh, gods Lydia, what am I going to do?” I stood in the middle of my living room, piles of laundry some folded, most not, surrounded me.
“You are going to mentally prepare yourself to stalk this guy when he’s in town, honey.” She set her coat on a chair.
“He’s not going to remember me.” Panic gathered in my gut, and cut into my lung capacity.
“I saw how he looked at you. It made my toes curl and I was a not so innocent bystander. He will remember you. Besides,” she flopped down into the recliner, pulling her gloves and scarf off, “didn’t you agree to go to one of his shows at Off the River if they played there?”
“I, ah, yeah.” I inspected the clothes surrounding me and became acutely aware that I had nothing appropriate to wear if I wanted to seduce this man. And that was definitely the plan.
“I need an entire new wardrobe!” I laughed. If I didn’t laugh, I would start crying.
“No, darling, you just need one outfit that says, ‘take me, I’m yours’ and not your mom uniform.” She gestured at me from head to toe and back up again.
I liked my mom uniform— it was functional and comfortable. I avoided mom jeans like the plague. I preferred cargo pants and the funkiest T-shirts I could find at the local discount department big box mart. Richard may be my ex, but I still got his employee discount shopping there.
“This is what he last saw me in, he would recognize me.” I pleaded.
“You need shoes that say, ‘fuck me,’ not ‘I’m tired and boring.’ You need to not show up in…” she paused, looked me up and down, again, gestured at my current outfit and said, “That. Something from this decade would be good for a start.”
“Ooh, I can wear heels!” I was excited, I couldn’t wear heels with Richard. He didn’t like me being taller than him, or even the same height. “Red, they need to be red. Okay, Lydia, take me shopping, I need sexy clothes, and time to practice walking in heels.”
Lydia helped me deliver the folded laundry to the girls’ bedrooms. Then we took off for the local discount designer wear store. I could finish binge watching Tails from the Urban Jungle another day when the girls were at school.
We started in the shoe department. I think everyone around us thought we were nuts, or on something. We giggled and laughed. It felt like we were doing something my mother would definitely not approve of. Even though all we were doing was trying on, and hobbling around in shoes. The first hurdle was to actually locate shoes in my size.<
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Apparently, my foot was bigger the higher the heel. And years of just wearing sneakers, and boots, my foot was a bit wider than most heels would accommodate. But I did manage to find a few pairs. Style had shifted back to a thinner heel, not quite stiletto but by no means sturdy looking. I had hoped for a big chunk of a heel, but no luck. Also, nothing with a super pointy toe. I found some stacked platform pumps in a bright shiny gray color. How dreary.
Lydia found a great pair with straps and buckles. I about peed my pants when she tried to hobble over to the foot mirror. The shoes were tied together so she either had to take itty bitty steps, or as she ended up doing, bunny hopping over to the mirror.
I found a pair of red and black stacked platforms. A chain detail wrapped around the back of the heel. There was really no way around it— they were working girl shoes, and by that, I mean hooker heels. We decided that was appropriate. After all, I was completely planning on throwing myself at the man. The shoes definitely said cheap and easy.
I told Lydia about the Freudian Slip. So, we next focused on locating an appropriate slip dress. This was easy, find a slip, wear it as a dress. And it was that easy. We found, almost right away, a perfect slip that was printed with red and purple paisleys, and just enough black so that the slip worked with the shoes.
After our success shopping, we ate a quick drive-thru lunch, and I returned to my mundane life, waiting for spring, and practicing in my shoes.
Four
“Lydia!” I yelled into my phone “He’s here!” I acted like some teeny bopper with One Direction tickets, or was it New Kids, or BTS, or whoever the current shaggy haired boy-band was— they always had shaggy hair, always.
I had been obsessively checking the Street Scene since the story ran that AudioVox was going to record locally. It was early March and listed there in black and white AudioVox playing after hours at Off the River. It was dated for last weekend and this coming Friday.
Ballad Ares Page 3
