'90s Playlist (Romance Rewind Book 1)

by Brighton Walsh

“I don’t know,” I say after a long pause. “Maybe the chance to find out what I actually want.”

  “What’s stopping you?” The question might have sounded obnoxious coming from someone else, but the deliberate and considered measure of Tom’s speech said he really wanted to know.

  I worry over how to phrase my answer. I don’t want to sound like I’m having a pity party.

  “Did you know that sitting on the ground is actually a big deal for me? Whenever I shift, I can feel how there will be dirt marks on my jeans tomorrow. I’ll have to drag my giant laundry basket to the Laundromat whenever I’ve found enough quarters. Laundry will take me two hours, if I can find enough open machines. If I can’t, maybe three or four. That’s time that’s been…eaten.” I wish the sky was bright and blue. I could look up at the sun and let it sear my eyes, so I’d have a reason for the sting. “All my life is made up bites of time that’ve been stolen from me. That’s what it is to make ends meet.”

  He doesn’t give me any blithe response. I’m relieved when he only squeezes me tighter. I don’t think I could have talked anymore without crying. The kiss on my temple is something as close as divinity as I’ve ever felt.

  Time slips away, but this isn’t a moment that’s being eaten. I hold my breath as I hope it’ll go on a little longer. I could sleep in his arms, even in a place as unsafe as People’s Park. The heroin addicts who set up shop at the picnic benches don’t even matter to me.

  I’m with Tom.

  I don’t see Skittles approaching, so by the time he says “Hi,” I feel totally caught out. I jump out of Tom’s arms, but it’s probably too late. I try to decide if I care that we were seen together, but on the other hand, it’s not really my moment. I bite the rough cuticle at the edge of my thumbnail instead.

  Tom pushes to his feet in a liquid move. He’s staring at Skittles, who’s staying about twenty feet away. “Corey,” he breathes.

  Skittles has his arms crossed over his stomach as he cups his elbows. He looks incredibly skinny with the glow of a streetlight behind him cutting through his thin white shirt. “I came.”

  “I’m just so glad to see you.”

  “I’m not going back to my dad’s house.” He points back over his shoulder and I look closer at what I’d thought were heroin addicts at the coffee table. They’re some of the street kids, ones I don’t know so well. “My friends will make sure of it.”

  Tom holds his hands up with his palms showing, but he takes a step closer to Skittles. Skittles dances backwards in response. Me, my feet are glued to the dirt. I don’t have a side in this battle. I could cry for either of them. The wariness on Skittles’ face is palpable but it’s balanced by the desperate yearning that is Tom’s expression.

  “I’m not taking you back to that bastard. I swear it.”

  Skittles shakes his head, and dirty blonde hair falls across his forehead. “You can’t even take me back to my mom. She’ll mean well, and she’ll try, but she’ll end up caving and going back to him, and then we’re both fucked. Because you know that he’ll be pissed as fuck that I managed to stay away for six months.”

  “He’ll be even more angry once we make it over a year.”

  Confusion drew Skittles’ brows together. “Once we…”

  “I have no intention of taking you anywhere. I don’t want you to leave the Bay Area.”

  Skittles gives a bark of laughter. My jaw gapes open. We both stare at Tom. All the work, all the effort he’d put into convincing me to help him find his brother. And now he wasn’t even going to take him home? I don’t understand in the least.

  He puts an arm around my shoulders and uses it to pull me in closer. I feel awkward against him. I’m not really used to displays of public affection, and it’s got an extra awkward twist considering all our relationships to each other. I’m sleeping with the brother of my under-aged dealer. It’s not so great.

  “I want you to stay out of sight until you turn eighteen. That way you can come back to New York, and you’ll be legally able to take control of the funds I’ve set aside for you, without our father having anything to say about the situation. Naturally, I want you to stay safe and live better in the meantime, but we’re going to have to go about it strangely.” He squeezes my shoulders. “If it’s alright with you, Corey, and you, Roni, I think I have a plan.”

  We go together to a diner a couple blocks away, after Skittles has a chance to tell his friends that it’s cool. I have only a cup of coffee, and Tom has a piece of pie, but we both watch Corey pack away a stack of pancakes, two orders of bacon, and three cups of hot chocolate. He’s never looked more like the kid he is than with whipped cream brushing his nose as he drinks.

  “I’m fine, really,” he protests between bites of pancake dripping with syrup. “I’ve got a place where I stay.”

  “Does it have running water?” Tom sounds severe. I carefully don’t look at him.

  Corey’s gaze slides away. “It’s safe.”

  “And the drug dealing?”

  “I need money.”

  “Tell me the truth, and we’ll find a way to deal with it.” Tom seems so steady, but his hand catches mine beneath the line of the table. His palm is surprisingly sweaty. “Are you an addict?”

  Corey considers the question as he stares at his blue-rimmed plate. “I…I don’t think so.”

  “If you are, I’ll find a program that’s willing to work off the books. In the meantime, I’m going to set you up in an apartment. What you do there, and who you allow to live with you are your choices, so long as you don’t get yourself kicked out.”

  “How am I supposed to pay for it?” Corey stabs a slice of bacon with fervor that seems way more about his anger than eagerness for cured pig. “Dad has all my accounts tracked, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure of the same thing as well. That’s why your money is going to go through Roni.” He turns to me, hitting me with that blue gaze. “If you won’t mind.”

  “I…What?” Confusion isn’t a pretty feeling, but it’s not like I could fake anything else. I flounder.

  “I’ll set up accounts you can draw from. You’ll pay for Corey’s apartment, give him spending cash. I’ll return often to visit.”

  All my brain catches on is him saying that he’ll return. Not that he’ll be back, or that he’ll visit. He’ll return. That plumy English accent does things to me. The thought of being able to see him again…I can barely even squint at that idea. “No one will wonder what I’m doing with the money? Your money?”

  “They’ll assume that I’m your sugar daddy.” He gives me a wry smile. “It will help if you’ll take a better apartment and quit your job. You could go to school.”

  “Berkeley,” I breathe, before I come back to my senses. I shake my head emphatically. “No. No way. I’m not living off your dime.”

  “That’s fine,” he says mildly. “That’s your choice. Will you help be a conduit between Corey and me?”

  “Of course.” I nod. “Yeah, no problem. Corey, do you mind?”

  “It’s crap you’re not calling me Skittles anymore. Do you know how long I wanted a nickname? It’s not really done in prep schools.” But he’s got a tiny smile and I think maybe this will be okay.

  Corey says something about going to the bathroom and slips out of the booth. Tom and I watch him hitch up his silver studded belt as he goes.

  I’m glad I don’t actually have to do any raising of him. Knowing Tom, he’ll have some plan about getting Corey back on the straight and narrow once he’s old enough to stay away from his dad legally. Probably has a dozen tutors lined up to get Corey his high school degree in the six weeks after his eighteenth birthday.

  Tom squeezes my hand again, then lifts it to his mouth. His lips brush over the inside of my wrist. He holds my hand against the side of his face as his eyes close. I can see the stress melt away. He’s happy. I’m helping make him happy.

  “And you’ll come back?” I whisper. “To check on us?”

  He
doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth tilts into a beautiful smile. “I’ll come back to check on Corey. You…I’ll come back to enjoy you.”

  I flutter and flip inside. This is enough for now. Honestly, it’s more than I’d ever thought about having, and I’m going to have to find a way to stretch the cracks of myself into the potential of it all.

  I can’t wait to start.

  Other books by Lorelie Brown

  Pacific Blue Series

  Ahead in the Heat

  One Lesson

  Riding the Wave

  An Indiscreet Debutante

  Wayward One

  Catch Me

  Smells Like Teen Spirit

  Rebecca Grace Allen

  Rory Stone's days of grunge and poetry are behind her, her reality now in bags of Arabian brew, and counting the change in the tip jar. Can indie singer James Griffith rock her muse back into the present?

  Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana (1991)

  Chapter 1

  1996

  Another Sunday evening, another open mic night.

  Rory scrubbed the counter and tried not to wince as the tenth act of the evening screeched out the latest Jewel hit. Why did they always have to pick Jewel? These kids sounded like enough like wounded animals on their own without adding any high-pitched angst to it. And to make it even worse, the overly perky blonde up there was doing it all a cappella.

  Silently cursing her boss for putting her on the closing shift, Rory dumped the crumbs she’d collected into the trash and started cleaning off the empty tables by the front windows. Thank God there was only one more name on the sign-up sheet. Soon the night would be over and she’d be able to close up, send the townies packing and the Pearce kids back to their dorms.

  After she announced the last act, that was.

  The applause was Rory’s cue. Blondie up there curtsied (yes, actually fucking curtsied) and rushed back to a table of similarly annoying-looking girls who cooed over her performance. Rory suppressed an eye roll as she marched past them. Glancing at the final name listed on the clipboard, she forced herself to ignore the wobble in her knees and stepped onto the raised platform.

  The mic was too high for her. God, she hated being short. Two inches of height on her purple Doc Martens and still she had to stand on her toes to reach the stupid thing. At least she only had to be up there for a second, in and out of the spotlight before she took her next breath.

  “Next up, our last performer, James Griffith.”

  She’d already hopped off the mini stage before the polite clapping began.

  A curly-haired brunet who’d been sitting at one of the corner tables stood up. Mr. Griffith, she assumed. Rory had seen him come in earlier. His faded black guitar case propped up against the wall behind him, he’d spent the evening was alone, his head bent over a journal. Most people who graced the stage at Josephine’s showed up with either a full-fledged support group, or an adoring entourage.

  This guy didn’t seem to need either.

  Rory glanced up as the two of them passed one another. Shocking blue eyes met hers, so vivid they were nearly turquoise. A rough beard lined his jaw, thinning out over rounded cheeks that seemed to have a permanent blush to them. He was tall—then again, everyone seemed tall to Rory—and stocky. Sort of like a grizzly bear in a flannel shirt and jeans. She caught the hint of a smile on his face, one that seemed to say he liked what he saw in her, too. The pulse of lust it shot through her was such a blast from the past, it should’ve arrived in a DeLorean.

  Rory found another table that needed cleaning, and James made his way to the stage, guitar in hand.

  “Thanks,” he said. “It’s nice to be up here.”

  His voice was deeper than she’d expected. Husky, like he’d used it too often and needed something warm to soothe it.

  She idly wondered what he sounded like when he groaned in pleasure.

  “Here’s a different take on a song I’m sure everyone here knows,” he said, then hesitated, rough laughter rumbling out of him. “At least, I hope you do.”

  Gentle plucking of a guitar followed—a soft, sweet intro to a melody that seemed familiar, but Rory couldn’t quite place. When he started singing, she had to stop mopping coffee stains off the wooden tabletops altogether.

  Smells Like Teen Spirit. In acoustic.

  Hearing it nearly tore her in half. It wasn’t only because of how beautiful James sounded singing it, calm in a way the raucous album version never was. It was because that music took Rory back to those fine, beautiful moments at Pearce when she’d been free and wild. When fun and music and poetry were all that mattered.

  How was it possible that was only three years ago?

  One hand gripping the rag, she turned to watch James sing. Thick forearms flexed as his hands roamed across the frets and strings. He seemed so serene, the music flowing effortlessly from him, one foot tapping a beat against the floor as he sang and played. And good lord, that voice. He’d sounded sexy when he’d merely said a few words, but hearing him sing was a whole new fucking ball game. Whisper-soft in the verses. Powerful in the choruses. Rory stood there, transfixed, until the song ended in a crescendo of louder notes as he jammed through the last few chords.

  James Griffith was no open mic newbie. This guy was a full-fledged musician. The stage seemed smaller with him taking residence on it too, like he was already a star bound for bigger places than Hammond Falls, New York.

  He smiled at the applause the tiny crowd gave him, and Rory was suddenly flustered by his grin. It was childlike, big and honest. It woke up a sleeping part of her that wanted to see if she could catch his attention again. But he was definitely younger than her—someone who could smile like that obviously hadn’t been kicked in the teeth by life yet—and Rory didn’t do Pearce kids.

  Not anymore, anyway.

  Focusing back on getting ready for closing, Rory moved through the cafe, lifting the wooden chairs, placing them upside down on each table in a way that made it clear closing time was soon.

  Last call, kids. Everybody out of the pool.

  Blondie led her crew toward the front door, pausing to give Rory a not-so-covert once-over.

  “How long did it take you to do your hair like that?” she asked.

  Rory fingered one of the bleached blond tendrils hanging down from her haphazard up-do. It was a rare moment of self-consciousness, and irritation boiled in her gut. Her lip curled up in the beginnings of a snarl, but Rory quickly stopped herself. This was work. She needed to behave.

  “Probably as long as it took you to get so good at singing that song.”

  Her tone was bright and bubbly enough that Blondie missed her sarcasm. James, however did not. Standing a few paces behind them with his guitar case, he snorted and covered his mouth.

  A grin eased out of her. A real one. One that reminded her of the old Rory.

  It felt...weird.

  The girls exited, and James took an uncertain step toward her.

  “I’m really sorry to ask this, since I can tell you’re closing and all, but could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

  Could I trouble you? What was this guy, a grandpa disguised as a guitar-playing college student? She stood there dumbly for a moment, half expecting him to pull a Scooby-Doo-esque mask off his face. The hot guy you’re staring at is actually an alien!

  “Uh, sure. Yeah. No problem.” Rory went behind the counter. “You want tap or bottled?”

  “Tap would be fine,” he said, voice raspy. She glanced over her shoulder in time to catch his wince. He was obviously in pain. And that voice was too beautiful to let suffer.

  “I can make you some tea,” she said. “If you want.”

  She wasn’t saying it so he’d stay here a little longer. She was being a Good Samaritan. Helping out the needy. Although if he was a Pearce kid like she suspected, she knew which one of them would take the lead in a ‘who-was-needier-than-who’ competition.

  “That would be amazing. Thank you
.” The relief on his face was palpable. James reached for his wallet, but Rory shook her head.

  “You put on a good show. It was a nice change of pace compared with the crap I’m usually forced to endure. Consider it on the house.”

  He tipped his head in a move that said Yeah? Rory gave him a shrug in reply. It was half a nice gesture and half not wanting to have to balance the till again. She nodded toward one of the chairs she hadn’t turned over yet.

  “You can sit, if you want.”

  His smile was too bright, lighting up the room again. She turned away to fill a ceramic mug with hot water. Retrieving the box that housed the cafe’s different types of teas, she hesitated before stepping out from behind the counter, then kicked her apprehension to the curb. She still remembered how to have a conversation, despite how much time she’d spent cloistered away over the last few years.

  She strode toward the table, and placed the box and mug on top of it. “Drink up.”

  “Oh, wow. This is great.” James opened a package of Peachberry Jasmine and submerged it in water. “Thank you again.”

  “No biggie. I loved your Nirvana cover, by the way.”

  The sudden honesty was a surprise. Rory blamed the song. Grunge had always moved her in a way no other music did, the sound so raw and intense, with lyrics about loneliness, isolation and yearning.

  She had to stifle laugh. Liking that music must’ve been fate. A cruel foreshadowing of what her life was going to be like.

  “Thanks. I’ve been working on it for a while,” James said. “Nevermind was the album that made me want to learn how to play guitar.”

  A performer who shared her taste in music. It plucked at her heartstrings. Or gut-strings. Or a-few-inches-lower-than-that strings.

  He stretched his hand across the table. “I’m James, by the way. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Rory’s brows skyrocketed. Again with the manners? The guy must’ve grown up in a functional household something.