by L. J. Greene
“Come,” he said, standing up with purpose. “Let’s play.”
For the record, I had no intention of doing so myself, but I was curious to know what he could do. I followed him back through the crowded kitchen to the living room, where he restored the Gibson to its stand. To my surprise, rather than picking up one of the three remaining electric guitars, he sat down on a small bench in front of the keyboard and waved me over to join him.
“See if you recognize this.”
With no music in front of him, sitting shoulder to shoulder with me, he began to play ‘Just Like Heaven,’ by The Cure. That made me laugh–I was wearing a vintage Cure t-shirt.
“Here, follow along with me. I’ll show you how to play it.”
He placed the fingers of my left hand on the keys, covering them gently with his own. They were much larger than mine, and rough to the touch, but they were warm and sure.
And I was suddenly hyper-aware of every point of contact between us–his hand, his strong thigh sheathed in denim, his corded, muscular arm. I could feel my fingers tremble slightly beneath his, and I fought hard to mask my body’s reaction to our closeness.
“A…G-sharp…E…D…C-sharp…D…E. Now, again.”
We repeated the unmistakable chord progression together many times–his hand over mine–until I could remember the pattern on my own. Then, he drew back and I was playing The Cure. All by myself! It sounds ridiculous, but I had always wanted to be able to play an instrument, and this small exercise was thrilling.
I burst out in a face-splitting grin, which, of course, threw me off my game completely, and he had to return his hand to mine for further repetition. A…G-sharp…E…D…C-sharp…D…E.
“There you have it, then,” he said with pride. “Well done.”
That soft lilt did unfair things to my libido. I was mortified by the thought that he might be able to see it. But even as I told myself that, I felt an inexplicable urge to kiss him.
I didn’t follow it.
“Show me another,” I said, instead.
“How about this one?”
He positioned his hands and launched into a flawless cover of ‘Friday I’m in Love.’ The song was far too complex for me to have much of a roll, but I loved watching him play it, feeling his shoulders flex and give beside me as he effortlessly delivered the piece from memory. He was talented.
“I cannot do that, Jamie.”
“We’ll do it together.”
We both knew that was just another excuse for us to touch, but I did not complain. He laid the fingers of my right hand on a specific set of keys and essentially played over them with his right hand, as necessary. With his left hand, he shouldered the bulk of the melody. I was no more than a passive participant but, still, it was amazing to watch. And I craved the feel of his hand on the back of mine. I noticed that he often left it there longer than was strictly required. The closeness gave me a rush of excitement every single time.
When we finished, he removed his hands from the keys and rested them on his thighs.
“I think you’re a natural.”
“I think I’ll hold onto my day job.”
“What is that, your day job?” He had the most adorable crooked tooth that gave a hint of boyishness to his ruggedly masculine face.
“I’ll be a lawyer soon.”
I debated with myself for a second as to whether that was an accurate description. The truth was, I had recently taken the bar exam, but wouldn’t get the results back for another three months. If I passed–and God, I could not even think about the alternative–I’d take my oath and be admitted to the Bar. I was, however, now working full time on a provisional basis for a boutique firm in the city. It was true enough, then, I decided.
“A lawyer?” Jamie seemed surprised. “That’s brilliant.”
I did my best to wave off the compliment. More than anything, I was growing increasingly aware that even in the small space, we had somehow managed to draw closer. He was watching me intently, taking in every detail of my face. And at close range, there was no escape from the pull of his magnetism.
“Well, if I get into badness, I’ll know just who to call,” he said, and out came the dimples in a flash of charm.
I laughed. “Unless your badness involves an intellectual property dispute, I’m afraid you’ll be shit out of luck, my friend.”
Sitting shoulder to shoulder, I could smell the faint scent of his aftershave and feel his warm breath on my cheek. Slowly, his gaze drifted downward to my lips and my heart stuttered in my chest. He wasn’t shy–he intended no discretion in his appraisal of me–and I realized in that moment how much I wanted to kiss him. I was breathless with it. Just an inch, maybe two, and I could taste him. I felt a little dizzy–that’s the effect he had on me.
He licked his lower lip, but he made no move to kiss me. He just continued to tease me with a look that left me weak and wanting.
I stared at his soft lips, his tongue just barely visible.
There was no sound between us. Just the heat from our bodies, leaning in too close to be accidental. Longing turned to outright hunger, and my composure broke under the weight of his gaze.
I looked away, shifting in my seat. My throat felt parched, and I swallowed sharply, adding, “But if you get into badness by writing something that sounds too similar to this–” and I played A…G-sharp…E…D…C-sharp…D…E– “then I am definitely your girl.”
I glanced back at him, unable not to; he was so there.
“Hmm.” He pursed his lips, emitting a sexy growl, low and deep in his throat. “I very much like the sound of that.”
§
In the same manner, we made our way through a couple songs by The Squeeze and few by U2, and I was beginning to get a feel for his musical influences. It was electrifying sitting with him, watching his powerful hands move over the instrument with supreme delicacy and precision. It was as if he had a live wire running through him and every touch, no matter how inconsequential, sent blood throbbing through my fingertips and pulsing within my chest.
“Do you know this?” he asked casually, and launched into a beautiful descending arpeggio for a song I had never heard. Unlike the others we’d played, it was slow and soulful, more R&B than rock.
“That doesn’t sound like your genre.”
“All music is my genre, really,” he said, as he continued to play the intervals. “I suppose I found my voice in alternative rock, but I listen to everything. This is a song for you, Donny Hathaway’s version.”
“For me?” I didn’t know what he was saying. He glanced at me briefly before turning back to the keys.
“No,” he smiled faintly, not wanting to insult my ignorance. “It’s called, ‘A Song for You.’”
And then, to my surprise, he began to sing softly as he played.
He had a beautiful singing voice that did absolutely nothing to bolster my self-control. It was rich and low, and perfectly pitched. The kind of voice with character. He didn’t need any false affectations; his voice had resonance and emotion.
And as I watched him play, it hit me like a ton of bricks. He was a lead singer–a front man. God, of course he was.
How could I not have seen it? He had that air of confidence, arrogance almost. Almost. But not… quite.
Suddenly, I was seeing him through a different lens, though. I don’t know why it changed something for me that he was a front man. But I’d had enough experience around musicians to know the general type. I’m not saying it was necessarily fair to draw those conclusions, but I didn’t think my own experience was an anomaly. Jamie would be like fly paper to a swarm of women who were likewise captivated by his soulful vulnerability on stage. I’d seen it enough times to know better. I did know better. I’d been through it already and knew how this would likely play out. I could see all of the images in my head as he sang–the furtive glances, the unexplained absences, the looks of pity from those who knew.
It was time for me to go.
“Thank you. This was…”
Before the word was out, he took my mouth with his own.
He kissed me with no preamble. There was nothing tentative about that kiss; he wasn’t asking permission–he was making a statement. And a strong one at that. His lips and tongue were soft, but demanding. His firm hand caressed the back of my neck in a way that made me feel tingly and weak–as if I had gone to putty. Without consideration, both of my hands went to his chest, where I could anchor myself against the dizzying effects of that kiss.
Whatever resolve I had was lost. I folded into his body in willing submission. I wanted him–wanted beyond any sense of logic or self-preservation. I wanted.
It was so solid, his chest, so formidable, and I let my fingers spread wide over the expanse of muscle and vital flesh, covered, but not hidden, by his shirt.
The pad of my ring finger brushed over his nipple and he let out a faint groan as his tongue skillfully worked its way around mine. His kiss was like a drug, warm and disorienting. I moved my hands back and forth over the defined ridges of his torso. And loving the feel of him, I carelessly drifted down his stomach, where I found no give in the slab of muscle that led to his waist.
He seemed to shudder under my touch, gripping my hip tightly with his free hand. He was wearing jeans, and I caressed the soft fabric of the belt loops and felt the sharp edge of a rivet. His mouth was intoxicating, as were the sounds of pleasure sliding from his lips into mine. I ran my fingertips over every ridge and seam I found, drinking in the taste of him–mindless of anything else. The kissing stopped, but with my eyes closed, I continued to touch his body, sliding my hands across the hard, shapely surfaces. Shapely was not the right word. He was beautifully formed–flawless even–every denim-covered rigid curve fitting perfectly in my palm. I pressed and stroked, ran the heel of my hand over his…his…wait…
OH. MY. GOD!
I opened my eyes in a panic!
It was his…I was stroking his…
Chapter 2
Mel
COCK!
In a moment of profound humiliation, I glanced up at his face to find him staring at me, wide-eyed and wondrous. Not exactly lascivious, though he was undeniably turned on through his jeans, maybe even a little painfully so. But more like he was looking at pieces of a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together. I swallowed hard, unable to tear either my eyes from his face or my hand from his pants. I suddenly felt flush and a little sweaty. A droplet ran down the back of my t-shirt.
“You stopped kissing me,” I pressed out. Seriously, that’s what comes to mind when you find your hand accidentally on someone’s crotch?
He cleared his throat and swallowed hard. “I liked watching you do that,” he said a little roughly.
“Why?” I whispered through my mortification.
“Because you seemed to like it,” he answered directly. “And I liked it, too.”
I was morbidly embarrassed. I did not know what had come over me or how to recover from the humiliation of losing myself so fully in a moment. So I did absolutely nothing for the space of an eternity while a dizzying array of emotions swirled around my brain, banging into each other like bumper cars. Finally, one managed to escape through my mouth.
“Well, I guess you’ll have a good story to tell your friends,” I said, with an edge to my voice that really wasn’t fair to him. None of this was his fault, after all.
I glanced up again, just in time to see the remaining glow drain from his expression.
“Why would I do that?” he asked me, with genuine dismay.
I just shrugged, still with my hand on his cock, but now feeling as if I might cry. He lifted my chin to meet his gaze, which was indescribably intense.
“Why would I do that?” he asked again, more forcefully.
I affected a tiny smile through my sudden shame.
“Your friend invites some strange girl to your house and she ends up rubbing you in a dark corner. That makes for a pretty good story.”
He reached for my miscreant hand, unfolded it, and brought the palm gently to his lips.
“My friend invited over the loveliest woman I have ever seen in my life, and quite inexplicably she thought I was lovely, too.”
“Jamie…”
“What?” He made everything seem like it was so simple and straightforward–so ‘no big deal that we just met and yet here you are rubbing my junk.’ But it wasn’t simple and straightforward.
“I don’t even know you.”
“Is that what you’re worried about?”
I was worried about a lot of things, honestly, but yes, my capacity to touch a man intimately without knowing anything about him was a troubling development in my personality. Along with the leeks, of course.
I shrugged.
“Let’s remedy that. Ask me anything.”
I could not look him in the eye, and would not have characterized myself as steady of mind, so I just grasped the first thing that popped into my head.
“You’re a band? You and your roommates?”
He nodded. “Us and one other. ‘Cadence’ is what we’re called.”
“Is music your full-time profession?”
He laughed and I had to look up. “From your lips to God’s ears, angel.” He touched me gently on the cheek. “No, not today. But someday. To keep from starving, I work for a commercial landscaper.”
“You’re a landscaper?” I thought of his rough hands on mine.
“No. I’m a manure spreader, a hole digger and rock hauler,” he said with a dose of humor. “It’s a steady job, though. And the hours work well for our gigs.”
As it turned out, each member of the band had a side job–and none too glamorous. Jamie was the band’s lead singer and guitarist, and he and Greg Van de Meer, bassist (and keyboards and guitar, as needed) had founded the band two and a half years ago. Greg made extra money by designing websites and doing some photography for a realty office on the Embarcadero. Nash Aldridge on drums was a graduate of the University of Colorado College of Music, and worked for an auto body shop in South San Francisco. And Killian Walsh, lead guitar, was a barista in the financial district.
“Now, can I ask about you?”
We were still standing close, my wayward hands tucked neatly beneath my crossed arms for safekeeping. But he seemed to understand that I needed as much distance as I could have within the confines of our proximity. He didn’t touch me, but he didn’t back away either.
“There’s not too much to tell,” I answered.
“What is ‘Mel’ short for?”
I hesitated. I hated my name. It was the only blemish on my mom and dad’s otherwise flawless parenting record.
“Well, if you must know, Melody.”
The story goes that my parents met through friends when they were in their early twenties. My dad was a trial lawyer, dashing with his dark coloring and movie star good looks. My mother was a court reporter, and physically his polar opposite–petite and fair, with delicate features. My dad always said that she was the melody that made his heart sing. It was a romantic sentiment but, as I’d argued all my life, it was not the basis by which to name a child, especially one who was fated to have no musical or vocal talent, whatsoever. So in my rebellious teens I shortened the name to Mel. I had inherited most of my dad’s coloring and my mom’s stature, and the general consensus among my family was that ‘Mel’ was far too masculine a name for me. But that, of course, made me want to use it all the more. I’d even gone through a phase when I’d told people the name was short for Melinda. And if I was being honest, I already regretted not doing that again today.
“Melody??” His eyes went wide as saucers, and he blinked several times. It was almost comical. His mouth opened a little in a sexy way that made me want to invade it again with my own. I didn’t, though.
“Melody Jane, full disclosure.”
“Oh, sweet Mary mother
of God; I think I’m in love.”
I glared at him.
“No, I truly am,” he said with conviction. “So bloody in love.”
I tried hard to conjure a stern expression, but he was looking at me like I was a giant ice cream sundae on a hot summer day. A reluctant smile appeared on my face, instead.
He continued to shake his head in awe. “Your name is Melody. And you’re wearing a Cure t-shirt, which means that you must have very good taste in music–or at least in t-shirts–both of which I’m a massive fan of.”
I laughed. He was a charmer.
“This is it, Melody Jane.” The moratorium on touching was over. He reached up and brushed a hair off of my face, running his thumb gently over my jawline. That now-familiar jolt hit me squarely in the most intimate places. And, let’s face facts; I knew first-hand what he had to offer.
“It’s forever, the two of us,” he rasped. “Best you get used to me now.”
I gave him a long, level look, to which he responded by making a very undignified face. I giggled, actually giggled. He was fun to be around.
Reaching over to the coffee table, I picked up a black ballpoint pen. I flattened his large, rough hand on the palm of mine, and in neat, careful script, I wrote my phone number. To my own amazement, I also drew a little heart around it. I’d never thought of myself as the girl who drew hearts on a guy’s hand.
Apparently, I was.
He looked carefully at the numbers, closed his hand protectively over them, and with the joy of a small boy holding a wild lizard, he raised the large, gentle fist to his heart.
Chapter 3
Jamie
I NEVER COULD SLEEP WELL.
As a boy I suffered night terrors and would keep myself awake by making up new words for things that seemed more appropriate than the real ones.
Dingleollocks, for example.
I won’t say what that one was for, but mind you, I was eight.
