Sound Effects

by L. J. Greene

  “What about you? Did you ever want to be something other than a musician?”

  “I can’t think of a single day since I was eight years old that I ever wanted to do anything else,” he said, and I wished again that I could better see his face. There was a story there; I was sure of it. I envied him that conviction of his life’s true north.

  “One of my brother’s mates gave me and old guitar and an instruction book and told me to learn my scales. So I used to sit on a bucket in the alley behind our flat and practice for hours. Probably drove the neighbors bats, but I loved it. I loved the way the notes fit together. You see, there’s a pattern to scales. It’s very orderly,” he said. And then he surprised me by adding almost as an afterthought, “My life was not.”

  I wanted to ask what he meant–of course I did. But I felt nosy. And if he wanted to tell me, I thought he would. He was like that. So instead, I just reached out and squeezed his hand.

  He stroked mine with his thumb and smiled to ease any awkwardness.

  “Irish mothers everywhere say, ‘What’s the point of being Irish if you don’t know at an early age that life can break your heart?’”

  Then, he laughed again.

  “So, music was an escape?”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I think so. Partially, at least. Music gave me a voice when I didn’t have one. It was my emancipation. When I was younger, I was very angry.”

  “Angry about what?”

  He seemed to consider this. “About the world, I guess. About the hand I’d been dealt. I didn’t have an easy upbringing. I had a lot of rage when I was younger, and I still do I suppose, but I channeled it into music. I think the reason that many musicians do what they do is because they’re incomplete. And being in a band allows people who are slightly broken to feel fixed for a period of time.”

  “But it’s a cruel mistress,” he continued, thoughtfully. “I won’t say it isn’t. It’s demanding and relentless–sometimes I don’t know who is a slave to whom. I only know that it’s who I am.”

  “Do you mean it’s cruel because it’s hard?”

  “Songwriting, in particular, is hard, yes. You write a lot of bad songs before you write a good one, believe me. But I like it, or maybe need it, more than I find it hard. Does that make sense?”

  “It does.”

  “But the part that can be cruel is the compelling nature of it. You get an idea–usually at the most inconvenient time–and it won’t let go. You can’t be at peace until you can put it down and get it out of your head. But even then, it calls to be better. As they say, very good is the enemy of great. It’s a frustration to feel like you’ve fallen short of great. In that way, songwriting is a gift that can sometimes feel like a curse. That seems like a very Irish thing to say, doesn’t it?” He grinned.

  “That’s passion, I think.”

  He made a small noise of agreement.

  “Tell me your passion.”

  My passion? Now, there was a question. One I did not have an answer for. In truth, nothing made me feel more vulnerable than that question.

  He waited expectantly, not realizing that in the course of one conversation, he had unknowingly twice touched a tender spot. Of course, to someone like him, it would be unfathomable to live your life without a passion. He probably had many of them. But the fact was, I didn’t think I did.

  I liked lots of things. As a child, I did all kinds of activities–gymnastics, piano, soccer, debate, track and field, and on and on. I was sort of a jack-of-all-trades and a master of none. Reasonably good at lots of things, but missing that one thing that I lived for. It had always made me wonder if I had failed to apply myself on some level. Or maybe I was just truly average as a human being. Unlike Jamie, I couldn’t think of anything I was really driven by. Not like he was. Not like having something in my life that I lived for. Maybe save one thing…

  “My family, I guess.”

  I wondered how utterly ludicrous that must sound to him. He had unwittingly just met the most astoundingly vanilla person on the planet.

  And it didn’t help me any that he didn’t make a sound for an unnervingly long stretch of time. He seemed to be studying something in me. I couldn’t put my finger on it. And then he surprised me by reaching up to touch my face, almost reverently. His fingertips were cold against my skin, and his touch was soft.

  “Family is a noble passion,” he said. “Beautiful and noble.”

  I didn’t know what to say. How could I? Jamie made me feel as if those deficiencies I saw in myself were something to be prized in his eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes that saw so much more than most. I loved the person I was in his eyes. I loved the world I saw through him. I loved…

  Well, I couldn’t really name it. And so I did the one thing that felt absolutely right. I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his, a slow and deliberate kiss of thanks, and affection, and promise. It had been forever since I’d been close to a man like this. Well, of course the last time was Jamie himself, but I hadn’t really given myself permission to fully enjoy the feel of his body against mine.

  “I’m so glad you brought me here.”

  “Yeah?” He studied me carefully at close range and I could see something that looked like relief or maybe surprise cross his face. If I wasn’t mistaken, his smile seemed a little strained. “I was actually afraid you might find this all a bit–” he shrugged– “simple.”

  Simple?

  It took me a minute to realize what he meant.

  Cheap. That’s what he meant.

  And suddenly I was struck by both his candor and the vulnerability it revealed.

  I thought about the bouquet of flowers he had brought me, carefully cut and wrapped in tinfoil to protect the stems. They weren’t purchased in a store, more likely procured from a job site.

  And since we’d picked up Chinese from the back door of the restaurant–no money exchanged–I was pretty sure it had been some sort of barter arrangement. I had the feeling that Jamie knew every side door, every back alley and every shortcut in the city. He probably had an entire network of bouncers, bus boys and security guards. He was that sort of guy. Yes, I was beginning to see that he didn’t have much money, but he was resourceful. That was his gift, and I was far more impressed that he had put effort into planning an evening, no matter how unconventional, than I would have been with someone whose total investment of thought was in making a dinner reservation.

  “I don’t feel that way at all,” I answered with some dismay. “For the record, Jamie, I think you planned an excellent date.”

  He smiled more easily this time. “I’m happy to hear it. I don’t get much practice.”

  “You don’t date?”

  He looked at me for a moment and then answered softly, “No. Not normally.”

  He stirred the remains of kung pao chicken in its box, and something passed over his eyes, but was gone too fast to interpret.

  Courtesy would have dictated that I let that comment pass. And I would have, honestly, except that a prick of curiosity was suddenly outrunning my sense of propriety. In the gray evening light, the definition of his features had washed away and his eyes were hooded.

  “Why don’t you date?”

  He just shrugged, giving away very little. “I have a lot going on right now. Just priorities, I suppose.”

  “But you made an exception for me?”

  “I find you exceptional.”

  His eyes met mine in a way that made me incapable of a response. Jamie could do that–flatten you with off-the-cuff honesty.

  I set down my plate and settled in close to his large, warm frame. He wrapped a strong arm around me and pulled me closer as the fog began to creep over the ground all around us. Through a small break in the mist, we could see the moon over Alcatraz. It was nearly a perfect half circle, and the edges were fuzzy in the fog like a cotton ball.

  Jamie pressed a kiss to my temple, and when I turned my head he placed another on my lips.
/>   “Tell me if you’re cold,” he breathed.

  Honestly, cold was the last thing I felt. I sank gratefully into the sturdy lines of his torso and let go of any reservations that may have lingered about dating a musician. Maybe it was crazy to be going out with him, but God, I craved a little crazy.

  Jamie threaded his hands into my hair and separated my lips with his. He angled my head in such a way that our mouths fit perfectly together. Then, his tongue slid hungrily over mine, again and again, deeply and thoroughly.

  All around us, the fog was becoming so thick, we couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. The smell of the mist and the salt water, the sound of distant foghorns and footsteps, I could take it all in on some level, but those thoughts closest to me were focused solely on Jamie. Wrapped in a heavy, protective blanket of mist, the yearning between us running even thicker, we were effectively alone.

  Jamie’s hunger for me felt ravenous, like he would devour me if he could, flooding every sense he had until he was satiated, if that was even possible. We kissed wildly, our chests heaving simultaneously with desire, or something else too dangerous to name.

  He dragged his teeth along my jawline while he guided my hands to his chest. He wanted to be touched, wanted his body to be explored like before. And he leaned into it, nearly covering me with his blazing hot torso.

  Every part of him was perfect. I sunk my fingers into the warmth of his skin, up and under his t-shirt and sweater, and felt firm lats that were strong and defined; and every muscle in his back was tight and ripped. I began losing myself in his body, and in the feel of his hand sliding inside my dress to cup my aching breast.

  “Ah, God, you’re so soft,” he rasped, pressing his forehead to mine, as the wind whipped around us in its own rough caress. Then he pushed the fabric of my dress aside so he could see my bare skin, could watch with heavy eyes as his hand kneaded my breast and toyed with the nipple.

  Suddenly his mouth fastened on it, like he just couldn’t help himself, sucking, licking, squeezing it in his rough hand. He groaned at the way it stiffened against his tongue.

  Yes, like that, I told him silently.

  Just like that.

  A tight noise of want escaped my mouth, and in a moment, he was back over me. His body was so close I could feel his heat forcing out the cold. I wanted him desperately and, sensing my desire, his movements took on their own feeling of urgency. His kiss became voracious.

  I wanted to trap every breath and sound he made and tuck it away in memory; each and every one was so authentic and deliciously sexy.

  “Okay?” he panted into my ear.

  “Yes,” I might have said. Or thought. But it didn’t matter; my body was telling him everything he needed to know.

  I felt his hand move down my dress, between my breasts, across my hips and over my stomach. On my outer thigh, where his fingertips met with bare skin, he began stroking me with small circles of his thumb.

  His body was hard against my hip, and he pressed, like he had to.

  I was lost to everything else. I forgot where we were; I forgot any sense of propriety and caution; I forgot that I was the most pragmatic person I knew. In that moment, I was the woman that Jamie saw. Reckless, just enough.

  I let my legs fall open and spread them loosely on the blanket underneath. I felt his breath catch against my mouth, and I kissed him harder with assurance.

  Yes, I want this.

  Yes, please touch me.

  There was a soft Irish growl in my ear and his hands obeyed.

  He inhaled deeply, and then slid one under the elastic waistband of my lingerie. His thumb found my clit, swollen and sensitive, while his fingers slipped tightly inside me. He stroked and pressed with a firm touch, working me expertly until–

  It was like a jolt of electricity, lifting my body off of the ground, exploding it into a million feather-lite pieces that floated haphazardly back to Earth. My orgasm was glorious and jarring and all-consuming.

  And not until it was over did I realize I had been calling out Jamie’s name.

  He was breathing heavily against me; I could feel puffs of warm air on my face.

  When I opened my eyes, he was staring at me in utter shock and awe. His hazel eyes were wide, and his face was mindlessly slack. I didn’t know how to take that look; no man had looked at me quite that way before.

  I started to say something–I’m not sure what–but he stopped my words with his mouth.

  “Don’t. You’re lovely just like this,” he murmured. And when he pulled back slightly, his soft eyes were intent on mine.

  The dense San Francisco fog all around us provided a deceiving feeling of seclusion.

  “Jamie…I mean–”

  “Holy God, you’re a wonder,” he rushed out, before I could possibly find the words to complete that sentence. “I only wish we could stay long enough so that I could see you do that again.”

  He withdrew his hand from under my dress, and ran his index finger over his lower lip. Lord, he was sexy. I may have just had an orgasm, but I wanted to feel his flesh on mine like I’d never wanted anything else in my life.

  “What?” I asked, finally catching up with the conversation.

  “We need to be somewhere,” he winced. “That is, if you want to go.”

  “It’s 9:30,” I said, glancing at my watch, and for the first time becoming cognizant of the full extent of my dishevelment.

  “We go on in an hour.”

  “You have a gig?” I asked, sitting up and tugging my dress and bra back over by breast with the mist clinging to my hair and skin. “Jamie, why didn’t you say something? Don’t you have to be there to warm up?”

  I knew how important every performance was to an up-and-coming band. I couldn’t believe he had taken me out beforehand.

  “It’s fine. We loaded in the equipment this afternoon. But I just…I can’t be late. Would you like to come?” There was hint of hopefulness in his voice. “Or I’m happy to drop you off at home first, if you prefer. There’s time.”

  “No, I’d love to go.”

  “Yeah?” There was no mistaking his pleasure. He wanted me there. And I was suddenly very excited at the prospect of seeing him on stage.

  Chapter 5

  Mel

  WE PULLED UP AND PARKED on Columbus near a place called Bimbos 365, a big tan building with black awnings and a 70-year history. Greg, Nash, Killian and Danny were already there, piling out of a white van when we arrived. Bimbos was a very well-known music venue in San Francisco, and it seemed like a big deal that Cadence would play there on a Saturday night. Not that I was, by any means, an expert on the local music scene, but I guess I had assumed that they were still relatively unknown.

  I was wrong about that.

  As it turns out, that wasn’t the only thing I was wrong about.

  Danny lifted a small duffel bag from the open double doors and turned to glance speculatively at Jamie and I as we walked up. I cringed at the thought of what may be showing on my face.

  “I’ll take that, brother,” Jamie said. “Can you…?” he added, nodding at me.

  “‘Course.”

  Jamie reached for my hip with his free hand and pulled me in close.

  “I’ve got to change and get ready. See you in there.”

  He gave me a quick kiss, and then was gone through the building’s metal door, which was safeguarded by two impressively sized bouncers, with equally impressive tattoos.

  Inside, the back of the house was dark, and smelled like a cavern of stale beer and male exertion. The walls around us were literally pulsating with the thump of a bass guitar, and the sound from the stage was nearly deafening. Not a place conducive to conversation, and in a way I was glad for it. I was still undecided what was the appropriate thing to say to Danny.

  As soon as the music cut, there was a furious pace of activity that was almost unsettling to watch; everybody had a purpose. Band members from the previous act emerged from the stage, comparing
notes on the performance. A dozen club staff and house technicians organized power cords, called out questions, checked various instruments, and moved this here and that there. The stage manager was barking out requests, which were being executed with military precision.

  Where I was expecting chaos, there was a surprising amount of order.

  Cadence appeared, fresh from the dressing room in the basement and rechecked all of the connections. They seemed remarkably relaxed as they walked around the stage one last time and taped their set lists to the floor.

  Jamie seemed very much in his head. He didn’t make a move to speak to me, nor I to him.

  Finally, I turned to Danny and noticed for the first time that he was wearing a black t-shirt with the band’s faces printed on the front and the word ‘Cadence’ emblazoned across the top in some modern font. I couldn’t resist.

  “Did you get a mug and a mouse pad to go with that t-shirt?”

  Danny doubled over, laughing, and turned around so that I could see the word ‘crew’ printed boldly across the back in neon yellow lettering.

  “I can’t imagine what he must have on you that you would agree to wear that.”

  “You don’t want to know,” he said wryly.

  It was as good an opportunity as any.

  “Danny, about last weekend…”

  He waved off the coming apology. “You made the right choice,” he said, his green eyes soft and sincere. “Now we can be friends, right?”

  “Definitely.”

  He put his arm around me and kissed the top of my head affectionately, but platonically. I couldn’t imagine another scenario where receiving a decidedly platonic kiss by a man that attractive would have made me so happy, but Danny seemed like a very good friend to have.

  §

  Four clicks of the drumsticks signaled the start. And all at once, the stage lights came up and the room burst to life with the sound of the instruments–Nash’s drums, followed by the boom of Greg’s bass. And then Killian bled in with a cry of electric guitar.