Pretty Remedy

by S. E. Hall

  And tonight, I perform with Rhett, whose opinion matters to me as much as my own. The man who, last night, in a passionate haze, I basically told I think I love him. Because I was too terrified to tell him I was positive.

  I want to show us both that I can do this.

  While the guys head over to Tempo for a quick sound check, I run home to change and get ready. I settle on a not-too-short cobalt halter dress, silver jewelry, and my hair down in soft ringlets. My silver stilettos top off the ensemble—tall enough to give me some height but not jeopardize my ability to stay upright. I wipe the cold sweat off my palms one last time, grab my stuff, and head out the door, smacking into a brick wall with an “oomph.”

  “Easy, sweetpea. You okay?” Ozzie holds my shoulders and looks at me, no real worry in his twinkling eyes. “Reece, you listen to me good. You were born to perform. Why, this old man almost cries every time you do—it’s that amazing. Get him out your head.”

  “Who?” I ask, despite knowing exactly who he means.

  “Your father. Why I have good mind to…” He wipes a hand over his mouth. “He can’t hurt you anymore, baby girl. I doubt he’ll be stupid enough to ever try again, but if he does, you got two men who love you and will never let it happen.”

  “Two men?”

  He slips my hand over his arm, leading us toward the elevator. “One is me, and you know the other is that Rhett character you insist on keeping around.” He laughs lightly. “That boy is in love with you. Maybe he doesn’t realize it, or maybe he does and just hasn’t figured out how to say it, but as a grumpy man who trusts few myself, I know what I see, and that boy’s a goner.”

  “I pray you’re right.”

  “I know you do—it’s written all over your face too. And I’m always right. Now you just go and put on a great show tonight, and everything else will fall into the space it’s supposed to, when it’s supposed to.”

  “’K,” I say halfheartedly. “You staying for the show?”

  “Of course I am. Gotta make sure our company only has the best groups, don’t I?” He chuckles as we share a conspiratorial smile.

  “Damn, Reece, you clean up nice,” Jarrett says and lets out a slow whistle, prompting Rhett to spin around and watch my approach.

  In this moment, an unbreakable bond is forged between us, the spark of attraction sizzling up ours spine and transforming into destiny.

  His eyes rove over me with a primal, yet so tender appreciation, then find mine and silently scream to me that he feels it too. With a jerk of his chin, he asks me to come to him, and of course I do. When I’m standing right in front of him, his sexy grin curls slowly and grabs my hips, dipping his head to rest our foreheads together. “You’re exquisite,” he murmurs in a timbre so deep, I drown.

  “I love when you use the pretty words,” I say in a hushed breath.

  “Only for you, Reece. Only you.”

  “Hey, Teaspoon, and your friend Teacup? Y’all wanna save the word-sex for later please? We’re up in, like, ten!” Jarrett yells.

  I really try not to snicker at Rhett’s snarl. Teacup—I may have to reuse that sometime.

  “Guess this is it. You ready?” I ask Rhett.

  “Almost.” He pulls his drumsticks out of his back pocket and presses them gently against my lips. “Kiss ‘em.”

  Not that I’ve watched any porn recently, or would ever have the nerve to actually do so, but he’s opened the secret compartment within me where “Sex Kitten Reece” has apparently been hiding, and for a fleeting second, I imagine how cool it’d be to lick his sticks like a couple of lollipops and drive him absolutely crazy.

  “Don’t test me, Teaspoon. We gotta go on, and you don’t really want to get fucked in front of all these people,” he cautions in a husky rumble.

  My eyes flash up to his. “Wh-what?”

  “I know exactly what you were just thinking, babe. You do it, and I’m carrying you off into a corner and coming in. So keep your wicked lil’ tongue put away and kiss ‘em, or hold on tight. Lady’s choice.”

  “Kiss the damn things, Reece, PG-style! Cheryl’s walking to the mic to intro us,” Jarrett says, peeking out the curtain.

  “Cheri!” Rhett and I remind him together.

  “Just for the record”—I look at Rhett—“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I wasn’t thinking anything, other than… hit it hard,” I tease and kiss his drumsticks, suppressing a laugh.

  “You remember you said that,” he grunts and takes my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s go kill this.”

  We take the small stage right behind Jarrett, and Rhett lets go of my hand to climb behind the drums. Reality comes crashing down on me, and my stomach flips over, pulse roaring in my ears. Each step means one more highly probable chance of falling on my face, but I finally make it to front and center.

  I’m onstage, whipping my own reins.

  “How’s everybody doing tonight?” Jarrett asks the crowd, picking up my terrified slack. When the noise dies down, he buys me more time. “We’re Fostered Fusion. Thanks for being here. This first song was written by my brother, Rhett, on the drums back there, and it’s called ‘Timeless.’”

  I love this song. I love the harmony we wrote in to blend mine and Rhett’s voices, and I love knowing he’s right behind me. With that comforting realization, my mouth opens and the words start to flow out. I’m sharp though, so I fall a half-step back from the mic, letting Rhett’s smooth, rich alto commandeer. I smile, because even as I sing, pitchy and on auto-pilot, my thoughts wander elsewhere.

  I’m off, he’s on. I’m fairly optimistic and pretty happy most of the time, he’s… not. But we’re both dreamers, and apparently, have finally found our perfect counterpart.

  Jarrett breaks into his guitar solo, and I glance over my shoulder at Rhett. Damn, he’s beautiful. He winks at me, and when I turn back around, I sing his lyrics on point—for him.

  The crowd loves it—how could they not? It’s a phenomenal song. The lighting changes, and I see Ozzie, beaming, from a front-row table… beside Landry! She blows me a kiss and screams at the top of her lungs.

  This time, I talk. “Thank you. We’ve got one more for you tonight. Jarrett, gimme that guitar and sing with your brother. Ladies, lemme hear ya clappin,’ I think you’re gonna like this.”

  I sling the strap over my head, toss a saucy grin over my shoulder, and hang on tight… ‘cause when the Foster boys do a cover of “Lover, Lover,” it’s more than a performance—it’s the sexiest damn thing a lady has ever heard, seen, or felt… in every female part she possesses.

  The women in the audience agree, and don’t let me down. They’re up on their feet, dancing and clapping along, almost instantly, trying to shake it half as well as Jarrett does.

  The raucous applause when we’re finished lasts long after we leave the stage. One step into the wing, Rhett grabs me, swinging me around in circles as he kisses me to my core. I think if people could fly, this is what it would feel like.

  As soon as Rhett puts me down, Jarrett wraps me in a hug just as exuberant, sans the flight. “That was fucking awesome! I didn’t realize how much I missed it. Thank you, Reece, so much.”

  “Are you kidding? Thank you, both of you! I’ve never felt anything like that in my life.” I’m shrieking, Rhett chuckling at my high-pitched euphoria.

  “Oh my God!”

  Never mind—that is shrieking.

  Landry comes charging at me, hugging me with the strength of five grown men. “I am so proud of you! And you two?” She eyes the boys appreciatively. “I knew you were good, but damn. I’m almost positive I just witnessed at least three women actually orgasm.”

  “Young lady, I did not just hear that.” Ozzie frowns at her as he strolls up. “Sweetpea?” He holds open his massive arms, and I spring into them. “You, my wonderful girl, were magnificent. I couldn’t be more proud of you or love you any more if I tried.”

  “Thank you. I love you too.” I sniffle in
to his barrel chest. “So whadda ya say? Good enough for our label?”

  He laughs. “Too good. Fine job, Jarrett. And Rhett, congratulations. You’ve earned another day of me letting you live.”

  “I appreciate that. Now can I have my woman back?” Rhett responds.

  Ozzie makes a low, scary sound but turns me loose. “Only because this old man’s going home. Great job, all of you.”

  “Night, Ozzie.” I wave, tears barely contained.

  “Alright!” Landry claps. “First round’s on me!”

  We make our way through the crowd, thankful for all the compliments we receive as we pass, and find a table off to the side. I slowly sip a margarita as we check out the other performers, wondering if we’ll see that one undiscovered diamond in the rough.

  Sure enough… two acts after the thought and a soloist takes the stage, causing me to sit up straighter with her first note, ears perked. Rhett’s keen too, shooting me a look from the corner of his eye. Even Jarrett detaches from Landry’s mouth long enough to pay attention.

  It’s an original song, and she’s strumming it flawlessly, but when she starts muting her chords into a gritty beat and gives just her voice and lyrics the spotlight, her performance goes from good to pure art.

  “I want her,” I gush.

  “Fuck, me too,” Jarrett purrs.

  “Hey!” Landry pops him upside the head.

  I shush them both, not wanting to miss a second of this. She’s young, about my age I’d guess, and eccentrically raw, a natural gravel in her voice a person can’t fabricate. Her skirt looks as though she wove it from hemp, and her red hair is braided in two parts hanging over her shoulders. She’s fascinating.

  “Thank you,” she says to the crowd and leaves the stage.

  “I’ll be right back.” I jump from my chair and take off through the crowded room in a dead sprint.

  I follow Reece backstage but keep my distance in the shadows, giving her room to thrive. Her musical instincts are excellent, and I have not a single reservation that she’ll run Crescendo Records as the brilliant, passionate, honest spitfire I see every time I look at her. I can’t wait to have the privilege of watching it happen.

  With no break in conversation or so much as a glance my way, she motions me over with a crook of her finger. Looks as if I need to hone my shadowing skills. A more pleasing thought—maybe she’ll always be able to sense when I’m near.

  Reece introduces us when I come to stand at her side. “Rhett, this is Jovie. Rhett’s a member of Fostered Fusion.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jovie. Great job out there tonight. You write that song?” I ask.

  “I did,” she purrs, stepping into me. “I watched your set. You were amazing.”

  Music’s far more her forte than subtlety, and I’m uncomfortably baffled as to what the appropriate response is here. Do I defend Reece’s honor and announce that I’m hers? Let her handle it woman to woman? I haven’t the foggiest, so I do what I assume most guys would do—I avoid eye contact and say absolutely nothing.

  While I’m busy doing that, they engage in a private conversation, right in front of me, consisting of female-type vernacular that evidently can only be accomplished with hand flicking, laughing, nodding, and several appearances of those “duck lips” women do. Then Jovie says she can’t wait to see us at the studio on Monday and walks away with a friendly wave and smile.

  I don’t think I lost consciousness, but damn if I have a fucking clue what just happened.

  “Teaspoon, what the hell was that? You do realize that girl wanted me, right?”

  She snickers and burrows into my side, wrapping her arm around my waist. “No, are you sure?”

  I pull her away and gently grip her shoulders. “I’m sure. Women get ugly, babe. Maybe you should let this one go, I don’t want any problems. Not that I’d be the problem, I would never, I just mean—” I stop talking because she’s stopped listening, too busy laughing… at me? “What’s so funny?”

  “You are. Of course I know she wanted you. I’m not deaf or blind. Neither is she. But now she’s crystal clear that it’s not an option. And thanks to that adorable fumble-bumble speech you just gave, I’m reassured it’s really not.” She reaches up and strokes my cheek, her laughing eyes now somber. “I can’t fault women for hoping. You’re pretty hard to miss, and that’s without them even knowing the best parts. Because those? Those you choose to give only to me.”

  Her words hardly finished, my mouth crashes down over hers in urgent hunger. Her lips part for me, and my tongue delves inside for a taste of what’s mine as she runs her tiny hands up my chest, fisting my shirt and making those sounds she has to know drive me insane.

  Some bumbling idiot bumps into my side, forcing us apart, and I remember where we are—and how ready I am to be somewhere else, alone with her. “Just to avoid any possible confusion in the future, I should probably tell you now—I won’t be as reasonable if guys come on to you like that.”

  “After a while, that jealousy thing you’re workin’ will probably get on my nerves and we’ll need to reconvene. But for now, it’s hot and okay.” She laughs. “Don’t tell any feminists I said that.”

  We spend the next day getting Jarrett and I moved into our new apartments. I don’t give a shit where my stuff goes, but Reece doesn’t share my lack of concern. After holding the furniture delivery guys captive for almost two hours—I tipped them very well—she’s now been in the kitchen, deciding what goes where, for just as long.

  I, however, am in the living room, sitting on the couch she insisted they move one inch to the left, then right, at least four times. I’m having a beer and watching a documentary on the post-Civil War economy… because my cable doesn’t get turned on until Monday and this is the only channel I can get, but more so because “Reece Homemaker” is fucking scary.

  “Rhett,” she calls from the kitchen, and I cringe, “would you rather your silverware drawer be the one closest to the dishwasher for easy unloading or under the plate cupboard so you can grab both at the same time?”

  Apparently my easy agreement to her previous ten questions backfired. Instead of politely—‘cause it’s nice of her to help—sending the message that I don’t fucking know what things like a “banana tree” are nor do I care where they go, my capitulation seems to have encouraged her to ask more questions. “How ‘bout you take a break and come in here for a second?”

  She does, blowing her hair out of the green eyes that bulge out at me expectantly. “I don’t really have time for a break if I’m gonna get this done before we have to meet Jarrett and Landry for dinner.”

  I reach out and grab her hand, pulling her to me, then into my lap. “Teaspoon, it’s very sweet of you to do all this. Thank you.” I tuck some of her unruly hair behind her ear. “But stop. Don’t know how you could’ve possibly forgotten, but I have a dick.”

  “What?” she blurts.

  “Let me finish. I have a dick, which means not only do I not give a rat’s ass where shit goes, but my girlfriend, who has a tight, warm little pussy, lives within throwing distance. Someone could break in here and steal, or rearrange,” I gasp sarcastically, “every single thing, and I’d never even notice, ‘cause guess where I’m gonna be?”

  “Girlfriend?” It comes out a puff of air.

  I have to laugh; of course that’s all she heard. “You know that. So I’m assuming it’s a nice to hear thing?”

  She nods.

  “Okay, well, I think it’d be nice to hear you say you’re done with all that”—I nod toward the kitchen—“and what you’d really like is to fuck your man senseless before we have to meet them for dinner.”

  “I still think you guys should’ve named the group after me,” Landry pours on another guilt trip from across the table. “After all, I’m the reason Reece was at On Tap that fateful night this all started. And it was also me who got her to come back for Rhett’s birthday!”

  She’s not wrong. Landry’s actually turned out to b
e… not half as bad as I originally suspected. As much as I frown upon the flaky stunts she pulls on Reece all too often, a couple of them lent destiny a hand.

  “Think we’re all set on the name, but I agree, I owe you a thank you. Thank you, Landry.” I give her a genuine smile, and Reece’s hand finds my leg under the table and squeezes her agreement.

  “You’re welcome.” Landry lifts her chin proudly. “Oh, I know! Instead of the band name, you can repay me by doing a show at Goldsbury! Thatcher would totally agree—he asks me how you guys are doing all the time—JC too. Oh please, it’d be perfect.”

  “Sounds kickass to me.” Jarrett looks at Reece as he says it. I’m unsure if it’s because he sees her as “the boss” or simply because he respects her opinion—maybe a little of both.

  “Um, yeah…” Reece stammers, quickly reaching for a drink of her water. “It’s definitely something we should talk about. We’ll let you know.” She offers Landry a weak smile.

  “Rhett?” Oh now Jarrett asks for my input, or rather, my backing.

  I glare at him pointedly—no way am I touching that with a ten-foot pole. Reece obviously has an issue that I don’t even have a guess on, and I’m not about to outnumber her publicly. Both my heads know better than that shit. “Like Reece said, we’ll talk about it.”

  Our waitress mercifully times her arrival with our orders, and the subject’s forgotten for now. Between Landry and Jarrett’s penchant for yammering and some actual eating, there’s no blatant silence, but Reece is sullen and only just politely participatory for the remainder of the meal. When we finish and say our good-byes—a tearful parting for the girls since Landry flies out early in the morning—I lead Reece to my car. Yes, I finally drove my own car tonight.