Red Hot Blues

by Rachel Dunning

  I smile, because that’s an invitation if I ever saw one. “I’ll show you around tomorrow. I mean...if you want me to.”

  He grins.

  And my heart melts. Because his smile is not only innocent, it’s hot. It’s innocently hot. It’s the hottest hot there is.

  -31-

  Ace crashes at the Nashville Downtown Hostel on the corner of First and Church, right by the river. Only two buildings away from where I’m staying.

  Layna, of course, rags me all night about how she would’ve given me free rein of the apartment if I’d wanted to “get it on” with him, and this just makes me throw my pillow at her.

  In the bathroom, I get to look at myself newly. I really went all out tonight, maybe even a little slutty. A little bad. Whoa! Anyway... A girl’s gotta flaunt what she’s got, right?

  I meet Ace the next morning at the corner of First and Church. He’s looking over at the park where the homeless guys hang out and I tell him Nashville has the nicest homeless people in all of the states and if you give them some food they’ll watch out for you for the rest of your life.

  “You done that before?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I lie.

  I introduce him to my Yellow Bike Katie and tell him that up by the Starbucks there’s a bike rental place and he can pay five bucks and ride these cute little pink bikes that he must simply “check in” at different spots so that he doesn’t have to pay more than five bucks for the day.

  “Pink?”

  “Yes. Pink. You have a problem with that?”

  He laughs again.

  I really like seeing him laugh.

  His eye is swollen, and it attracts my attention, but I look away. I can tell he appreciates it.

  Downtown Nashville’s really quick to see. It’s all in one place, not like other cities. You got Broadway where all the bars are at, crossed by Second Avenue where the rest of the bars are at (Hooters, That Place Yo Mama Warned You About, B.B. King’s Café—although they don’t really play the blues there...) Then there are a bunch of churches, lots of churches, plenty of them, everywhere, downtown and elsewhere. Within a few blocks you have the State Capitol, the Courthouse, the fountain in front of the City Hall, Grumpy’s Bail Bonds (I’d be pretty grumpy myself), a bunch of really expensive hotels (The Hilton, The Sheraton, The Renaissance.) He sees the Renaissance Hotel Bridge crossing over Commerce Street and asks if we can go inside. We do, and we pretend we’re high-browed guests when we order two non-alcoholic O’Doul’s.

  Ace pays for mine, despite my protests.

  Sitting on the lush bridge, comfy couches, I say to him, “I do work, FYI.”

  “I never said you didn’t.”

  I’m sweating insanely. It’s all over me. The heat outside is less than yesterday because it did storm last night, bringing the temperature down quite a bit, as well as bringing a welcoming wind that’s been blowing all day; but when you’re riding your bike all day, it gets hot anyway. Ace is also sweating, his brow shining with it. Not the most romantic meeting, but it makes me comfortable. Less pressure.

  He downs his non-alcoholic beer quickly and orders another one. I get a sparkling water this time. Even non-alcoholic beer has a lot of calories.

  “What’s next?” he asks. We’ve been riding a good three hours.

  I tell him about the Tennessee Museum (free entrance), Music City Central (basically, the bus station), the Library, the Ryman. If he’s really adventurous, we could even catch a show at the Grand Ole Opry—if he’s into country music (I really hope he isn’t...)

  “Show me all of it,” he says. “But...not the country music stuff.”

  I cock a suspicious eyebrow. “OK?”

  “What?”

  “Dunno. The museum? The library? It seems like you’re trying really heard to impress me.” Only when the words leave my mouth do I realize I’ve a dug a hole and am falling into it...

  He drinks half his beer. “I like your company. Is that a problem?”

  Again, his statement stuns me. I finally think of a good comeback. “Even as sweaty and disgusting as I look now?” I pull my dress from my breasts with my index and thumb on each hand, as if it’s too grimy to touch with my full hands.

  His expression changes, and he stares at me wantonly, a clear lust in his eyes. He inhales, and the moment lasts a lifetime. He quickly looks away.

  “Yes,” he says, looking away, “even as you look now.”

  There’s an eerie silence, and then he says, “Besides, it’s not about how you look that makes me wanna hang out with you.”

  I wait for him to elaborate on that.

  But he doesn’t.

  I down my water.

  He downs his beer.

  We hit the road. Me on my yellow bicycle. Him on his pink one.

  ~ ACE ~

  -32-

  We end up on the Observation Deck at the Public Square in the late afternoon. It’s only two floors high but you can see everything from up here because it’s on a hill.

  Facing West: downtown, City Hall, the UBS building, endless high-rises gleaming under the setting sun. And then, East: all of Nashville’s gorgeous trees, LP Field, the river, endless space, a highway. Just plain beauty. The sky is clear, the wind is cool. I’m sweating like a pig. I wore jeans today. Jeans! I don’t own a single pair of shorts.

  Gin and I hung out at the museum. I learned about Andrew Jackson, plantations, the history of Native Americans in this area. We chilled out at the library, the most exquisite building I’ve ever seen, and a library that rivals the Library of Congress. Not in size, but in grandness.

  She was surprised to hear I read. I didn’t tell her that I used to read to escape, that sometimes it was the only thing that kept me sane outside of music. That when I couldn’t play my guitar because my ribs hurt too bad, I’d read a Western or an Adventure story. Occasionally the odd science fiction. Definitely Fantasy. Definitely. Because it transported me, took me elsewhere, made me forget the pain. The real, physical pain under my lungs from where I’d been kicked, punched.

  I didn’t tell her that.

  But she knows. I know she knows. Because her eyes flashed once with deep, wrenching empathy. Not sympathy, empathy.

  I can’t leave her yet. She doesn’t know that she anchors me. She’s “normal.” I need normal. I need someone that shows me the sights, someone I can hold the hand of. Someone who makes me feel like I’m a normal guy living a normal life, walking in the park, watching people take their morning runs.

  I need peace.

  I need someone to make me feel like I’m not running, like I don’t need to run.

  It’s the first time I’ve been somewhere where I don’t have the ache to go, to leave, to just disappear and find something new, something else. Something different.

  Even those places I stayed at for longer than a couple months, working, saving up—every day was a grind. Every day I wanted to leave. If I hadn’t needed the money, I would have split from those places in less than a few days. Now I don’t need the cash. I have enough. And yet I want to stay.

  I want to stay and see Gin’s short black hair blow against the wind. I want to watch her flowery dress push against her full figure.

  But I also want more. And I can’t take it from her. I can’t. Because I can’t promise her that I’ll stay, or that I’ll come back. I’m fucked up, screwed up, angry, full of a temper, full of rage. I don’t trust myself. She needs more than some wild guy. I know it.

  And yet...

  The urge, the physical urge...has hit me, winded me. Her voice, the way she sang, the power, the resonance; that damned, raw, sexual appeal that she rocks when she walks, when she sways her hips. Her body, strong and curved. Full and sexy.

  I’m watching her now, the blue sky and green trees ahead of her. I’m sitting on a plaque / stone thingy that explains the history of Nashville. We’re alone up here. It’s silent, so silent. Nashville’s like Las Vegas at night, loud, rambunctious. But here, looking out in
to the distance, it’s pure silence except for the gentle wind. The wind that’s blowing her dress, wrapping it around her curvy butt, round and calling me, waiting for my hand... She’s perfect, so shapely.

  But she’s more than that. I feel something around her. Comfortable. Safe. Cared for...

  I’m bad. I’m bad for doing this. But the need has taken over me, the drug has hit my head, the hormones have taken control and what I feel for her now is pure lust. Uncontrollable want.

  I shouldn’t do it, but I’m doing it. I’m standing, watching her fingers move to her ear to push the only long strands of hair she has. I’m walking to her, slowly, a predator. A predator who knows what he wants. A predator intoxicated on hot desire. Desire for her. For everything about her. For her breasts, her stomach, my tongue on the most private of her parts.

  I can’t count the number of times I’ve imagined what her whimper might sound like—every time I saw her laugh, every time I saw her blue eyes shine when she made a joke at my expense. What did it for me, ultimately, was when I remembered her holding me yesterday, when I broke apart in her arms.

  And how she said nothing about it.

  She deserves so much better than me. So much. Because I’m an asshole with a temper. I can’t give her what she needs, stability, certainty, commitment. Not because I don’t want to. But because I can’t trust myself. I can’t trust the anger in my mind, how it flares up, how sometimes I just want to punch a wall or a face or break a jaw.

  And then I run. I run for the hills. I jump on my Harley and rev it. And run.

  I can’t promise her that I’ll stay.

  I’m behind her now. She hasn’t moved. The wind strokes my cheeks and I know it does hers as well. I push against her, slowly, and I hear it: That whimper I’ve dreamed about all day today. All day.

  It’s magical.

  It’s sensuous.

  It completely undoes me.

  It takes every force of strength I have—every drop—for me to not simply take her, rip her dress apart, push her up against the wall behind the elevator. And take her.

  But I can’t do that to her. I can’t.

  She needs to know what she’s getting into. No secrets. No promises.

  I put my arms on either side of her, grab the railing. Push up against her below. I’m hard, so hard, and I know she can feel it, so if she hasn’t run yet, she’s thinking on the same lines as I’m thinking. She’s thinking there’s something here, some spark, something I don’t understand.

  I lean down to her ear. “This wasn’t what I intended with you, Gin, I promise.”

  She clears her throat. “It wasn’t?”

  The wind almost hides her meager voice. Almost.

  I shake my head, even though she can’t see it because I’m behind her. And then I whisper, “No.”

  I feel her shivering, her nervousness. “I don’t know how I should feel about that.”

  I understand my error in what I said. “That’s not what I meant. I’ve...wanted you since the first night I laid eyes on you.” She tenses, grips the railing hard with her small fingers. “But I’m no good for you. No good at all.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Goosebumps break on my arms. “I can’t promise you that I’ll stay. In fact, I know I won’t. I’m on the run. I’m on the run from... I don’t know. I get angry. I get angry, and then I run. I just can’t stay.”

  “I figured.”

  Her scent is killing me. Perfume mixed with sweat. Her exposed neck is so close that I almost jump it.

  But I can’t. I can’t.

  Because I care about her. I do. That much I can admit. It’s a no-brainer. There’s something about the way she deals with me, the way she treats me, that makes me feel like we’ve said so many things without saying anything.

  I feel my head move in closer, lower. She tilts her head left, giving me access to her neck.

  She wants it as much as I want it. Tacit consent.

  War and fear rage inside me. I can’t do this. Can’t. But I want to. I want to so badly.

  She pushes back against me with her butt, against my hard-on, just ever so slightly. Instinctively. Not thinking. But wanting. Like I want her.

  I take my hands off the railing, rub them up her forearms slowly. I feel her sigh, deeply, her whole body shaking. My hands move up. Goosepimples break out over her skin, and her whole body trembles.

  My hands reach her upper arms, squeeze, hold tight, not sure what to do, where to take this.

  She bows her head.

  In a perfect world..., I think.

  But it isn’t a perfect world. It’s an ugly world. Ugly and painful and full of broken promises and broken hearts and hateful people.

  In my moment of doubt, my moment of wonder, time stops. The moment lasts forever. My hands on her upper arms, her hands on the railing. Both of us holding on, holding on to something. Too afraid to let go. Too afraid to take the next step. Me, because I don’t trust myself with her. Her, for reasons I don’t yet know.

  But then she makes the next move.

  She makes the move.

  And I’m floored. Completely floored. But I’ll be damned if I don’t make the second one.

  She turned, one moment to the next, and before I knew it, she had her left hand on my neck, yanking me down with all her strength.

  When her lips met mine, my whole world exploded.

  And everything changed inside me.

  Everything.

  -33-

  It’s strawberries and peppermint, her lips. Full and wonderful. She kisses beautifully, passionately. I feel her entire body tremble as the need takes over her. Her scent, a mixture of sweat and flowers. And the wind, blowing against us, cooling our moistened bodies.

  I want her. So bad. So bad. And that is bad.

  I grab her arms, fling her around, ram her back three paces against the wall and I’m pushing up against her. We can’t kiss fast enough. I can’t get my hands low enough, under her dress and then up, underneath it. Her breasts, round and wonderful. Real.

  Sexy as hell.

  Her sounds are music, whimpers and gasps and needful cries in a dead and drowning desert of nothing, emptiness, sadness, dry mountains and vast open plains: Her voice is a bird’s call in the open air, echoing, lustful.

  We’re in the shade, an overhang above us, the sun fast setting, no one else around.

  My hands race down, grab a clump of her dress and soon it’s all in my fists and up above her incredible thighs and to her waist.

  I press. Against her. Hard, below.

  “Ah!” she yelps.

  Her eyes are closed, then open, then closed. Lips, fighting, turning, kissing. Tongues finding each other. I feel the roughness of hers as my full tongue laps over it.

  I melt. Die. Part of me disappears behind me, into the highways, the trees beyond, up into the heavens.

  I’m lost in her. Lost completely. Gone, drowning, not thinking. Just taking. Taking what I want because I do want her. I want her more than water and food and life and—

  My hand thrusts up. And finds her. Moist. Warm. Swollen.

  And tightening.

  “Take me,” she says, grappling with my neck, pulling me down, widening her legs as my fingers ply desperately into her behind her underwear.

  I move them away from her, reason suddenly dawning on me. I can’t do this to her. I can’t hurt her like this. I’m bad. I always run.

  But she takes a hand and pushes me back into her.

  She’s beautiful down there, soaking, wet velvet, soft and feminine.

  I fall on her, my hand still on her nether lips, touching, feeling, pressing. “I’ll hurt you,” I say. “I’ll hurt you, I promise. You don’t want me to do this.”

  “Then hurt me,” she whimpers. “Hurt me. But you’re gonna take me now. You’re gonna take me over the edge because I want you to.”

  “I’m not who you think I am,” I beg, still feeling her, still kissing her ears, her eyes, her nose. And t
ouching her. There. Below. Fading into a mist of desire which is Gin Waters, her eyes, her soft body, her roundness, her curves. Her womanhood.

  Her.

  “I know who you are right now. You’re the guy turning me on. You’re the guy with his finger just at the right spot. And to not take me now would be the biggest fucking insult you could ever make to a girl. Now don’t make me ask you again. Fucking take me. Make me come and we’ll deal with the rest later.”

  I take her.

  I thrust two fingers up into her...and push.

  She falls. Her legs give way and I hold her up and she groans into my shirt, sweat forming on my brow, her brow, my arm.

  I pump, thrust, feeling her moistening and wettening and—

  Her hands fist around my shirt behind me as she holds me, almost ripping my shirt apart, and she breathes, and pants and—

  Muffled cries into my chest while my bicep and forearm burns: “Oh, god. Oh, god. Oh, god, yes—”

  Then she squeezes all the air out of me as the wave of ecstasy crashes and pummels into her. Her cries are wailing stings of pleasure. She bites my shirt, catches a piece of my nipple with it and I groan with pain. And just as she’s shaking, shuddering, exploding in my arms, I feel one of her hands leave my back, move down, in front of me.

  And then she holds me. There. Over my jeans.

  And she rubs.

  It doesn’t take me long.

  And we share a moment. We share a moment that means the world.

  We share a moment that unites us fully and forever. One screwed-up dude. One insecure girl.

  But it’s a moment I love. It’s an intimate moment. A moment where I feel closer to someone than I’ve ever felt for anyone. Ever.

  And it scares the shit out of me.

  I don’t know why, but it does.

  And it makes me wanna run.

  ~ GIN ~

  -34-

  I giggle afterwards, actually giggle—because what else is there to do?

  Every muscle in my body is chilled. I feel like I’ve been hit with a searing shot of hot dope. (No idea what that feels like, but I imagine it must feel something like this.) I lean back against the cold wall, feeling the smile all across my face.