by Libby Austin
“Guests and fish start to stink after a few days. I’m way past my expiration date already, so it’s probably best if you treat me like any other friend who just happens to live across the hall.”
As Layna stood, I inhaled deeply. The sweet scent that was uniquely Layna inflamed my senses. “Trust me, you don’t stink.” I said it without thinking and immediately wanted to kick myself. Embarrassment caused my cheeks to flush, so I tucked my chin, hunkered my shoulders forward, and began walking to the front door of the restaurant. I was a grown man. Why the hell did I have to keep blushing like a prepubescent boy asking a girl if she liked him?
I HADN’T ATTEMPTED TO DATE in the last thirteen years. The last time I had asked a girl on a date I’d been a cocky sixteen-year-old with no fucking clue that I wasn’t the end-all and be-all to every girl’s fantasy. And I’d had my shit together back then. Well, as together as any sixteen-year-old could. Now, I was a twenty-nine-year-old man with no idea how to even begin to pursue a relationship with the woman I was interested in getting to know.
There. I admitted it. I wanted to get to know Layna. The part I was still hesitant about was her getting to know me. The real me. The fucked up, fractured shell of a man who, in the end, most likely wouldn’t be able to give her the things she needed to feel like an equal partner should.
“Jeez, could you slow down? I may have gotten the damn cast off, but I still can’t run to chase after your ass.” Layna panted as she walked toward me in a determined stride. “We need to stop by the car, which is that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction. I hadn’t been paying attention to where I was going. Hell, I didn’t even remember coming out of the restaurant. “I need to get my bag from the car.”
“Okay,” I mumbled and turned to walk in the other direction. Layna fell into step beside me. We walked a few hundred feet before she said anything.
“FYI, if staying under the radar is your goal, storming out of a restaurant is not the best way to do that. At least, I wouldn’t think it would be the best way.”
“I didn’t ‘storm out of the restaurant,’” I rebutted her description of my hasty exit from the establishment.
“Fine, you didn’t storm out, you walked in a hurried and irritated manner across the premises of the eatery where we had just enjoyed a very pleasant meal. Sound better?”
“Not really, no.”
“Then I can’t help you, dude. I’m out of flowery descriptions at the moment.”
She thought that description was flowery? Creative writing must not have been in her course curriculum. A minute or so passed, as we made our way to the car, before I had the nerve to ask her my question. “Did a lot of people notice?” I gathered the nerve to glance at her.
Layna shot me a small smile. “No more than usual. You’re a noticeable kind of guy. I’m not sure how you remain incognito in plain sight so much.”
Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “It’s easy. Most people know who Touch and Bow are because they are the face of the band to fans. Joker, Ruff, and I sort of fade and blend in with the background.”
“That’s not true. I’m sure y’all are just as much a part of the show as Touch and Bow.”
“We are, but we aren’t front and center like they are.” I could see she didn’t get what I was saying. “Name a band.”
“What?”
“Name a band.”
“Umm, Maroon 5,” she said after a couple of seconds to ponder.
“Really? You had to go there?”
“What?” she asked. “You wanted the name of a band. That was the one I thought of.”
“Fine. They’ll do for this purpose. Who’s the lead singer?”
Layna rolled her eyes. “The deliciously lickable Adam Levine.” It took her a second to realize I was no longer walking beside her. “Come on, I’m just teasing you.”
“Not funny.” I gave her my meanest mock glare, and she laughed. “Name someone else from the band.”
I watched as her eyes ticked back and forth as she tried to come up with a name, but it was obvious she was drawing a blank. “Okay, let’s try another one. How about No Doubt?” She looked like she could be a Gwen Stefani kind of girl.
Gwen Stefani came out of her mouth as soon as I said the band’s name.
“And?” I asked, prodding her to name at least one other band member.
“Uhh, Tony … something-or-the-other,” she said hesitantly.
“Tony Something-or-the-other doesn’t count as a name. But I think I’ve proven my point.” There was a distinct possibility I was a bit smug in my little victory.
However, once we arrived at her car, my smugness didn’t last. Layna retrieved her bag from the trunk, where she had stashed it earlier, and then she sat in the driver’s seat, flipped the visor down, and opened the mirror. The knit hat-thing and the pins were quickly gone. She began brushing her hair, but instead of smoothing it, she made it frizzier, topping it off with a little white lace cap that she pinned in place. Makeup was reapplied and then a red glossy color was added to her lips.
That part complete, she stepped out of the car and unbuttoned … Well, I don’t know how many buttons she unbuttoned on the bottom of the dress because my brain quit working when I caught a glimpse of her thigh framed between the thigh-high stockings and the slit in the dress, and the garter strap laying against her skin. Why thigh-highs and garters affect the male brain so much, I’m not sure, but it has to be a proven fact.
It wasn’t like Layna was standing there with her dress hiked up and her leg sticking out. The moment maybe lasted three seconds, but those three seconds were etched into my mind as if someone had taken a chisel and a hammer and carved them into stone. I was so caught up in reliving them that I didn’t hear Layna talking to me until she asked if I was feeling okay.
“Hmmm,” I said before my mind comprehended what she had asked. “Yeah, I’m fine. Was I supposed to wear a costume or something?”
She laughed. Whether at my question or my expression, I wasn’t sure. “No, the virgins aren’t expected to know what the hell is going on. You just get to sit back and enjoy the show.”
Wait … How could she tell? No, there’s no way she knows. Nobody but Barrett knows that. What the hell kind of show was she taking me to see? Panic must have shown all over my face because Layna’s eyes grew round and she started talking fast. “It’s not that kind of a show. I’m not leading you into Sodom and Gomorra, for goodness’ sake, so just relax and enjoy the madness going on around you. You never know; you might even want to take part.”
My posture relaxed a little as she lifted the strap of the bag to her shoulder and pushed the car door closed. I obediently fell into step beside her. My reservations about this adventure were still firmly in place. By the time we made it to a theater, I had managed to relax somewhat, until I saw the marquee. The Rocky Horror Picture Show glowed red, and my stomach dropped to my feet. I put my hand on Layna’s arm to stop her and she looked over at me. Before she could say anything, I said in an agitated whisper, “I don’t watch horror movies. Ever. Sorry, I can’t go in there.” My hand trembled as I dropped it from her arm.
“It’s okay, Brandon. It’s not that kind of movie. The title is a tongue-in-cheek kind of thing. It’s more of a parody.” She glanced around us then said, “Look around you. Do these people look like they are going to see a scary movie?”
I did as she instructed and surveyed the crowd of people. There were some weird-looking people here. They weren’t scary. Well, they weren’t scary in the horror sense of the word. But some were downright frightening. When I’d said guys loved garters and stockings, I meant on women. After seeing the guy in some sort of corset and barely-there underwear with fishnets and heels, I was pretty sure the thought of garters and stockings would never get me excited again. That thought led me to think about Layna and the glimpse I’d seen earlier, and those fears were put to rest because I was most definitely getting excited, and I needed to bring that shit under control.<
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“Okay. I’m trusting you.” Those words were meant for more than this moment, and I thought Layna understood because of what she said in return.
“Your trust means a lot to me, Brandon.”
The moment had become heavy, and I was desperate to lighten things up, because I didn’t want to think about what I was getting myself into. “So, it’s a movie.”
“It’s an experience,” she corrected me, and by the time we left later on that night, I would agree with her assessment.
We made our way into the theater, which was packed with all kinds of people. There were just as many people in plain street clothes, like me, as there were in elaborate costumes. The crowd was an interesting collection of people. There wasn’t one ‘type’ of person. If I had to pick one word to describe everyone here, I would say eclectic.
During my years as a musician, I’ve seen some strange stuff and some fucking weird shit, but nothing could have prepared me for the spectacle of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. When Layna said it was an experience, she hadn’t been exaggerating. From the moment the opening credits started rolling, it was organized pandemonium. The Cast, as they referred to themselves, took audience participation to a whole new level. Almost everyone in the audience, even the ‘normal-looking’ people, recited the movie. Each time someone in the movie said the dweeb-looking guy’s name, they yelled, “ASSHOLE!” Shit—from rice to toast to toilet paper—was thrown all over the theater. I got sprayed by a water gun. At least, Layna assured me it was harmless water. I hoped she was right.
Layna took part in all of it, and with absolute delight, involved me in every part she could. I had to concede that throwing crap and being loud and rambunctious just for the sake of having fun was liberating. Nobody gave a shit what anybody else was doing because they were all there for the same reason: to enjoy acting silly and crazy in the name of good fun. No need to mention my thoughts about watching Layna perform the hip thrust to some dance called The Time Warp. In all truthfulness, I had no fucking clue what the point of the movie was … Maybe that was the point.
We were still laughing when we walked into Layna’s condo. “I had no idea you were a closet freak,” I told her jokingly.
“There’s nothing in-the-closet about me,” she said with a laugh.
“It was definitely an experience. I’ve performed in front of audiences more times than I can even remember, and there are times when you just feel your audience is with you and you hit this rhythm. It’s … it’s just something you can’t describe in a word. Tonight was kind of like that—you know, with the way everybody was there having a good time. But, I have to confess, I don’t get what the hell was going on in that movie.”
Layna laughed again. “Most people don’t the first few times they watch it, but then somewhere down the line it clicks. Like most things, its meaning is subjective.” She dropped her bag on one of the overstuffed chairs. “Help yourself to something to drink. I’ll be back out in a couple of minutes.”
Taking her advice, I went into the kitchen to get a bottle of water. I had the munchies, so I decided to raid Layna’s pantry. Hey, she’d done the same in my kitchen, so fair was fair. I found some microwave popcorn and decided that would work. I’d tossed the bag in the microwave and started opening cabinets when Layna came into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she sat a couple of bottles, a towel, a hair dryer, and some other odds and ends on the counter by the sink.
“Looking for a bowl for the popcorn, you know, since all you have to do is start opening cabinets until you find it.” I smirked at her over my shoulder.
“Hardy har har. They’re in the next cabinet,” she said as the microwave beeped, signaling the popcorn was ready.
I got the now inflated bag out of the microwave and emptied its steaming contents in the bowl. “What’s up with that stuff?” I asked, pointing to the array of stuff she’d brought with her.
“I need to wash my hair to get the color out of it, and I didn’t want to risk staining the shower with the hair dye. It’s probably sealed, but I didn’t want to chance it. The kitchen sink seemed like a better option since it’s metal.”
I nodded my head as if I understood her reason; hair dye was as foreign to me as a guitar was to her. Layna turned the water on and let it run for a minute or so before she leaned over the sink and used the pull-down nozzle to wet her hair. My eyes were drawn to where her thin cotton shorts had ridden up, exposing a small sliver of skin that was normally concealed. I started counting chords and trying to think of anything to distract me from the all-too-tempting view.
Layna’s right hand began slapping around on the counter until she knocked a bottle over. “Fuck!”
As she moved to raise her head, I said, “Hold on. I’ll grab it.” I walked over to stand beside her at the sink and reached for the bottle that had rolled farther down the counter. My next move caught me as much by surprise as it did Layna. “Here, let me help you.” I’d never washed anyone else’s hair but my own—except for Barrett when we were little kids and used to give each other Mohawks and other crazy hairstyles using shampoo, but I don’t think that counted as being the same as washing Layna’s hair. She looked uncomfortable keeping her arms up to wash her thick hair. That was what I told myself to justify my desire to touch her in some way.
I poured the shampoo into one hand and then rubbed my hands together. The scent of Layna was much stronger, and I took a deep breath before sinking my hands into her hair. It wasn’t what I expected, but I guess it wouldn’t have been since it was wet. But I was touching her … My hands were touching Layna. I made sure to keep my hands gentle and controlled, working her hair through my fingers with a gentle caress. My breathing seemed to be the only sound in the kitchen, or maybe it was all I could hear over the pounding of my heart.
“Harder,” she said, interrupting the moment.
“Huh? I mean, what?” I stumbled over the words as I tried to make sense of what she was saying. I knew what harder meant. I’m not that far behind the times, but that context didn’t fit with an innocent—as far as she knew—hair washing.
“You have to scrub harder, or we’ll be here all night trying to get the color out. You’ll have to rinse and wash it again a couple of times,” she told me.
“Oh, okay. Uhh, let me rinse it then,” I stuttered. Stuttering hadn’t been an issue for me until I met Layna. Around her, it was like my brain had to work twice as hard to get intelligible words out of my mouth.
I used my elbow to push the faucet handle up and nudge it to the warm side. Letting the water run to get warm, I began massaging Layna’s scalp with firm strokes. One thing guitar playing is good for is strong fingers. The moan that escaped her lips went straight to my dick, and once again I was counting chords.
Pulling my hands from her hair, I rinsed them and then began to rinse the shampoo from her hair. Based on the tinted water, I wasn’t sure the color was going to wash out of Layna’s hair, but it did after a couple more cycles of shampoo. As I was working the conditioner through her hair, I asked about the scent.
“It’s apricot. My grandmother taught me how to make it. Back when Strawberry Shortcake was all the rage, I had an Apricot—she was one of Strawberry’s friends. Anyway, I had an Apricot doll. I loved the smell of her. Abuelita made an apricot lotion for me. Once I learned how to make the perfume, for lack of a better word, I began buying unscented shampoo and stuff and added the smell to it. I’ve used it for years. It’s like a comfortable blanket I get to take with me. Why?”
Shit. Why did she have to ask? “All done,” I said as I reached for the towel.
Layna raised her upper body but kept her hair over the sink as she reached for the towel. “Thanks,” she said with a shy smile. And, if I wasn’t mistaken, her breath seemed a little heavier.
Spotting the hair dryer, I thought it would be a good distraction, or she wouldn’t be able to see me at least. I picked the hair dryer up and told her to follow me—we
could dry her hair in the living room. Not wanting to see the knowing look on her face, I left the kitchen and walked over to the couch. Getting down on my knees, I reached under the couch and plugged the hair dryer into the outlet in the floor.
“I had no idea there was a plug under there,” Layna said in surprise from behind me.
Rising up, I said, “There’s one in the same spot in my place, so I figured there was a good chance there was one in here as well.” I pushed the coffee table out of the way and carried one of the ottomans over, positioning it in front of the couch. Patting it, I told Layna, “Have a seat.”
To her credit, or my relief—whichever was more believable—Layna didn’t say anything as she came over and sat on the ottoman.
Once she was seated between my legs, I took a deep breath and began brushing her hair. With each stroke of the brush, our bodies leaned closer to one another. Even though I hated to break the invisible tether that connected us, I sat the brush down and picked up the hair dryer. As I moved the hair dryer over Layna’s hair, my fingers traveled through the silken strands. They began to take on the soft texture I’d imagined when I thought of her hair before.
Unable to draw it out any longer, I turned the blow dryer off and laid it on the couch. Gathering my nerve, I leaned forward and rested my forehead against Layna’s head. The soft curls caressed my face. Slowly, I lowered my head until it rested on her shoulder. My hands clutched my thighs so hard through my jeans I would probably have bruises. But I didn’t care. My only concern was the torrent of feelings that flowed through me. They’d built to such a strength they were impossible to ignore any longer. Having no idea how to approach this situation, I was torn with what to do next.
Layna began to move, causing my head to slip from its resting place and hang there. I didn’t want to watch her move away from me. The first person I’d considered letting get close to me was rejecting me. Layna probably didn’t realize what her movements were doing to me, and I had no plans to tell her. I just needed to get out of here before I lost it.
