That might be true, although he’s never actually said those words. But even if it is true, I have this feeling that someday, the fact that Jamie loves me is going to work against me.
I just don’t know how yet.
“Hell on Heels,” Hell on Heels, Pistol Annies
_______________________
Chapter 9
I am trying not to fall out of the insanely high velvet heels that Tracy gave me for the New Year’s Eve party we’re hosting with Holly as I clean up some overflow from the keg in the kitchen. The shoes are not my only problem—the jeans Tracy lent me make it hard to bend over, and I feel like I shouldn’t go near anything edible or drinkable in her black backless shirt, even though she got it for free and says it doesn’t matter what happens to it.
When I told her the band was playing tonight, she made me promise I’d let her dress me. I said I had to look badass, since it’s our first gig, and she gave me her “duh” look and said she’d take care of it. And she did. Except for the fact that I can’t really breathe—which is bad for a singer—the outfit is perfect.
My mother is in LA with Dirk, and I bet she figured everything would be fine because Peter’s here and technically in charge of me. The thing is, one 20-year-old is no match for 20 teenagers. I guess my mom didn’t think of that. Not that she said anything to me one way or the other about having a party.
Maybe she just wants to put the past behind her and ride off into the sunset with Dirk. Even though I’m part of that past, I can’t really blame her.
Peter is super pissed about the keg that Angelo brought. I can tell he’s uncomfortable—he generally stays away from situations with alcohol. For a while, he tries to keep those of us who are underage from drinking, but then, for once, it actually works to my advantage that he’s dating my best friend. Eventually, Tracy convinces him to let it go—she tells him we can just have everybody sleep over or drive them home. When some of Peter’s old hockey friends show up with non-alcoholic beer, he sets up a poker game in the dining room and stops trying to control everything.
Tracy’s totally sober, in solidarity with Peter, but I won’t be driving anybody anywhere. I’ve had a beer, and now I’m having some of whatever Holly is drinking, which I think is some kind of mixed drink made by Steph, who has no idea what she’s doing but is loving playing bartender at the kitchen counter next to Angelo.
When Robert comes in, Holly shoots me a “What the hell?” look from across the room. I give her my best “I’m sorry, my hands were tied” look, which she returns with her best look of slight suspicion. Hey, she’s the one who taught me that it’s easier to be forgiven later than to get permission upfront, although frankly, I still think that works a lot better for someone who looks like Holly than someone who looks like me.
Anyway, it’s all part of Operation Save Holly, which is what Robert calls the plan that he and I came up with together. When I found out that Cal was going to be home in Aspen for the holidays, we decided this party was the perfect opportunity for Robert to get back in Holly’s good graces. Robert is so grateful for my help, you’d think I’d told him the secret to getting into Juilliard with a full scholarship.
Obviously, I’m over the whole Cal thing, thanks to his low opinion of Jamie, which revealed itself the night we all went to Naples. His hots for Rachel didn’t win him any points in my book either. Bottom line? I think Robert deserves a shot at Holly again, and I now have zero loyalty to Cal, no matter how much Holly likes him. So I am officially Team Robert. I’m just not going to tell Holly that.
Robert gives me a quick nod and then heads for the keg, getting a beer and striking up a conversation with Steph, just like we discussed. He does not make a beeline for Holly, and it does not go unnoticed. One point for Robert.
I head down to the basement where most people are hanging out. Angelo is already DJing down there, bouncing around with giant fuzzy black headphones on. He waves me over and shoves the headphones off his ears.
“Sweater, I got some awesome news. You ready?” His eyes look a little maniacal and he’s tossing his head around as if he’s still got long hair, even though he cut it all off over a year ago. I wonder if maybe I should be nervous. He leans in like he’s about to tell me the secret of the century. “We are playin’ an industry showcase at the Rat & Monkey downtown on Valentine’s Day, and that A&R dude who likes me said he was gonna come!” By the end of the sentence, he forgets that he was trying to be quiet.
The blood in my veins freezes. I’m about to play my first gig right now, and he’s already got music-business people lined up to come see us in 6 weeks?
Angelo holds his hand up for a high-five, and when I go to give it to him, he grabs me off the ground and starts swinging me back and forth like a pendulum. I’m laughing though he’s squeezing me so hard I feel like I might puke beer down his front.
“Okay, you can put me down now.”
He squeezes a little tighter. “You are gonna be playin’ like a freakin’ pro by then, ya hear me? If I have to come over every freakin’ day and make ya practice, that’s what’s gonna happen!”
“Okay! Okay! Put me down! You’re making me seasick!”
“Oh, sorry, Sweater,” he says. He’s stopped swinging me around but he still hasn’t put me down. “I’m excited, ya know?”
“Angelo,” I say.
“Right. Sorry.” He finally puts me down.
“Should we set up?”
“Yeah. Yeah! Let’s freakin’ rock out!”
Angelo lets a playlist take over, and we start setting up. I’m playing rhythm and singing, Angelo’s playing lead or bass depending on the song, and Steph’s backing me up and playing percussion. I’m excited and kind of terrified—I’ve never played for a handpicked group of my closest friends before. I’d rather play for a crowd of 100 people I don’t know than 20 people I do know. Not that I’ve done that yet either. But it sounds like I’m about to, in six weeks.
Am I ready to play an industry showcase?
Do I even know what an industry showcase is?
One gig at a time, I tell myself.
We plug in and start without fanfare, playing two of Angelo’s originals. People like them, but it’s our favorite cover they go crazy for—“Sour Cherry” is an undeniably awesome song, and we are killing it. A mini-mosh pit forms as Peter and his poker guys come down to see what’s happening. Even though he probably feels like he should stop all the drunk minors from throwing themselves into each other and incurring injuries that may or may not need stitches, he’s too into the music to bother. As I sing, I see Holly leading Robert through the crowd to a corner out of the fray where they start dancing by themselves—Operation Save Holly is working.
But the greatest thing of all is Jamie standing in the back, grinning. Jamie’s not a grinner—he’s rarely even a smiler. And he definitely hasn’t been smiling at me much lately because he hasn’t forgiven me for the gallery incident and I’ve been on his ass about taking the GED again, which he says he isn’t doing. But he is definitely grinning right now. I can’t help but kick things up a few notches.
I’m playing Angelo’s electric so hard I’m asking for a string to break. I’m not playing great, but no one cares. When we come back around to the chorus, I keep singing it again and again, and we end up doing a 15-minute version of a 3-minute song. When we’re done, Angelo jumps right back into DJing and the mini-mosh keeps going. I kick off my vicious heels and jump in, and somebody hands me a beer, half of which ends up on the floor before I can even lift it to my mouth. I drink it like I’m dying of thirst as everyone starts counting down—it’s about a minute before midnight. Jamie pulls me out of the pit.
“Hey, Rock Star.”
It is instantly my favorite nickname ever.
He leans in for a kiss. I duck him, grab his hand, and pull him upstairs through the kitchen to the empty living room. I push him back against the wall and kiss him. He’s laughing at me, and I’m laughing, too, and then I grab his ha
nd again and drag him up more stairs, this time to my bedroom. I slam the door shut behind him just as everyone downstairs erupts into cheers at the stroke of midnight.
Jamie and I have never been in my bedroom like this before, not with the door closed and my mother out of town. Without hesitating, I pull my shirt over my head.
“Happy New Year, Jamie.”
He laughs again as I yank his army jacket off, wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. There is no greater feeling in the world than making Jamie Forta laugh.
I start walking backward, pulling him with me until the back of my legs hit the bed, and then I fall, taking him down with me. I can taste whatever it was I tasted in his flask that time—vodka?—but I can’t complain because I’m sure I taste like a sweaty keg. None of that matters though. I want nothing more than to be here right now, in my bra, high from the gig, a little buzzed.
I’m feeling so good, I decide to push my luck.
Jamie’s been keeping things tame between us physically. I get it—I’m younger than he is. But I’m not 14 anymore. I’m ready for more. And if it’s up to me to make it happen, so be it.
We’re lying on our sides, facing each other, kissing. Slowly, hoping he won’t notice until it’s too late, I slide my hand down between us, toward that part of him that I have no idea how to handle, in any sense of the word.
There’s no end to things I don’t know how to do with Jamie Forta. But it’s time to start figuring them out.
Jamie catches my wayward hand. “Where’re you going with this?”
“I want to make you feel good,” I say. “I want to learn how.”
He sighs like I’ve asked him to take me shoe shopping. “Your brother’s downstairs.”
I smile. “I know you’re a man of honor, Jamie, but Peter’s the one who asked you to look out for me freshman year, remember? If he hadn’t done that, none of this would have happened. It’s his fault I fell for you,” I say.
I slip my hand out of his hold.
He hesitates, but I’m gaining ground—I can tell by what I feel when my hand arrives at its destination.
“Jamie,” I whisper. “You think I’m sexy?”
This sounds silly to my ears, like I’m channeling someone I saw in some movie, but whoever she is, she has a lot more confidence than I do, so I’m going to keep saying whatever she wants me to say. Slowly, I move my hand over him like it’s no big deal. He stops me again, and tilts my chin up so I’m looking him in the eyes.
“I’m telling you right now—we’re not having sex.” He says it with such conviction that I’m actually a little offended.
“Jamie, what is going on? Why are you so…” I don’t really know how to ask the question, so I end up saying, “…against us doing stuff?”
“Because you still call it ‘stuff,’” he teases.
“Come on,” I say, feeling my face get red. “You know what I’m asking.”
“We’re gonna take it slow,” he says.
“Yeah, I know. We have been. But I don’t need to.” And then it occurs to me that there are two people involved in this interaction, and one of them is not me. Maybe a little sensitivity is in order. “Um, do you? Need to take it slow?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to start the way I did, that’s all.”
Last spring, after I yelled at Jamie because his ex-girlfriend told me she lost her virginity to him, and then I told him I loved him for the first time—it was not the best moment I could have chosen—Jamie told me the story of how he lost it to a girl at a party when they were both high.
She was 17. He was 13.
First I asked him if it was legal. Then I asked him if he liked it.
He said there was nothing to like, which pretty much broke my heart.
“Jamie. I’m not 13.” I try to get my hand back. “Just this. Just let me do this,” I whisper.
He’s still holding on, but I have one more move left. I learned last spring that there are three words that completely shatter Jamie’s defenses. The mistake I made the first time I used them was letting him put physical distance between us.
I’m not going to make that mistake again.
I’m looking right at him when I say, “I love you.”
His breathing stops. He’s trying to read my eyes, to see if I’m bullshitting him, like he can’t believe someone could love him. But I’ve spent far too much time wrapped up in the idea of Jamie being misunderstood and mistreated, and I refuse to be distracted by the fact that I think it’s desperately sad that he doesn’t believe what I’m telling him. I do love him…and I’m going to show him.
He lets go of me, running a hand through his hair. I’ve succeeded in making it hard for him to think straight. I kiss him without waiting for a reply. I know he’s not going to stop me now—I can feel it. I touch him for real this time, no holding back. Knowing I caused this—I made him desire me—is a total rush.
There are a thousand things I want to say but I’m not going to risk breaking the spell. I move my hand up and down over the taut fabric of his jeans, trying to gauge the success of what I’m doing by the way he’s kissing me. After a minute, he pushes against the pressure of my hand, inhaling sharply.
“Is this…okay? Is it right?” I ask.
He answers by kissing me with a ferocity that would be intimidating except for the fact that I have never felt more powerful in my entire life.
I go for his zipper with my free hand, but he grabs my wrist. “One thing at a time.” His voice is low, rough.
“I just want—”
“I know,” he says. “You are—it feels good.”
“Will you—will it work like this?”
He gazes down at me, gold sparking in his eyes. “Do you mean, will I come?”
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m out of my league but I fight to stay in the game—I can’t give up now. I look him in the eyes. I’m so breathless when I answer him, my voice is barely a whisper. “Yes.”
“Then ask me that.”
Never—not once—in my fantasies of being with Jamie did I imagine he would talk to me this way. There’s a challenge in his words, and I know exactly what it is. If I want to play in this arena—against his better judgment—then I better prove that I can walk the walk and talk the talk.
Fair enough. Game on.
I take a deep breath. “Jamie,” I whisper, “if I keep doing what I’m doing, will you come?”
Jackpot.
His eyes close and his hand comes down on mine, pushing fast and hard, and then he’s still, barely moving at all. His breath comes in gasps. And his face. His handsome face is luminous and raw.
It is, on the whole, without a doubt, the most staggeringly beautiful sight I have witnessed in sixteen years of life.
A minute passes, and he’s so still that I think he might have fallen asleep. But then he opens his eyes and cracks a half-smile.
“What?” I ask, breathless.
“You should see your face right now.”
“That was awesome. Can we do it again?” I say to make him laugh.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. We lie there together for a minute, listening to the sounds of the party downstairs, before he says, “Now it’s your turn.”
My stomach drops out. I hadn’t thought this through to its logical conclusion, which was that he would want to reciprocate—he’s that kind of guy. As his hand slides over my bra and down my stomach toward my jeans, I know I’m not ready. I wish I were, or that I could pretend I were. But I’m not, and I can’t.
“I can’t…yet,” I whisper, embarrassed. His hand stops at my waist. I look in his eyes and I can see he already knew I wasn’t ready—he just wanted me to be a grownup and say it.
It pisses me off that he’s testing me.
“I’m glad we did what we did. I loved it.” I can hear the defiance in my voice, and he gives me that amused smile—he’s heard defiance from me before. It annoys me—I feel like he’s not taki
ng me seriously. So I pull out my trump card again just to even the score. “I do love you. You think I’m bullshitting but I’m not.”
It makes him uncomfortable to hear those words again, but he doesn’t look away. “I know you’re not, Rock Star.”
I still love that nickname as much as I did half an hour ago—getting a new nickname is the ultimate way to start a new year. He pushes a strand of my hair off my face and gives me a gentle kiss before he gets up and puts on his army jacket, zipping it up to cover the stain on his jeans that doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. Then he offers me his hand. “Let’s go back downstairs.”
The night has been so close to perfect that I don’t ask him why he can’t say it back to me.
*
I stand in the kitchen against the sink, the delicious buzz racing through my veins not just about the alcohol. I can’t believe what happened. What I made happen. I feel like I got away with something.
I might be the only girl in history who has to convince her straight boyfriend to let her touch him like that. He has a point, though—I’m ready to do some things and not others, and I better know the difference or things could get very messed up. That’s the last thing I want, seeing as how, for the first time in more than two years, things are not very messed up between us.
I watch Robert talking to a group of people, standing as close to Holly as he can get away with. He’s in full-on Robert mode, making everyone laugh, including her. Robert’s fun in a way that Cal isn’t, and Holly knows it. He also loves her in a way that Cal never will, and I think she knows that, too.
I catch Robert’s eye and grin.
Then I turn and look out the window into the yard, where Jamie and Angelo stand in the cold so Angelo can have a cigarette. Angelo knows smoking is going to kill his voice, but he says he doesn’t care—he likes voices with gravel, like Tom Waits. Just like I like the dirt in Alison Mosshart’s voice—The Kills wouldn’t be half the band it is without that dirt.
Maybe I should take up smoking.
I watch as Jamie jams his hands into the pockets of his old army jacket, his breath hovering around his head like a halo. Already, what happened between us wasn’t enough. I want more. More, more, more.
No More Confessions Page 8
