by Jean Haus
I need to get over my attraction, and quick.
Working hard at keeping myself together, I have gotten resilient, even tough, over the last few years. So I’m thinking this Gabe thing will take a little time, but I will get over it. In fact, getting over a silly infatuation will be one of the lesser challenges I’ve had to deal with.
A knock sounds at the door.
My hands pause lifting the sandwich.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
A louder knock sounds.
Maybe it’s Riley, drunk and upset I left her party.
I set the sandwich on a paper towel as a third set of knocks clatter on the door.
Of course, it’s Gabe.
“This is getting a little weird,” I say, my hand on my hip, though I am elated—like idiotically giddy inside—that he left rocker chick to see me. The feeling of elation is not good, and so not a way to get a handle on my growing infatuation.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have run off,” he says, stepping forward, which forces me to step to the side and let him inside my apartment.
“Well, why don’t you come in?” I shut the door just short of a slam.
“Huh,” he says, moving farther into the main room and looking over the apartment. “I expected something more swanky.”
Behind him, I roll my eyes. Half of my furniture, like the loveseat and coffee table, is cast off items from my mother that were in our basement. The other half, like the end tables and TV stand, came from Walmart. “I don’t need swanky. I need some where to sit and eat.”
He passes the kitchen counter, glancing over the note cards organized in order for my power point presentation on Wednesday, and swipes the half-eaten sandwich from the paper towel. He takes a bite and continues onto the bookshelves behind the couch, his lean body graceful with his precise movements. And I’m suddenly fully aware of his body. Though lean, he’s all muscle, wide shoulders, and a slim waist. I need to fix my eyeballs. They never notice this kind of stuff. But they’re noticing him. Big time.
Munching on my sandwich, he peruses through the different academic titles. Bending over, he begins to read titles. “General Psychology, Adolescent Psychology, Behavioral Psychology, The Psychology of Addiction…” He stands and glances at me, his eyes twinkling with sarcasm. “I’m getting psyched out just reading the titles.”
“Ha, ha,” I retort, keeping my eyes on his face since I seem to be way too aware of his body. “Understanding people and their motives takes a lot of knowledge.”
“Yeah,” he says in a patronizing tone. “Humans can be wrapped up in the pages of books.”
My gaze becomes a glare. “We’re taught to take environment and circumstances into account also.”
“Well then, aren’t you Little-Miss-Figure-everyone-out.” He pops the last bit of sandwich in his mouth and moves toward the hallway, his jean clad sexy butt defined with every step.
Trying to ignore the shape of his backside and not interested in his views on phycology while more interested, as in fearing, the direction of his roaming curiosity, I snap at him, “Ever heard of privacy?”
He pauses reaching for the bathroom light. “Privacy?” he repeats, flicking on the light. “Hmm…don’t think I have ever heard of it.”
My glare boils simmered rage at him. He gives the bathroom a quick glance, then heads to the bedroom. Part of me is quite upset at his intrusion. Another part of me is ecstatic, wondering why he’s interested in my apartment. But really, my bedroom is off limits.
“All right, this is getting ridiculous,” I say, following him. “You need to go back to the party.”
He stops just outside of my bedroom, turning part way toward me, his profile sharp with a devilish grin. “You hiding something?” His brows slant in suspicion. “Just what am I going to find? Dirty mags? Sex toys? A half written poem about me?”
“Oh, shut up,” I say, then let a laugh out that I can’t contain at the thought of writing a poem about him.
He flicks on the bedroom light.
My laughter dies. There’s only one thing that I don’t want him to see.
Gabe steps into the room, scanning the space. “Hmmm…unmade bed. Dresser covered with stacks of clothes and other miscellaneous crap. Dirty clothes on floor. Books piled haphazardly on the night stand…”
Jaw tight, I stand in the doorway.
He turns to me, eyes wide with obvious fake shock. “Why, April, you’re a slob.”
“Yup,” I agree. “You’ve found my secret out. Now, if you’re done invading my privacy…” I sweep an arm toward the living room and the front door.
He studies me in contemplation before he turns back to the room.
Dammit.
His gaze stops at the far corner.
Damn. Damn. Dammit. That’s exactly what I didn’t want him to notice.
“What is that?” He marches over to the corner.
“It was my father’s,” I say in the most offhand tone I can muster. “He gave it to me years ago.”
Gabe grabs the guitar case and sets it on the bed. “He plays?”
The case free from its corer fills my vision even more than Gabe. “Um, yeah, he used to be in a band.”
“Like a bar band?” Gabe flicks a clasp open.
The click of the clasps releasing echoes in the room like a gun blast to my ears as a constricted knot forming in my chest stops me from answering him. He lifts the lid, and the wonder in his expression has me picturing what he sees below.
I recall the smooth, pale, blonde wood. The dark, glossy neck inlaid with mother of pearl. The lovely Brazilian wood sides. And the sharp, tight strings. It’s easy to imagine since I periodically dream of playing the instrument.
“What the hell?” he mutters, reaching inside the case. “Your dad gave you this? To gather dust in the corner of your bedroom?”
At the sight of the guitar—the gleaming beauty of it—I swallow. The air joins the knot in my chest. I haven’t laid eyes on the instrument in over three years. Leaving it in the case in the corner without taking it out or touching it had been a small victory. Now my palms sweat with the desire to hold it and my fingers itch to play it. I want to fall to my knees and beg him to give me the guitar, even though my fingers can’t perform the magic they once did.
Gabe studies the guitar, his expression full of wonder. “I actually know what this is. McPherson guitars have this hole to the side.”
I finally find my voice. “Yeah, I think that’s what my dad said it was.”
His face perplexed, he studies me like he did the guitar. My stiff stance. My hands clenched in fists at my sides. My strained features.
I put my hands behind my back before blurting out, “My dad used to be in an eighties hair band.” I lean on the doorframe for support. “They had a few songs that made it into the top one hundred. I think the highest they charted was just in the top forty. But it opened other doors for him. He went on to write music for other people and produce stuff too,” I say, keeping the facts vague. I don’t tell people about my semi famous father or the super famous people he is connected to. I don’t like the weird attention it brings. This time it explains—to somewhat of a degree—why I’d have such a guitar sitting in the corner of my bedroom.
Gabe’s gaze turns thoughtful. “What was the name of his band?”
“Hanged Man.”
“Hanged Man,” he repeats slowly, then shakes his head. “Never heard of them.”
I shrug, keeping my attention on him instead of the guitar. “Like I said, they weren’t very big.”
“Hmm,” is his only response as he studies the guitar in his hands. He adjusts its position, raising a knee and placing his fingers on the neck.
“Please don’t mess—”
Standing there like a rock god come to life, he strums. The clear, sweet notes fill the room, beckoning me toward the instrument. He obviously does know a few cords at least. During the second strum, he watches me.
Even with my clenched h
ands behind my back, my body language is pure tense. “Why did you come over?” I snap, then add, “To torment me?”
His brows rise. “Whoa. I didn’t know this equated to torment.”
I’m about to start shaking. I want the guitar. I want him. I don’t want him touching the guitar. Except for my father, no one has ever played it but me. Before I lose it, as in have a ridiculous tantrum, I force myself to calmly say, “It’s just that my dad gave the guitar to me, and I may be a bit over protective of it.”
“All right,” he says, studying me. Again. Then while I hold my breath, he puts the guitar in the case, snaps it shut, and sets it back in the corner. I’m enjoying breathing when he asks, “Better?”
I nod, though my body is still wound too tight.
He steps toward me, a sly smile on those lips. “I did come over for something specific.”
My heart starts pounding as he gets nearer. With the guitar away, all I can see is him. His hard profile. His muscled arms and shoulders. His full upper lip. “You did?” I squeak out.
“Oh, yeah.” He comes closer, his gaze suddenly intense. “I wanted…”
I tip my chin in question while my entire body hums at his nearness. “You wanted?” I practically breathe the words instead of saying them while my body hums like an electrical tower at his nearness.
Those brown eyes somehow smile at me. “I wanted to see how your piercing is doing.”
“My piercing?” I repeat caught in the mirth of his gaze.
He nods, and now his mouth smiles.
Oh, he has the prettiest mouth! I think before understanding what he is asking. Part of me, the newly awakened hormonal part, is hyperventilating at his obvious flirting. The other part, the part of me with a brain, realizes I need to get control of myself and the situation. I sweep my arm toward the living room again. “Not going to happen, so…”
He crosses his arms. “Not leaving until I perform a full inspection.”
“What is this? Invade April’s privacy night?” I say, my voice rising with each word.
The arms across his chest tighten and bunch. “I could be gone in the next thirty seconds.”
I glare at him.
He grins back.
“Is that thirty seconds a promise?”
“Yup.”
“Fine.” I yank my shirt up, planning to drop it as quick, but I’m not expecting Gabe to fall to his knees and fold his hands over mine. His palms on my hipbones are hot. His thumbs on each side of my belly button are scalding. The intensity of his gaze is an inferno. As he brushes his thumbs along my skin, tracing the shape of my belly button, my knees tremble.
His attention is locked on my stomach, on the little silver note hanging over the center of my belly button. “It looks good, real good,” he says in a hoarse tone. His thumbs keep circling. My knees keep trembling.
What the heck is he doing?
Then while my body is turning into a puddle of goo and my hands are shaking with the desire to wrap in his hair, he bends forward and places his open mouth on me, right around the piercing.
I fight to keep a moan from escaping. When his tongue touches the dangling note and my skin, I lose the fight, and a long whiney breath of air escapes me.
He leans back, rolling into a squat. With the rise of his dark lashes, russet eyes meet mine. “I think that makes us even,” he says in a light tone, and though it’s his usual flippant tone paired with a grin, his expression is taut to the point that it looks as if he’s in pain.
As I stand there frozen in desire and distress, he releases my shirt and bounces up. “Guess I gotta go if I’m going to keep that thirty second promise.” He stiffly moves past me and into the living room. “See you Tuesday,” he calls before exiting out of the apartment.
At the sound of the door shutting, I plop on my bedroom floor.
The tingling rush of yearning he evoked slowly dissipates and I can think again.
Well sort of.
What the heck just happened? The tingle that lingers a bit has me ridiculously hoping that Gabe was seriously flirting. My brain tells me he had been teaching me a lesson, getting me back for my behavior in the rain. Yet the rush of emotions he brought out leaves me confused and hopeful while embarrassed and fearful.
I brush a hand over my slightly quivering stomach.
One thing is for sure. My body wants him.
It wants him real bad.
Chapter 14
~April~
In one eight-hour shift, the average number of calls we get working the suicide hot line is three. Three people too many. Three people alone in the dark. Three people that are on the brink of giving up. One call can last hours. The longer the better. We offer words of encouragement and understanding, but mostly we simply listen.
Romeo and I trained together over three years ago, and we’ve worked a lot of Sundays together. Yet, he was gone for half of the summer on tour, so I worked with a variety of other people, mostly teenagers and college students. The hotline prefers teenagers and young adults because those ages are the highest bracket for suicides. Rachel’s suicide brought me here. Romeo’s own past demons brought him.
Since there are usually long lulls between calls, we were kind of destined to become friends. Over the last three years, we have talked about everything from music to Riley to classes. And although he didn’t admit it right away, he knew who I am, as in who my father is, from the moment we sat in the first class.
A fan and student of guitar, he had read several articles and interviews over the years in various guitar magazines about my dad, and he’d even read that one. During my sixteenth summer, Guitar Page had done a five page story on my dad. I’d been at the house, so they not only asked questions about me, but included me in some of the photos. Once Romeo finally admitted he knew who I was—even though my mother changed my last name to Tanner, so it matched hers and my stepfather’s—he agreed to keep mum about my father. And he has kept that promise. Riley doesn’t even know my connection to music.
Yet, while Romeo and I are close, I’ve kept my perfection mask pretty much in place around him since we met. Perhaps that’s why we never connected when we tried dating for a couple of months. But we’ve stayed friends, good friends actually.
Its mid-afternoon and we sit in a tiny room with two desks facing each other and two phones across from each other. He pushes a pile of mini candies onto my desk. I always bring the sandwiches, veggies, and dip. He brings the chocolate.
“So,” he says, plucking a mini peanut butter cup from the pile. “I was leaving Sam’s last night, practically dragging my buzzed up girlfriend to the car, when I noticed what looked like Gabe leaving your apartment.”
He says it all nonchalant like, but it’s as if he’s dropping a bomb. Only I would be so lucky that they would both leave at the same time.
“Well, it was Gabe.” I lean back in my chair, playing nonchalant too, though I do try to be as honest as possible around Romeo.
He pauses unwrapping the chocolate, shock lining his face. “You think that’s a good idea? Hooking up with Gabe?”
I pluck a mini candy bar from the pile. “It’s not what you’re assuming. We’re not hooking up. We’re just friends.” I tap the chocolate on the desk. “It kind of started the night of your label party when Riley pushed us together, so blame it on her.”
“Huh?” he says, continuing to appear skeptical as he chews. “You and Gabe friends?”
I shrug. “You know the saying, opposites attract.”
“Exactly. Gabe has come a long way since joining the band, both in attitude and drumming, but he is too messed up for you.”
I drop the candy bar. “Are you implying that he’s not good enough for me?” My tone drips with incredulity.
Romeo’s dark eyes widen. “No. Of course not. It’s just that you’re you and he’s him.”
My brows rise.
“You have a four point, a planned future, an organized life, and rarely date. He goes through girl
friends by the month—by the day on tour—he works as a part time mechanic, and is on probation for assault and battery times two. It’s not a question of good enough. He is just screwed up.”
“Wow. You make me sound like the biggest bore on the planet. And people do make mistakes.”
“You’re mature. He’s getting there, but it might take years.”
“Again boring. And there are reasons for Gabe’s mistakes. Perhaps not excuses but reasons. And we really are just friends.”
He watches me as if judging my words and tone. “Just be careful. You may be more mature but he’s jaded.”
“All right then.” I roll my eyes. “And you may be more business savvy, but Riley has more soul.”
“No shit. Why do you think I’m with her?” He plucks another piece of candy from the pile. “I’m more boring than you.”
“And stubborn.”
“And talented.”
“Pfft.”
“Prove it then. Join Riley’s band.” His stare challenges me.
Oh, not this again. He has been trying to talk me in to playing guitar for Riley’s band from the moment she began forming it. “Not going to happen.”
“Not going to give up.”
“Wasting your time,” I say, unwrapping a piece of candy.
“Then I am the most talented.”
“Pfft.” I pop the chocolate in my mouth.
He shakes his head. “You may not be at my level”—he smirks—“but you’ve got to be better than what she has currently got.”
I give him a narrowed look as I finish chewing. “If I ever removed that thing out of its case, it wouldn’t be Luminescent Juliet. It would be Luminescent April.”
He laughs. “That name suck—”
The phone rings and we instantly stop harassing each other.
Since it’s his rotation, he picks up the phone and I begin filling in the log. Though I listen to his side of the conversation, we’re just friends faintly echoes in my head, and strangely that echo saddens me.
