Sweet Thing

by JA Huss

  I follow him in and find eight people sitting around a large mahogany table. Garcia pans his hand at the empty chair at the bottom of the table and then walks the length of the room to stand in front of his seat at the top.

  “Everyone,” he says. “This is Mr. North. The drummer.”

  And the way he says ‘drummer’ indicates one of two things. One. He doesn’t believe I’m a drummer. I’m just some rich asshole from uptown trying to take over his hood. Or two. I am a drummer and drummers are not welcome here.

  Which… I can see his point. Because drums are loud and obnoxious. Not calming and beautiful like the violin. They belong in garages, and bars, and the backs of vans. Not in this apparently highly sophisticated artists’ community.

  But I’m prepared for that. I’ve already come up with a solution.

  He goes around the table introducing people. Mrs. Chi, Mr. Stratkowski, Miss Lynst, etc. etc. etc. until he ends up at Miss Amherst.

  Amherst. As in the people who own the building. As in the spoiled little photographer who needed a trendy place to create.

  Normally I’d internally roll my eyes at that, but Miss Amherst is very sexy.

  She’s wearing a tight, white button-down shirt that gives the impression it’s made for a man, but has darts and tucks in all the right places so her ample breasts are stretching the buttons just enough. Not enough so I can get a peek at her bra, but just enough to hint that one tug and all those buttons will come flying off to reveal something truly spectacular.

  Her hair is dark red. Not ginger. Not auburn. But burgundy. She’s got it up in a tight bun that makes me think she’d look good in that ballerina’s leotard and tutu just down the hall.

  And she’s young. In college, probably.

  Which is kinda my thing. Ever since I left my twenties behind—far behind now—I’ve been drawn to the young ones. Not something I’m particularly proud of, just something I’ve come to accept about myself.

  I nod hello and force myself not to stare at Miss Amherst. Pointedly turning my attention back to Garcia as he begins to talk and ask me questions about why I’d like to buy into the Creative Co-Op.

  I answer dutifully. I’ve prepared a statement and I’m a natural speaker so I don’t need notes or anything. Just ramble on about how I lost my creativity during freshman year of college and became interested in business and blah, blah, blah, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

  All the while I’m secretly gawking at Miss Amherst out of the corner of my eye, wondering what color her bra is.

  CHAPTER THREE - ARIA

  “OK,” Mr. Garcia says. “Thank you for that, Mr. North.”

  I like Mr. Garcia so far. He’s a painter and he’s always drinking beer in his little studio. Even during the day. April talks about him all the time like they are best friends. Actually, everyone here has been really cool about me taking over April’s studio for a month to work on my Photoshop skills. They are encouraging and upbeat. Always telling me that I should stay away from my father’s banking business and do something fun with my life. Like April is.

  It’s just… I’m not that girl.

  I’m just not into fun.

  No, that’s not true. And it’s kinda stupid. Everyone is into fun. It’s just that all my acquaintances are like me. Quiet, studious, and Saturday nights are mostly about chatting online or gramming ourselves to make people think we’re having fun.

  I’m not daring, like April. I’m not outgoing or bold.

  I’m actually pretty shy. And the way Mr. North is looking at me has my neck all sweaty and my skin all prickly.

  The white shirt was a mistake. I knew it was too tight. I’m a size bigger than April in the bra department so my buttons are stretched.

  He noticed that. I saw him looking at them.

  And even though he was making eye contact with everyone but me, he was looking at me all covertly.

  Jesus, Aria. You’re imagining things. What the hell would a successful businessman like North see in a stupid high-school girl like you?

  Get a grip.

  “To be honest, Mr. North,” Mrs. Chi says, “we’re worried about the noise.”

  I already know that half the board thinks allowing North to buy a space is a bad idea. He’s a developer, I’ve learned. Trying to gentrify the neighborhood by buying up properties on the cheap so he can renovate and sell at a premium.

  “I have a solution for that,” North says, making eye contact with everyone but me. “I’ll only play at night. Say, nine PM to”—he shrugs—“two AM? That way I won’t bother anyone during the day.”

  “We wouldn’t want to restrict you like that,” Mr. Garcia says. “It’s not fair.”

  “Oh, it’s no big deal,” North says. “I work during the day. And I barely sleep. I get up at five AM every morning even though I don’t have to be at work until nine. I figure staying up late pounding on the kit will help me develop better sleep habits. Tire me out, so to speak.”

  And then he does look at me. And is that a wink?

  Mr. Garcia smiles his tight smile that says, I’m not convinced. But Mrs. Chi says, “If you’ll excuse us now, we’ll take a vote and let you know.”

  “Can I wait?” North asks. “I’d prefer to know before I leave, if that’s OK.”

  “You may,” Mrs. Chi says.

  North stands up, thanking everyone politely, and then buttons his suit coat as he walks out.

  Damn. The man is hot. Like, he’s seriously old. Probably over thirty, but he’s still very hot. His hair is kinda wild, for one thing. And he reached for a glass of water while everyone was talking and I think I glimpsed a tattoo under his shirt cuff.

  Maybe he really is a drummer? Like some weird hybrid land developer by day and rock star at night?

  “All those in favor?” Mr. Garcia is asking, not even pretending he’s interested in having more debate. These people have really made up their mind, I guess.

  Sucks to be you, Mr. Hot Drummer. They hate the idea.

  When I look around I see that four of the board members have their hands up indicating yes. We should let him in. And four, including me, have hands on the table.

  But just as Garcia opens his mouth to declare the motion denied, I raise my hand.

  I don't know why I do it. April didn’t have an opinion one way or the other. She barely mentioned tonight’s agenda to me.

  But that tattoo under his shirt cuff.

  So sexy.

  “Miss Amherst?” Mr. Garcia questions my decision. “Are you sure?”

  I swallow hard and nod. “Yes. April told me to vote yes.”

  Lies, Aria. Nice start to your new life as an adult.

  “Very well, then.” Mr. Garcia sighs. “Motion to accept Mr. North’s application has been accepted.”

  Everyone stands up, bustling around and gathering up papers. Mr. Garcia comes over to me as several of the yes voters exit, probably eager to talk to the sexy Mr. North and let him know the good news. “I’m very surprised that April told you to vote yes, Aria.”

  “Oh?” I say, my face heating up with embarrassment over my lie.

  “I talked to her this morning and she said she had no opinion on the matter.”

  “Yes, well… she kinda said it on her way out this afternoon. Spur-of-the-moment reconsideration, maybe?” I smile.

  Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush.

  I blush.

  “It’s OK,” Mr. Garcia says, patting my arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset,” I say, feeling the heat on my cheeks.

  “It’s very sweet,” he says.

  “What is?” I ask.

  “You’re so young and innocent. But a breath of fresh air too. I will let Mr. North know you were the deciding vote.”

  I grab his arm to stop him, but he slips out of reach and heads for the door.

  I follow, anxious that he will be talking about me to that hot, sexy, old guy with peekaboo tattoos under his expensive shirt cu
ff.

  But I don’t follow him out of the board room, just kind of hide behind the door frame. Which really doesn’t hide me, because well, everything in this place is glass. So I only look stupid when Mr. Garcia goes up to North and shakes his hand, then points to me hiding behind nothing.

  My face goes completely hot and my natural shyness takes over as I try to pretend that this sliver of steel door frame can actually hide my whole body if I look directly at it with my eyes so I can’t see them.

  I just stand there, shaking my head at my own childish stupidity.

  “Thank you,” North’s rough, deep voice says.

  I peek out from behind the frame and say, “What? Oh. No. Well… I didn’t see you there.” And then, because that was a disastrous incoherent babbling first impression, “Hey, no problem. I like drummers. We should all aspire to drum ourselves to sleep at night.”

  For fuck’s sake, Aria.

  He laughs. And, oh, wow, that laugh. Deep and rumbly. So much bass.

  Then he touches me on the forearm, then pulls back quickly, like that was inappropriate, and I notice everyone else from the meeting is now pushing their way out of the front door.

  I quickly glance around to find all the offices empty, and all the lights off except for the ballet dancer Jenna, who is frantically leaping and pirouetting or whatever the hell she’s doing as classical music leaks out from behind her glass walls.

  I’m practically alone with him.

  “You do, huh?”

  “What?” What did I say? I don’t remember.

  “Like drummers?” he helps.

  “Oh, well… sure. Doesn’t everyone?”

  “No.” He laughs. “No. I’d say our likability is right up there with tuba players.”

  “Tuba players.” I almost snort. “That’s funny. Every mother’s nightmare, right?”

  “Yes,” he says, nodding his head. Smiling at me. And not the way he was smiling at everyone else, either. But the way he might smile at April.

  “So you’re Miss Amherst?” he says. “Owner’s daughter.”

  “Yes, that’s me. Miss Aria Amherst.”

  “Which studio is yours?” he asks.

  “Oh, it’s not—“ But I stop. Because I realize he knows who I am, but yet he doesn’t. He thinks I’m April. “It’s… not anything special. Just that cube down there. Third on the left. And yours is…” I find the empty one. “There. Three down and on the opposite side from… mine.”

  Mine.

  “Miss Amherst,” he says, leaning his head down a little down as he inches closer to me. “Would you like to have a drink with me?”

  “No,” I say. Which makes him laugh. “I mean, no. I mean… no, but…” Jesus. I am so high-school right now. And he thinks I’m April. He thinks I’m some burgeoning photographer who needs a studio and is old enough to drink. Hell, old enough to be talking to him.

  “No, but?” he prods. “You’ll take a raincheck? Or you’d like to have a coffee instead? Or—“

  “Yes,” I say, brightening at his clever new offer. “Coffee! I can drink coffee.”

  He laughs again. “OK. Then coffee it is. What’s good around here?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Aria.” He laughs. “You’re killing me. This neighborhood is amazing. They have lots of great coffee shops.”

  True. But they also know me. I come around here all the time with my family. And being seen alone with this man on a Friday night is just… hard nope.

  “I mean, I’m tired of the Gingerbread, ya know? I live here”—God, saying that feels fantastic—“and work here, and you know, I like going other places.”

  “You live around here?” he asks.

  “Mmm-hmm. Yup. Just about two blocks over.”

  He touches my face. Kinda caressing my cheek with the back of his knuckles. And suddenly I’m overwhelmed with feelings I’ve never felt before. Swoony feelings, and hot feelings, and throbby feelings.

  “We could go there,” he offers.

  And then I make a mistake. A very big mistake. I look up into his eyes and die a little. Die with the fantasy of taking a man—an older man. A much older man. Dressed up in a suit with a tie and actual cufflinks hiding peekaboo tattoos, and a drum set, or kit, or whatever you call it, waiting to be moved in to a cube down the hall from me to lead a secret drummer life at night, and—“OK,” comes out of my mouth.

  “OK,” he says. “Lead on.”

  CHAPTER FOUR - RYKER

  She chats as we walk through the neighborhood. In fact, she never stops talking so I don’t have to say anything. She rattles off facts about the various restaurants and shops, telling me what’s good, or who sells what as we pass by. And I just get to look down at her small, petite body dressed up in that outfit that was clearly put together to drive men crazy.

  When she stood up from the table and I realized she was wearing a black mini skirt with red sneakers—I chuckle as I look down at her feet—I wanted to bend her over the table in front of the entire board and take her from behind.

  She is that fucking cute. Just plain adorable.

  And she was the deciding vote. Garcia said it was close and if Miss Amherst hadn’t have voted yes, I would’ve been denied. So I should tell her thank you.

  And oh, I plan on it. I plan on thanking her very much.

  Then the way she teased me as she stood in the doorway. Peeking out at me like she was some sexy little secret I needed to figure out.

  She won’t have a drink with me, and she won’t go for coffee in public, but she’ll take me back to her place.

  Aria Amherst, you are a dream come true. The perfect one-night—

  Oh, shit.

  I can’t one-night-stand this girl! I have to see her—

  No. Hold up. I do not have to see her. I won’t see her at all. I won’t see anyone, that was the whole point of offering up night hours only in the co-op.

  So… maybe I can one-night-stand this sweet little thing.

  “OK, well, here we are,” she says, stopping in front of her place. It’s a three-story Victorian that has been clearly refurbished in the past few years. “I’m on top.”

  I chuckle at her innuendo.

  “Oh.” She blushes. “No,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face. “I mean, top floor.”

  “Your mind is in the gutter this evening, Miss Amherst.”

  “Really.” She blushes again.

  It’s so cute I can’t take it. I take her hand, walk her up to the porch, and say, “Take me upstairs.”

  “Right,” she says, pulling her hand out of mine so she can fish for her keys inside a little purse on a long strap. She finds them, unlocks the door, and waves me in.

  “Oh, no. After you, sweet thing.”

  She exhales, a short burst of breath that lets me know she liked the term of endearment, and then begins walking up the stairs. Shooting me a nervous look over her shoulder every few steps as I try my best to hide the fact that I’m totally looking up her skirt at her creamy thighs and pink underwear.

  CHAPTER FIVE - ARIA

  It occurs to me, when I get to the top of the stairs, that he might think this was an invitation for something other than coffee at my place.

  Then I think, Aria, you are so stupid.

  Of course he does! He’s like forty or something! This man has probably been going home with women as long as I’ve been alive!

  So then I get nervous and I can’t find my key. I fumble with them. Then when I do have the right key, I can’t seem to get it in the lock. And then when I do get it in the lock, the doorknob won’t turn because this door is old, and weird, and—

  “Here,” he says, pushing his body close to mine. “Let me help you.”

  I back away, bumping into his chest as he reaches past me, brushing his arm against mine, and turns the handle to swing the door open.

  I take a deep breath and hold it. Then walk forward so he can’t hear me exhale, flick on the lights, and say, with all t
he control I can muster up, “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” he says, closing the door behind him.

  I set my purse and keys down on the small dining room table and turn to look at him. What the hell am I doing in my sister’s apartment alone with this man? One day. I’ve been here one day and—

  Felix meows, rubbing his body up against my legs. I bend down to pet him to take my mind off the fact that this guy now thinks I’ve invited him over for sex.

  “So…” North says. “This is nice. How long have you lived here?”

  “Um… four and half years,” I say. Because that’s how long April has lived here.

  “Really?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “How old are you?”

  “Me?” I laugh nervously. “I’m twenty-five, why?”

  He shakes his head. “No way.”

  “What do you mean, no way? I am. People always think I’m younger and I get carded all the time. I hate it.” April says this kind of stuff because she has a young look to her as well. So I’m just… channeling my older sister, I guess. When in Rome, you Rome.

  Or something.

  “You are so sweet, Aria. I swear to God, when you hit thirty you’re gonna thank the gods for blessing you with youth.”

  I smile. Because that was nice. And if I really was twenty-five I’d probably want to hear something like that to make myself feel better about being old.

  Especially coming out of this handsome man’s mouth.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “How old do you think?”

  “Mmmm… forty?”

  “Forty?” He laughs.

  “I mean, I can tell you’re over thirty, but… I dunno. Everyone looks the same to me after that.”

  “What?” He chuckles again. “You’re killing me, Aria.”

  He walks forward, closing the distance between us, but I whirl around and walk into the kitchen. He follows me halfway, leaning against the half wall that separates us.

  “So… coffee?” I ask. Then I squint at the old-fashioned coffee maker April uses. Oops. I forgot. She has one of those French presses. Which I don’t know how to use because we have a real coffee maker at home that just requires you put a cup under the spout.