by BK Rivers
“I would really like to take you out to dinner. Will you go with me to Flancers?”
I haven’t been to Flancers in years—it used to be our favorite place to go in high school when we wanted to feel like we were being fancy. It’s really nothing more than a chain steakhouse, but the memories it conjures up are too much. I’m flooded with them, so much so that I brace myself on the edge of my desk in order to remain on my feet.
Could I go with him to Flancers? If I’m losing my footing based solely on memories, what would it be like when we walked in the building together like old times? Would we sit side by side like we used to, or would we sit across from each other like two strangers?
I shake my head, clearing away the confusion. No, I can’t go out with him, not to Flancers or anywhere else. I’ve been living my life without him for almost nine years, and I’ll continue to live this way.
“I really can’t go out with you, Jordan.” There. I’ve said it. Now maybe he’ll drop it.
He sighs on the other end of the call. “Why not, Reggie-bug? Do you have a husband and a kid at home I don’t know about?”
I silence a gasp as my hands begin to shake. I can’t do this. Can’t keep running into him.
“I have another call I need to take.” It’s a lie, but it allows me to hang up the phone quickly before he can argue or ask any other questions. Why, after nearly a decade, did he have to find me? Why can’t I push these memories from my mind and slow my pounding heart?
Chapter 7
Jordan
Songwriting sounds so much better on a grand piano. That’s what sold me on the condo. It wasn’t the view or the fitness center or pool. It was the sleek black grand piano sitting dead center, the first thing you see upon entering. If the condo had nothing but the piano, I would’ve taken it—no question.
I play a few chords and runs on the ivory keys and listen as a melody forms in my head. The new album I’ve been working on will be a mix of ballads and rocks songs and most of them original Jordan Capshaw pieces. I haven’t taken this much stock in an album since our first release. It’s apparent with the drugs out of my system that I care more about what I put out to the world. Sure, my drug-induced music was good, but there wasn’t any truth in those songs. They were merely words set to generic music someone else created.
But…this album. This album will be a part of my soul I’m releasing to the world. My fans will finally know a small piece of the real me. The one who loved, who lost himself, and was then found. Redeemed.
The notes I play are laced with sorrow and heartache. Low on the register. But they build in depth and then flow into love and longing. The song reminds me of Reggie. It feels like the sadness I see when I look in her dark brown eyes, like the smile she tries to wear, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. It feels like the slope of her shoulders and how they fell when she saw me at Eggceptional. I want to replace these feelings she tries to hide with hope and peace. And that’s what this song is about. Turning something so sad and lost into something that looks forward to tomorrow.
By the time I’ve completed composing the melody and chorus, I’m exhausted. The lyrics flow freely from my brain and through my fingers as if they’ve been waiting to escape. It feels good to write music, to express what I seem to have trouble actually saying.
I haven’t eaten all day. I find it’s like fasting, and everything is clearer when I begin to compose. I dial up the guys and see if they want to meet at Eggceptional for a late dinner and to go over the songs. Of course, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to run into Reggie there. Jeremy and I jump in the car and drive across the I-10 and down Fifteenth to the familiar diner.
The guys are already waiting for us in the booth when we arrive. We slap hands in greeting and get right into hashing out the songs I’ve written, as well as the ones we’ve written collectively. I can’t help but keep an eye out for Reggie. As the night trudges on, it seems she has the night off. My fists clench under the table and even as I try to hide my disappointment, it’s written all over my face.
“Jeez, Jordan. Ease up or get laid,” Drake groans from across the table. “You’re just looking for trouble by coming here. That girl has moved on, and so should you.”
“Shut the hell up,” I say through my teeth.
“Let’s just focus on the songs and then get out of here before Jordan bursts a blood vessel.” Jeremy lays his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug it off and stalk to the restroom. Inside, I rest my hands on the sink and take several deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. I run the tap and splash cold water on my face then count backward from twenty to zero. What is my problem?
Someone knocks on the door and steps inside—Jeremy. He’s always coming to my rescue lately. Even though I need it, I’m also growing tired of it.
“Leave me alone, man.” I pull a couple paper towels from the dispenser and wipe the water from my face. Jeremy stands against the far wall with his arms across his chest, studying me.
“If I wasn’t living with you and practically riding your ass, I’d think you were either drinking or using again. What the hell is wrong with you?”
“That’s just great, JD. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what the rest of the world will think any time I screw up. I don’t need this shit, especially from the guys who are supposed to be my friends.”
“No one’s saying they think you’re drunk or high. We’re just concerned. You’re not acting like yourself.”
The truth is I don’t know what’s going on with me. I’m on the verge of screwing up, can feel it deep in my gut. I haven’t called a counselor like I promised Jemma, and guilt keeps pulling at me. The feelings resurfacing for Reggie that I thought I’d shoved away all those years ago confuse me. And to top it off, I’m pissed at my father—not that there’s any shocking news in that regard.
I join Jeremy against the wall, but slip down to the floor and tug at my hair. Will I always feel like this? Will the craving and hunger to escape be a constant fight for the rest of my life? If it is, I’m pretty sure I’m going to lose in the end. I’m not as strong as I need to be against something so powerful.
“I know a guy who runs a Narcotics Anonymous group downtown. Maybe you should check it out.” Since when did a simple statement from your best friend feel like such a punch in the gut?
“I don’t need NA; what I need is for everyone to lay off me. If I want to come here to see Reggie, then I’ll do it. If she’s moved on, then I want to hear it from her, not from the guys.”
Once again, Jeremy’s hand rests on my shoulder, but this time I don’t shrug it off. This time, he slides down next to me on the dirty bathroom floor and smacks the back of my head.
“Dude!”
“Did you really not know she worked at the rental agency?”
I shake my head. “I really didn’t know.”
Twenty minutes later, Jeremy and I regroup with the guys and work through the rest of the songs. We need thirteen for the album, which means four more before we can head out to L.A. to begin recording. And just in case the label doesn’t like the thirteen we write, we need to have a couple backups.
It’s after three in the morning when Jeremy and I return to the condo, but I can’t sleep. Not seeing Reggie tonight really put me in a bitter mood, and I don’t know why. It’s odd, because I spent most of the day writing a song that felt like Reggie. Maybe it was too much of her. Maybe I need to focus on something other than her soft curves, long silky hair, and sad brown eyes. Or the way her rosy lips used to kiss the underside of my chin, feeling like a secret only she and I shared.
But then again, somehow I’ve been put in front of her twice in a short time. That has to mean something. Maybe it’s a sign I should pursue her, show her I’ve changed and want to get to know her again. If she wants nothing more than to be friends, I think I could live with that, as long as I’m able to see her. Friends could work.
Yeah right. The minute some guy comes and sweeps her o
ff her feet would be the minute he receives a right hook to the jaw and a busted nose. There’s no way I’m letting some guy kiss the lips that had always felt made for me. No one else is going to put their hands where I’ve touched her. It’s not going to happen.
The piano calls to me as the notes form in my head, creating the melody to a song about laying claim to the one you want. It’s a song of possession and obsession. It’s heavy, filled with the weight of fighting for what you want and not caring about those who get in your way. Jeremy has never lived with me when I had a piano to play whenever I want, and I’ve kept him up too late with my composing since moving here. I hope he’s wearing the earplugs he bought a couple days ago, because if not, he’s in for another long night.
Chapter 8
Reggie
“You seriously cannot go out wearing that,” Stacey says, pointing her Perfectly Plum manicured nails at my apparently inappropriate outfit.
“What’s wrong with it?” I don’t think I look too bad. I’m wearing black leggings and a red and black flannel shirt that could almost pass as a dress in Scottsdale. “I even have a pair of boots I can throw on.”
“You look like a lumberjack.” Stacey’s probably rolled her eyes at me at least a dozen times in the last hour. “We’re going country dancing, not chopping down trees in the White Mountains. Come on,” she says with a groan as she moves towards my closet. “I know you can do way better than this.”
I don’t know why we’re going country dancing. It’s not like we go out often, and besides, whiny, twangy music isn’t exactly my thing. I’m more of an alternative rock kind of girl; I’ve always been that way. Well, ever since Jordan anyway.
Stacey returns from my closet and throws a couple things at me that I reluctantly accept. I strip down to my bra and panties and groan when I see the top she’s picked out. I don’t own any strapless bras, which means the girls will be hanging loose tonight.
I turn my back to her, remove my bra, and slide the top on, feeling a bit self-conscious. The white eyelet top hangs off my shoulders and cinches above my boobs. I pull on the pair of faded skinny jeans with holes on the thighs and knees and tug on a pair of camel-colored cowboy boots. When I glance in the mirror, I have to admit Stacey knows how to pick outfits. I guess her job in a clothing store is finally paying off.
Hair and makeup done, I give the babysitter one last run-down for the night, and then I give Micah a quick hug and kiss goodnight. I always feel so damn guilty when I leave him with a sitter, which is probably one reason I haven’t dated in so long. That and the sheer fact I have a kid, and the look men give you once they know it is like admitting you have the plague. So, my options are fairly limited at best.
Our cab pulls up alongside the curb outside our complex, and I put on my pouty face and whimper a goodbye to my boy. Stacey smacks my shoulder—lovingly, of course—and we drive off into the night through the ever busy streets of Phoenix to the even busier Old Town Scottsdale.
Rowdy’s is one of the only country bars in Old Town, and the cowboys come in droves on Friday and Saturday nights. The floor is scuffed from years of boot-stomping line dances and two-stepping slow dances and the quick-paced country swing. I really enjoy swing dancing. I love that most guys can pick me up and flip me over their arms and twirl me around with ease—sometimes there are some benefits to being only five feet four inches tall.
The bar is already crowded, and the night is still young. Apparently it’s ladies’ night, so our drinks are half price. Stacey and I push our way to the light oak bar and order a couple shots to start the night off and to loosen us up. There’s an old saying I follow to the letter because it’s always held true for me, and it goes like this:
Beer before liquor, never been sicker.
Liquor before beer, you’re in the clear.
Not that I’m much of a beer drinker, but if I’m going to be mixing the two, I always start out with the hard stuff. We down two shots each of José Cuervo and make our way through the crowd to the large dance floor. Rowdy’s really isn’t much of a bar to be honest; it’s more like two small bars flanking the dance floor so no matter where you are you’re halfway to the booze. Smart planning on the owner’s part, I think.
Near the center of the dance floor, Stacey and I kick up our heels with the other ladies dancing solo to John Michael Montgomery’s “Sold.” Our fingers are threaded through our belt loops, and we toe touch and jump, twist and clap. With the light buzz from the shots, we’re having a great time. A few more dances down, and I’m ready for something a little fruity to hold me over for a little while. I motion for Stacey to follow me, and we shimmy through the crowd while a slow song brings out the couples.
I order a Malibu Cocktail, Stacey orders Sex on the Beach with her best bedroom eyes. She openly flirts with the bartender, who is admittedly pretty hot with his deep blue eyes and messy blond hair that looks like he’s just gotten out of bed. In another time, I probably would’ve flirted as well, but I’ve got a kid to go home to, which leaves very little space for my own privacy.
Sufficiently satisfied with a growing buzz, I head back to the floor while Stacey continues her flirting. Halfway through “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” a guy dances up next to me while everyone on the floor turns a one eighty. He’s not bad looking, though his inky black hair is a little long for my taste and his brown eyes won’t leave my breasts. When the song fades into a slow, steady two-step beat, he nods like he’s asking if I want to dance with him. I figure there’s no harm in it, so he spins me around and pulls me to his side as we move around the scuffed up oak floor.
When the song ends I thank him nicely for the dance and head back to the bar to find Stacey. Thankfully she’s still there and, by the looks of it, two drinks ahead of me. She can drink me under the table any day, so I order myself another shot of José and down it quickly.
“He was cute,” she says through lips that are trying not to laugh. She knows he’s not my type, and she’ll keep on teasing me if I don’t give her a little bit back.
“Oh yeah, cute like a hairy Newfoundland who hasn’t seen the sharp end of clippers in quite a while.” We laugh and both shoot down another shot and head out onto the floor. We’re moving in unison, sidestepping, kicking our legs out in front of us, and spinning a full circle while clapping to the beat, and I’m having so much fun. When the song ends and another slow one begins, someone taps my bare shoulder. Thinking it’s Newfoundland guy, I turn with the intention of declining, but that guy is nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing in front of me with a smile that makes me melt is Jordan freaking Capshaw.
His hand moves up over my shoulder and reaches behind my neck where it sends a fire thrumming through my body, making all the blood rush to my cheeks. He doesn’t ask, he just guides me around the room possessively. He’s wearing a black cowboy hat, and the scruff on his face is somehow thicker, making him look like sin and heaven wrapped up in one gorgeous package. His black button-down shirt is open below his neck, revealing a fine smattering of hair he didn’t have when we were younger.
He spins me around and I’m face-to-face with the one guy who can melt through every layer of the iron wall I’ve built over the years. One hand remains on my neck while the other rests on my hip where his thumb softly brushes against the bare skin just above the line of my jeans. Shivers alight all over my body each time his thumb moves, and I have to keep reminding myself to breathe.
Just breathe, Reggie.
In.
Out.
We move together through the songs, disregarding the tempo or style, unable to break the gaze between us. Our bodies move closer, comingling our breaths and synchronizing our heartbeats. I grip the shirt covering his chest when one of his legs moves between mine as the song slows. He pulls me closer, making the space between us nonexistent, and when his hips press against my stomach it’s clear where his mind is at.
The song ends and I begin to pull away, but his hands quickly move over mine as he shakes h
is head and smiles a crooked smile.
“I’m not done with you yet,” he says low and slow, pinning me in place. My entire body quakes as he dips his head and whispers in my ear. “You are the hottest thing in this place, and I want you all night.”
Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. When it comes to denying Jordan what he wants, my willpower is about as strong as a soaking wet paper towel trying to catch a bowling ball. Add that to the unquestionable number of drinks I’ve had tonight, and I’m pretty much guaranteed to do something I’m going to regret.
Chapter 9
Jordan
I told Jeremy I needed a break from being Jordan Capshaw and, given the whole world pretty much knows who I am, we go country dancing. Granted, there have been several country artists who have crossed over into the rock or alternative genres, but I’ve always been alt rock so I’m less recognizable in country bars. Add to that my growing beard and the black cowboy hat, no one really looks too closely at me.
We’ve frequented Rowdy’s a few times over the years, though I’ve never done it sober, and was initially a bit nervous to do so. But after a couple dances with a couple nameless girls who did the whole, “You look a lot like Jordan Capshaw, did you know that?” I smiled brightly and donned my best southern accent and gave them a “Gee, thanks,” before moving on.
Everything changed the second I saw Reggie dancing near the center of the crowd with Stacey, her hips swaying, boots stomping, and long hair swaying to the beat of the music. I was done for. Nothing would stop me from claiming her as mine tonight. Every guy here is going to know she belongs with me and there is nothing left to discuss.
After swinging her around the floor for countless songs, she tries to pull away, but I can’t let her go. Her brown eyes search mine, and I’m so lost in them it’s taking everything I’ve got to not kiss her. Then she goes and licks her pink lips, and I about lose it. My grip falters and she takes the opportunity to move away from me and walk toward the bar, making me groan in frustration as the natural sway of her hips taunts me. Apparently I enjoy torturing myself.
