by S. E. Hall
But by the time we’re on number six, Bubs has had enough, simply walking off the stage right in the middle of the song. Thankfully, Bruce is way ahead of him, already waiting at stage right, so I keep singing to the end.
“Give it up for my big bro, Conner, on tambourine!” Waiting for the applause to die down, I strain to conjure up what song feels right, failing. “What’d ya’ll wanna hear next? Any favorites?” I ask the crowd.
“I got one,” Cannon pours smoothly into his mic. “Rhett, Jarrett, whaddaya say we do one for our beautiful brunette leader?”
He did notice.
“You mean a little something like,” Jarrett fades out as the bass strums, unmistakable “My Girl” fading in.
“That’s the one,” Cannon chuckles. “Rhett?”
“Right behind ya, man.”
Next thing I know, I’m forcibly plopped onto a stool that’s mysteriously appeared at center stage, by Vanessa—traitor—and they start the song again.
Oh Lord, Jarrett takes the first verse, singing up close, right in front of me, while the other two stooges blend in backup harmony.
Their three voices, Rhett and Jarrett both tenors and Cannon clearly a bass, merge cosmically for each chorus. In a less tame bar, the women would be doing a lot more than swaying and swooning like the females at Jazzy’s tonight; it’s quite the show. I don’t why they’re all googly-eyed, though—they’re singing to me—and if I ever say I hated it, you caught me lying.
When they get to the bridge, my loud laugh rings out as Cannon spins, in the most debonair way possible, then slides my way to serenade me, voice robust and sexy as he growls about needing no money or fame. He can really sing, goofin’ around or not. They all can, but Cannon…does carnal things.
If sexy was a sound, it’d be Cannon Blackwell’s voice caressing a song.
How they planned this whole act without me knowing is baffling—we live on a cramped bus together—but it’s truly been one of my life’s highlights. My face feels like it may split wide open by the time they’re done and my cheeks are warm as I stand and approach the mic on unsteady legs.
“Those silly boys,” I play it off, rolling my eyes and grinning. “They live to embarrass me. This next one will be the last tonight. Conner, where are ya?”
He waves his hand from the back where he stands beside Bruce. “Always for you, Bubs. We’re See You Next Tuesday, thanks for having us. And he,” I point to Conner, “is my ‘Beautiful Boy.’”
***
The next three shows are in Boise, Idaho. We kept the same set list, despite my badly faked mortification of the “My Girl” addition, their “hamming” gaining grandeur with each performance. By close of the final night, we’re all pretty tired, moods souring like the caged in, constantly moving, close quarter neighbors that we are. Everyone is out of clean clothes, the provisions from the shopping spree Cannon and I made are depleted, and I, for one, could use a break.
When the equipment’s loaded, I waste no time clapping my hands to get their attention. “Is anyone opposed to a break? I’ll spring for hotel rooms somewhere nice. Then tomorrow, I’ll either do the laundry or the food shopping, but not both.”
“Thank God,” Jarrett lets out a relieved moan. “Nessy, baby, grab our stuff. We’ll do the shopping tomorrow. What hotel?”
“Easy, playboy, let everyone else decide too,” I razz him.
Yes, Vanessa is still with us, still not on my nerves in any way and Conner still enamored in a sweet, adorable way. And they respect my rules, Jarrett chivalrously taking the pull-out so she can have the bunk every night.
“Sounds good to me. How about I give the bus a good cleaning tomorrow while we’re all off it?” See—even Rhett’s cheers up instantly with a break and the prospect of a nice bed and bath tub.
“Thank you, Rhett, that’d be awesome. All right, that’s four.”
Bruce lumbers forward, holding his back. He definitely needs a rest from all the driving. “I’ll stay with Conner and do no chores. Sound good, Con?”
“Can we get movies and lots of food again?”
“You bet! Grab your—” Bruce starts to say, but Conner’s already running to do so before my uncle even finishes his sentence.
“That leaves you, Cannon, yay or nay?” I grin at him, knowing he’s in.
“Hell yes, and I’ll help with laundry. That’d take you all day by yourself.”
“Sounds like we gotta plan. Bruce, can you get,” I take count, “five rooms somewhere nice?” I hand him my credit card. “We’ll get the dirty clothes bagged up.”
We all shift into high-gear, one team all desperate for the same goal. I can’t wait to sink into a tub of sweet-smelling bubbles and spread across a huge, fluffy bed. It totally makes doing twenty loads of laundry worth it. Not to mention, I don’t trust any of them with the task; I’d be stuck wearing shrunken, not supposed to be pink, clothing when they finished.
Thirty minutes later, we’re parked behind a tall brown sky-rise, looking more like heaven than a posh hotel. Bruce trudges back on board and hands out all the key cards, adding to the wonderment by announcing in-hotel laundry, and we all cart the bags through the back entrance, slumming it, but I’m still thrilled I get to do it there instead of another trip to a laundromat.
“Bubs, you sure you don’t wanna stay with me?” I ask him before we split up.
“Will you be sad if I stay with Uncle Bruce?” His worry spoils his sweet face so I squash it immediately.
“No, not at all. You have fun. I love you.”
“Love you more!” he yells, alerting every guest in this hall as he trots away.
Most of our room numbers suggest nearness, except Jarrett and Vanessa, who have a 600 number on another floor. Thank God. They’ve respected my rules to the letter, merely eye fucking when Conner’s not paying attention, so I do not want to hear all their making up for lost time through the thin hotel walls.
I get my door open and Cannon and Rhett bring in all the bags of laundry and dump them in a pile for me, then say goodnight as I push them out the door, flipping both locks.
Dayummm, this room is nice. I run and leap in the air, arms and legs spread wide, freefalling onto the huge, pillowy mattress. I could easily stay like this all night. Seriously, I’m five seconds away from falling into dreamland on top of the covers, fully clothed, when music jars me. I can’t quite make it out, so I get up in search of it.
Well shit. I got one of those rooms with an adjoining door to the room beside me. How creepy are these things? I never quite know what’s on the other side, or if I’m the one on the other side? Am I locked in or out, the sitting prey or the mass murder? I never know. Screw this. For two bills a night, I’ll be damned if I’m robbed my peace and quiet, so I bang on the secret door with my fist. No one answers, nor does the music stop or even lower, so I pound again.
Nothing.
Maybe they’re in the shower. I’m about to go ahead and take that bath I’ve been dreaming about and hope my rude neighbors settle down by the time I’m done when a knock at the door, the real door, startles me.
Expecting Conner, I open it with a huge grin. It’s not Con, but I still smile at the surprise before me. “Ms. Carmichael?” she asks. “May I bring this inside, ma’am?”
“Oh, okay, sure.” I step aside, making room for her to roll the cart in.
“I’m Renee, Guest Relations Night Manager. I’ve brought you an assortment of bath products, several sleeping garment choices from our boutique, and a basket of assorted drinks and desserts. Is there anything else I can get you this evening?”
“Where, why—”
She pulls a white card from under the basket and hands it to me. “This may clear things up.”
Relax, enjoy and invite me over for a movie when you’re done. –C
P.S. I’m on the other side of the weird, misplaced door.
P.P.S. I couldn’t think of a cool code knock.
“Shall I leave all this with you then, Ms.
Carmichael?” Her polite question drags me back from Swoonville.
“Um, yes, please. Thank you. Let me grab you—”
“Everything’s been taken care of, but thank you. Now, what laundry needs service?”
Godsend say what?
“You have laundry service here? I don’t have to go down and do it?”
“Yes, the gentleman said six bags? Items will be delivered back by check out tomorrow. That pile there?” She points to the obvious heap.
“Yes, but…”
“Our pleasure, Ms. Carmichael. Now where shall I empty the cart as to load the laundry on it?”
“Let me help,” I start, grabbing before she can professionally refuse, stacking goodie after goodie on the desk.
“Any special cleaning instructions?”
“Wear a hazmat suit when you get to their underwear?”
She gawks at me, mouth agape, her eyes large and rounding in shock, then we both break out in raucous laughter together. “Seriously, that’s a weeks’ worth of five men’s underwear. You should definitely let me tip you again—trust me.”
“Girl, please.” She blows her lips and waves a hand. “I don’t do laundry. Save that sympathy for the housekeepers.”
“If you say so. I’ll leave them a nice bonus when we check out. And thank you again.”
“My pleasure.” She smiles warmly as I hold open the door while she grunts, pushing the loaded cart out.
I happily bounce over to the desk, checking out the array of bath goodies. I’m sure I groan aloud. Choosing the lavender dissolving salts and foaming bubble bath, I head to the bathroom, already feeling the tension leave my body.
When the sunken tub is full, steam vapors rising from the surface and beckoning me, I strip and ease down into the delightfully scented warmth. My head falls back and my eyes close, then pop right back open. I swear that friggin’ music just got louder.
He’s gonna wake up the whole floor!
But I don’t think he cares, and quite honestly, neither do I. Cannon’s sense of humor is invigorating and quirky and adorable. You can’t help but like him.
Perfect example being now. He’s blaring “Come Over” by Kenny Chesney, apparently his not-so-subtle way of telling me to hurry up so he can do just that.
Too cute. And obviously, he’s gotten himself a new phone, apparently used more for music than calls since I haven’t seen him make a single one.
As I soak a little longer, my mind drifts to what I do best—overanalyzing any and every situation until I’ve beaten it into the ground, causing myself ulcers. Cannon’s frazzling my nerves, making me second guess all I thought I knew about myself. I have zip knowledge of “relationships” with men, and since anything with Cannon—definitely a man—is so different from anything I’ve experienced with Jarrett and Rhett—also men—I just don’t quite know what do with myself. These days I’m confused anytime I’m awake, especially since he fills most those seconds with serenades, surprises, and a dozen other “Cannonisms.”
He hasn’t tried anything and our interactions, even if alone, are merely friendly, effortless, and fun. He does flirt, but I think it’s just his personality, not specifically because of me. And as attractive as I find him, my fingers sore and the bus forever out of hot water because I’ve become a habitual showerer (the only time I get to take all the “Cannon” that day and release it, finding nirvana and some serenity), I honestly look forward to simply “hanging” with him. Okaaay, there’s a “sizzle” no matter what we’re doing, but not uncontrollably so.
When I hear the song change to the old Aretha Franklin attempt at a comeback, “I Knew You Were Waiting,” I can’t stifle my giggle and pull myself up and out of the tub with a sigh. How does that song even come to his mind? It wasn’t worth listening to even in its decade.
But I can take a hint, however painful to the ears…patience of Job that man hath not.
I peek around the door of the bathroom; I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to find he’d broken in and was waiting in the room. But it’s empty, so I scamper over to my pajama choices, picking a luxurious but comfortable looking pink tank and shorts set. Drying off and dressing in double time, I walk over and rap out a few hard, loud knocks on the adjoining door.
And the music stops.
“Ghost of Christmas Past, is that you?” he calls through the wooden barrier.
See—quirky and hilarious. Who thinks of stuff like that?
“Get your ass over here if you wanna watch a movie, DJ Not Kool,” I simper back, taming my girly laugh.
“Then open the door.”
Oh, so it seems I’m on the gatekeeper side.
I open it and gulp, suddenly slightly lightheaded. Cannon’s leisurely stretched out before me, his arms braced over his head on the door frame in only mesh shorts, the kind that tease you, all “will I hold on to these sweet hips or fall right off?” Come to think of it, all his bottoms say that to me.
“Glad to see someone’s okay with me slacking at the gym lately.” He winks, brushing past me into my room.
There, that—is that just his flirty personality or for me?
Embarrassed at being caught gawking, and called right out on it, I take my time shutting the door before I have to turn around. I know, as every woman knows, that my nipples are gonna be poking like sharpened pencils through this silky top when I face him. So I do the only thing that comes to mind, cross my arms over my chest, then turn and fly across the room all in one movement, babbling in hopes of distraction.
“Thanks for the treats; the bath was heavenly and long overdue. What movie did you want to watch?”
He chuckles from behind me. “Did you snort a line off the side of the bathtub?”
“What?” I spin around in indignation. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”
He’s made himself at home, leaning back against the headboard, long, muscular legs covered in a light smattering of brown hair stretched out the length of my bed. “You seem jumpy and you’re talking fast.” He tucks both hands behind his head and crosses his ankles. “What are you nervous about?”
“I’m not nervous.” My brow creases. “Still amped up from the show, I guess.”
“Lizzie.” My name falls off his tongue in a smooth, husky tone, patting the bed beside him. “Come ‘ere.”
I hesitate, but when he holds out his hand to me, I glide across the room and place mine in it.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yesss?”
“Have I ever done anything to make you feel uncomfortable?”
Cha, yeah! There’s a permanent tingling throb between my legs that’s pretty damn uncomfortable, Mr. Pretty. Not to mention my nipples’ constant state of tight strain.
“No.” I shake my head, answering according to what he actually meant.
“Do you trust me?” He peers up at me, him lying back on the bed, me standing over him, our hands still joined.
“I do,” I whisper automatically, absolutely without doubt.
My easy answer makes his already devastating smile positively electric. “Okay, then hop your cute little ass in this bed and pick a movie to watch, friend.”
***
“Question,” he interrupts the movie yet again and I roll my eyes as I hit pause.
“What?” Could he really have this many questions or is trying to get me to turn it? Or he is actually this adorable?
“Aren’t chicks always squawking about ‘he can’t possibly love me yet’ or ‘it’s too soon to tell him’?”
“I believe you’re referring to insta-love. And yes, according to the occasional magazine I stumble upon, it’s a controversial point of bitching for lots of people, although, Rhett seems to be pro-insta. Why?” I ask, dipping into the bowl for another handful of popcorn, courtesy of the snack basket.
“So riddle me this, Bat Lizzie. This dude starts falling for her inside a week because she played with some opera glasses and slung a shrimp across the room?”
“What?” he asks, face adorably confused.
“She flung a snail across the room, not a shrimp. And it’s those little things he falls for. She’s charming and refreshing because he’s so stuffy.”
Could that explanation have sounded more familiar, albeit backwards?
“She’s. A. Hooker,” he deadpans, obviously thinking that speaks for itself, which it doesn’t.
“Very good!” I praise. “You understood the first ten minutes of the movie. Now what’s all the rest of your rambling mean?” I cock a brow, mocking him but anxious for a debate.
“Hear me out.” He sits up, setting the bowl aside and shifting to face me. “So women don’t buy the instant love stuff, and criticize it, but they’ll watch this movie every time it’s on. It’s a movie that sells you in a ‘Yes, I take dick professionally from random strangers but I fist pump at polo matches so forget that and truly love me in a week’ sort of way. That about sum it up?”
Holy shit—he’s right.
“Ah ha!” He points at my dumbfounded face. “I nailed it. Horseshit, right?”
“I believe you just won your case, Mr. Blackwell. Congratulations.” I give him a golf clap. “I probably shouldn’t mention Cosmo’s other coveted theory; ‘don’t sleep with him too soon if you want to keep him,’ huh?”
“Women.” He shakes his head. “You watch this show but gripe ‘it’s too soon, don’t trust him, girl.’ Conventionally hypocritical. Oh, and review—She. Is. A. Hooker. So stuff the whole ‘hold out’ theory for sure.”
“May I ask why this is such a sore subject for you?” My mouth twists in a threatening snicker, amused at how heated and animated he’s gotten over Pretty Woman.
He shrugs, picking the popcorn bowl back up and popping a few pieces in his mouth. “It’s not. I just like to know I’m right and prepared to successfully argue any crazy, hypocritical, you-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-you’re-talking-about topic. You never know when someone might hit me with an insta-love debate.”
Could he mean? No, don’t be a dumbass, Liz…you’re thinking with your vagina.
“Okay, well this movie’s shot. Wanna pick another one?” I ask.
