September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  “Hey, Angel. Got any Jack in that Coke?” He reached out a hand and flicked my glass with his index finger.

  I had never been a blusher, but heat flooded my cheeks. He’d uttered my name in a way that made it sound illicit.

  “No. No. It’s . . . diet.”

  I looked down, my eyes landing on his jutting hips. His pants were so . . . awesome. The way they hung so well on his hips did things to my insides. When I looked up, his eyes were glued to my face and he was smirking. I’d been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to and my cheeks continued blazing well after I took a keen interest in the floor.

  It suddenly seemed like an eternity since Avery went into the bathroom. I wanted to run in there, to tell her it wasn’t a dream, I was talking to Analog Controller’s totally hot lead singer and he remembered my name.

  I thought about him all the time—replayed our one conversation in my head—and as any fan knows, when you go to shows, the fans are the ones who go looking for the band. Not the other way around. In my mind, Analog was the greatest band in the history of the world and Jake was a huge star, although most people outside our area had never heard of them. And he was there, standing right beside me, sliding his shoulder along the wall as he smiled and made light conversation. He kept staring at my shirt.

  Aerosmith played on from speakers in the background. Steven Tyler howled to heaven, begging his angel to save him.

  “I’ve never seen that before.” Jake extended one finger, navigating towards me. “My face is on your chest.”

  “I wore it at last nights’ show.”

  “You were in Duncan?” His eyes widened.

  I nodded, wishing Avery would come out and help me make conversation.

  “I wish I’d seen you. It looks good like that.” My heartbeat skipped when his hand grazed the frayed seam on my sleeve. I felt the small calluses—little rough edges on otherwise soft fingertips. They skimmed the line of my shoulder, leaving a trail of fire.

  I had no idea what to do. So I just stood there, gushing how my friend, whose name had slipped my mind, helped to cut my shirt just the way I liked it. She was wicked with a pair of scissors. I think she modified practically every piece of clothing she ever wore—very Molly Ringwald of her, except she didn’t dabble in pink. She was a total t-shirt and jeans chick, like me, but her shirts and jeans held something wild. I was always taking her clothes.

  Jake sighed, looking past me at something or someone further down the hallway.

  “Hey, I gotta go, but thank you for coming.” He pulled a flat square from his back pocket and handed it to me. “This is our new EP. For you. Until next time.” He patted my head before walking away with my heart. I wondered if he felt the weight of it in his hands the way I did and hoped.

  +++

  All through that first year, Jake and I barely knew each other. We didn’t really get to hang out. I never saw him around school or in town—he’d graduated at the end of my freshmen year and I was a sophomore when we started talking that night at the pizza pub. And Jake lived with his mom in Eager, the next town over. Plus, I was too shy to ask about visitation beyond the casual run-ins. So our get-to-know-you phase happened in spurts. We’d hang out after shows in smoky night clubs that I had to buy a fake ID to get into, in parking lots, sometimes back alleys.

  Jake Haddon remained my extracurricular male fantasy. I listened to the EP’s he gave me every day and thought about him all the time; when I would sit in the library during study hall or passing the band room. There was a picture of him in a glass case in the school office. He was in the orchestra. First chair on the Cello. I found his face in the first row, third from the end on the left. I still remember the way he looked in the dress shirt and bow tie. His lovely face got better with age.

  4

  —Angel

  There’s a distinct clicking sound. It’s distracting. Then, the sweet tang of cinnamon invades my nostrils. Once I realize the source is my lawyer, Mister Brandon crunching on a breath mint, I can focus again.

  Staring blankly at the walls in the interview room—feeling the restraints on my wrists, as my minds’ eye holds that moment in the smoky corridor—I see myself watching Jake walk away. “Analog Controller used to post flyers all over town. I would take the ones with pictures on them and spend hours staring at Jacob Haddon. I made a scrap book and filled it with pages of flyers and some Polaroids I took at their shows.” It made me feel closer to him.

  Here, from this prison where they tell me what to eat, when to sleep and when to wake-up, where to walk and for how long, when to shower and pee, it’s as if all of my life has been no more than stray seconds jumbled together and ripped apart. It seems random and pointless. But when I look back and put some pieces together, they add up to one specific night—almost two years after that first meeting in Joes Pizza.

  The night I first slept with Jake.

  +++

  I had been to nearly all of their shows and we always talked after, but still only at shows. He was older and so obviously too hot for me, I wouldn’t let myself take my desire past the fantasy land inside my head.

  Analog Controller was playing at a popular club called The Mystic Muse. It was practically on the other side of the state and I had to get creative to make my way there. I talked Avery into taking her moms car and the two of us ducked out. That night at The Mystic Muse, with some encouragement from my lone friend, I would gather my nerve and act on the lust I felt for Jake.

  Jake had those soft hands and I wanted him to use them on me. I guess that’s the calling card of a guy who works mainly with his mind. Soft hands with small, distinct calluses you could only feel when he really touched you. He kept his fingernails a little longer than traditional length, too. They stretched to his fingertips.

  Jake had a way about him—an outstanding charm. Very large personality with a quick smile, melodic laugh, and an air that imposed its’ will upon me—made me want to submit to his. He made me nervous in the very best way. He made me crave him.

  He wrote about everything—good and bad—all of his heart flowed into his music. It was almost as if there was no part of himself that he wouldn’t lay bare for a room full of strangers. Jake was jarringly open and I found that comforting.

  That night, at The Mystic Muse, I remember that the merch booth opened for the first time. It was before the guys went on and Avery and me raided the coffers of our savings and splurged. They finally had a merch booth! We’d bought their stickers, t-shirts, and wrist bands, and were making our way to the car. The parking lot was dark and smelled of sour beer.

  A large hand grabbed my shoulder and suddenly spun me. My heart leapt inside my chest. Avery shrieked. And then I saw his face. Smiling. Devilish.

  “Jake! You scared me.”

  “Angel. I’m glad you made it.” He smirked, “We gotta talk.” The fingers of his hand skimmed along my forearm, those scratchy nails leaving goosebumps in their wake.

  Someone called to Jake from the club entrance. When he turned to see who it was, I stole a questioning glance at Avery. Her face mirrored mine. I didn’t know what to make of that copied look. It was as if she was answering my question with a question.

  “What do I do?” I asked, and she replied with, “What do you want to do?”

  I looked back at Jake, deciding to follow my heart. “Where?”

  “You know the long hallway at stage right? Follow that until you pass the bathrooms. Then it’s the third door on your right. I gotta do something, but I’ll see you there?”

  “Sure,” I nodded.

  Jake turned and I became a puppy dog, trotting after him, leaving Avery gaping in the parking lot with her arms full of band paraphernalia. Jake chuckled when he saw me following and slowed down.

  Once we were inside, he took a cautious look around and asked me to wait a few minutes before heading into the back of the club. I was never good at waiting, so I counted to eight-hundred and fifty—figuring that took about five minutes—befo
re making made my way towards the stage and slipping into the hall behind it. I followed the dimly lit corridor until I came to the third door on my right, just like I’d been instructed.

  Releasing a deep breath, I swung the door open. It was dark inside. I was about to turn around, sure I had the wrong place, when a light flicked on. Then, Jake was peering at me from across the room, in front of another doorway. Beside him was a large couch. It looked just like the long black one inside the bars VIP section, only more worn looking. The cushions were covered with a plaid blanket.

  All my anxious enthusiasm doubled.

  “What is this . . .” I was going to finish with ‘room,’ but the tremors in my voice collapsed the walls of my throat.

  He’d said he wanted to talk, but the way he looked at me and the loaded air made me want to sweat, scream, and simultaneously jump for joy.

  Jake either didn’t notice my nerves or didn’t care as he made his way towards me. I watched his hands slide up to his temples and sweep his brown, chin length hair behind each ear. His eyes were dark and his face held an air of something I didn’t recognize. His tee shirt was plain, all black and untucked. The short sleeves were rolled up, accentuating the definition in his arms. His jeans were dark blue, cuffed at the bottom over biker-style boots.

  “This is me,” his luscious lips murmured, “asking your permission.”

  “Permission for what?” I managed to ask, once I tore my eyes away from his mouth.

  “I’d like to have my way . . . with you.”

  Everything inside me clenched. Except my eyes—those popped wide open. And my mouth went desert dry. It was like a line from a movie or something. Did he just say he wanted his way with me?

  He was all longs legs, casually swinging until he got close enough to set his hands around my waist. And I swear my heart stopped beating. His hands around my waist! Which, amazingly, felt like a whole new part of my body. Did I have a waist before that moment? I’d seen it and used it to bend and move. Beyond that, all my waist had ever done was sit above my hips. I had no idea so many nerves could exist in one area. All at once, they sprang to life and went crazy—hyperactive nerve endings flaring up around my waist and spreading, quickly turning every inch of my body into a burning furnace. His fingers stoked my desire. But all they were doing was lightly grasping my waist.

  “What ‘way’ would that be?” My voice sounded weird: quiet and rough.

  He didn’t get to respond because the doorway behind him was suddenly filled with marching bodies. Four guys in oversized jeans and plaid shirts. Another band had just made their entrance.

  Jake moved in close, speaking into my ear. “If you’re interested in the answer, please, find me after?” His breath felt hot on my neck, his lips briefly brushed my temple. “You come find me, Angel, and I’ll show you the way.”

  I turned about ten different shades as I awkwardly mumbled a pre-show blessing, “Kick their asses,” and went back to find Avery waiting at the mouth of the hallway. I slapped my hand against my forehead, feeling like a clown. Kick their asses? Why not, ‘have a great show’? Or ‘break a leg’?

  “You did fine,” Avery assured me later. And when I told her what Jake said, we had major giggles over it. She was super happy for me and encouraged me to act on what I was feeling.

  “I’ll think about it.” I whispered.

  “A hot-ass rocker . . . Scratch that. The hot-ass lead singer of your favorite band just offered himself to you! He’s all you talk about.” She knocked on my head, doing her best Biff Tannen impression. “Hello, McFly? What’s there to think about?”

  The very idea made me nervous. What if he didn’t mean it? Or worse: he did mean it and then was disappointed in me after?

  All of the angst melted to extreme excitement when Analog Controller took the stage. Jakes’ gifts had the audience aglow, screaming with righteous enthusiasm. He was on fire, too, holding the steady flame of his eyes on me throughout the show. I watched his mouth smooth over the mic-head as he sang:

  If I were smart, I'd run.

  You kill for pleasure. Torture for fun.

  Expectation gives way. You’ve won.

  Just come over here, you look like fun.

  I jumped and moshed and sang along to every song, enjoying his attention and the growing need sparked by the words he whispered to me in the back room. I wanted to know his way; the path he’d promised to lead me down. When the set was over, I cheered until my voice cracked and the band disappeared into the bowels of The Mystic Muse.

  Avery and me went with the flow of traffic, dispersing to other parts of the club once the stage was empty.

  By the time the next band was introduced, most people were crowded up at the front once more. But Jake was in back, sitting at the bar amid a small, lingering crowd.

  I was sure approaching a guy was the hardest thing I had ever done, but he made it easier. First with his invitation, then with his freshly showered hair and head-to-toe, dark brown outfit that made his milky skin seem like it had been dipped in caramel. His not-so-baggy jeans gave just a peek of the top of his boxers. His long, thin t-shirt gathered at his waist like he hadn’t taken the time to pull it all the way down.

  “Keep performing like that, Jake, and the label reps will turn into groupies.” I gushed, trying to be funny.

  He turned his powerful eyes on me. “I don’t pay attention to groupies.”

  I wasn’t sure if he heard my lame joke, but knew that his response was molded by modesty. There were at least half-dozen women in his vicinity after that performance. But he was telling the truth, he didn’t exchange anything more than pleasantries with them.

  He was leaning against the bar holding his complimentary drink of choice—Jack and Coke. Every guy in the band got free drinks. He had a believable fake ID. We all did, but mine only said I was eighteen.

  He eyed me as I gushed, trying to tell him how much I loved what he had created.

  “You know what I love?” He interrupted, and there was something in the way he stood and leaned in with his hips, like he was going to tell me something very important and couldn’t risk the words getting lost in the surrounding noise.

  “What?” I barely breathed, remembering the way he whispered in my ear.

  Jake leaned in close, setting his lips at the shell of my ear and speaking low, “I love that you thought about my offer and came to find me.” He drew back and gulped down the last of his drink. “How old are you, again?”

  Avery was standing behind him, talking with the drummer, Max, and a group of other people. Her eyes popped wide when she heard the question.

  I started to answer, “I’m seventeen,” but Avery’s rapid hand signals flew behind Jakes head, screaming at me, “Say ‘eighteen!’ you idiot!”

  So, I improvised “I’m . . . s-super close to eighteen. Hours away, actually.”

  Jake set his empty glass on the bar and wrapped both arms around my shoulders. “Really? Well, lucky me. And lucky you, too. Happy Birthday, Beautiful.” His voice was syrupy sweet as he took my hand and led me towards the back of the club.

  The second we were out of sight, his hands were on me. His smooth palms caressed my jeans, stuffing their fingers into my back pockets. “What’ch you got in there?” Through the layer of denim, he cupped one side of my butt and offered a vicious smile, “Nothing but ass.”

  No one had ever touched or spoke to me that way before and I’m not ashamed to say that I loved it. It was every fantasy I had turned reality as I pulled him closer. Emboldened by desire, I grazed my nose along the intoxicating scent of his neck. Heaven. A slight edge of clean sweat still lingered there, as if during his post-show shower he’d rinsed very quickly, as if he couldn’t wait to get to me, as if he wanted me as much as I wanted him. I pressed him against the wall of the dark hallway, but Jake pushed back, pressing his lips over mine. Pouring desire into me.

  This was so much better than the waist touching and the pocket-play. It was . . . blood boiling
, liquid fireworks.

  His hands moved up from my hips to my waist. They stretched around the circumference before he pulled away and chuckled. “You’re so tiny.” I followed his gaze down to my waist and was surprised to see that the tips of his thumbs were only a few inches apart. “You’re like a little bird. I better be gentle, I don’t want to break you.”

  I had never thought of myself as thin or tiny and I was going to say so, but stopped when Jake gave his lips back to me. I felt movement and then I was pinned between Jakes chest and the wall.

  The next time words were exchanged, we were inside the bands old cargo van. It was a beater—big and clunky—covered in graffiti and stickers, with no seats, only a huge open area in the back. Jake spread a blanket over the worn carpet of the van floor and we fell inside, never breaking our hold on one another. He pinned me beneath him, pressed his hips into me, using his knees to push mine apart. The sweet pressure of him did strange things to me. A new kind of friction that made me greedy, made me want every part of me to touch every part of him. My hands seemed to know what to do. I didn’t even have to think about taking them from his face to touch his shoulders or sliding them down his taut arms and back.

  “Angel.” Jake breathed into my mouth, took my breath and gave me his own. “Angel. I want you so bad.”

  After this confession, before I had a chance to respond, Max opened the backdoor. There was a pile of equipment beside him. It was time to load up. Max looked at Jake, rolled his eyes, and muttered something about getting a room. So, our steamy moment was put on pause. I hid my embarrassment behind my hair as we got out to help.

  Once all the equipment and instruments were loaded, all of us, including Avery, smashed inside the old Dodge van, off to Analog Controllers’ motel.