by L. Philips
“Not willing to take the gamble,” the guy named Travis shoots back at him, and then does the weirdest thing. He sticks his tongue out, revealing a shiny bar through the middle of it, and clicks it against his top teeth. Then he turns back to me and clicks in my direction.
I look at Landon to see if he’s seeing this too, and he is. In fact, he’s staring at this dude like I’ve never seen Landon stare before. He looks well and truly stunned, but it’s in this completely worshipful way, and Landon is not the worshipping type.
Can’t say I blame him. Tongue-Ring Travis is like Billy Idol’s younger, hotter brother. The side of his head is shaved and long platinum-blond hair flops over it in this careless, deflated manner. He’s got about ten earrings in each ear, big hoops and gauges, and one of his high-arching eyebrows is scarred like he once had a ring there too but it got pulled out.
Judging from the looks of him, a bar brawl seems like it could be a common occurrence in his life. He’s part rock ’n’ roll, part greaser, and all trouble. And the craziest thing is, regardless of the piercings and the leather jacket and the chains he’s sporting, his face is . . . delicate. Blond scruff covers his jaw, but it’s no match for the fragile features of his face, or the big whiskey-colored eyes that radiate warmth even while he’s barking at Ted.
I theorize in that second that he was called “pretty” one too many times in his life, and the rebel-wear is his mode of overcompensation.
“Like tongue rings?”
Shit. While I’ve been psychoanalyzing, I’ve also been staring.
“Y-yes,” I manage to stammer out.
“I bet you do,” Travis purrs out in that scratchy voice, and scoots himself closer to me at the bar. Then his face is looming a mere centimeter from mine and he’s clicking said tongue ring at me again. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”
“All right, Ponyboy, here’s your coffee. Now stop harassing teenagers and find yourself another rumble.” Ted sets down a paper cup of espresso in front of Travis and holds out his hand, expecting payment.
“Very clever, Teddy. I’d almost be willing to bet that you read or something.”
To my utter shock, Ted’s face blossoms into a warm smile and he swipes the bill Travis holds out for him. “Not since high school.”
“You and me both, Sodapop. Later.”
Then Travis is gone and I can’t help but imagine a tornado of cologne and anarchy swirling in his wake, like a good-smelling, gorgeous Tasmanian Devil. I swivel around to Landon to ask what, exactly, just went down, but he’s already beaten me to the punch.
“Ted, that guy just now, was that . . . ?”
“Travis Blake,” Ted says, barely looking up as he wipes down the bar with a coffee-stained cloth. “Lead guitarist for Liquid.”
“I thought so. He’s . . .” Landon doesn’t finish his sentence, like he’s too overwhelmed by Travis Blake’s mere presence to think. Which is understandable.
“Yeah, he’s a force,” Ted replies. “Know his band?”
Landon nods. “Saw them at the Blue Gator last summer. They were amazing.”
Landon’s musical snobbery is even more deep-seated than mine, so if he’s complimenting this band, they must be good. And that explains why Landon looked at Travis like he was a celebrity, not just some hot dude in a leather jacket.
“Yeah. He’s in talks with a few labels, I think,” Ted says but annoyingly doesn’t elaborate, and then he’s off to refill sugar canisters or something equally lame.
“Metal?” I ask, assuming from Travis’s look that he’s into the hard stuff.
“No. It’s rock and it’s edgy, but more electronic. Like . . .” Landon pauses, struggling to put it into words. “Like if you took Muse’s guitar riffs and vocals, the Cure’s darkness, and Depeche Mode’s beats and put them all together in this glorious superband.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It really is. We should go see them.”
We look at Meg.
“No. No way,” she says before I can even ask. “I’m not sneaking into some bar so that you guys can see that guy in his metal-whatever band. Besides, he was clearly straight. Gorgeous in that James Dean kind of way, but totally and completely straight.”
“Chill out,” I say. “Who said we’re even interested?”
“Please. There are puddles of drool on the floor,” Meg says, wrinkling her nose. “And you need to concentrate on Jamie, not some straight guy that’s probably nearing thirty.”
“Wow, don’t jump to any conclusions there, Meg. Besides, we don’t even know when they’re playing next.”
“Friday,” Landon says, and Meg and I whip our heads in his direction. He shrugs, sheepish. “They’re playing Friday at the Smiling Skull. I saw a flyer.”
“There’s no way we can get into the Smiling Skull,” I say, deflated. It’s a biker bar at worst and a total dive at best. And no matter what kind of fancy fake IDs Landon’s friends might be able to swing, there’s no way any of us could pull off looking twenty-one among that kind of crowd.
“No,” Landon sighs out, “there’s no way. Besides, Meg’s right. You have a date with Jamie this weekend, and he could be your Perfect Ten, so concentrate on that.”
I kind of pout and look to Meg for pity. “Landon just wants to keep the pretty rocker to himself,” I whine.
“Doesn’t make me any less right,” Meg says, her nose pointing in the air.
“Exactly, so just enjoy a cute sophomore and stop being so fickle,” Landon says, and finally closes his Latin book.
“I’m not being fickle. Travis was just . . . interesting, that’s all,” I say in defense. Then I picture Jamie, adorable Jamie, and poof! Travis is nothing but a distant memory. See? Totally not fickle. “Besides, it’s not exactly a hardship to concentrate on Jamie.”
“Or to, um, ‘watch him work,’” Landon says, air-quoting.
I roll my eyes and shove Landon so hard that he has to grab on to the counter to keep from falling off his stool.
Ten
As it turns out, my good intentions were bested by fate, or the Goddess, or at the very least something completely beyond my control.
The following day, with only the purest thoughts about Jamie in my head (okay, maybe not pure, but nice thoughts nonetheless), I step out of the Donkey with a tall chai in hand and—bam!—someone barrels into me so hard that I wind up flat on my back on the sidewalk, wearing every drop of my chai, my books and papers scattered around me like the chalk outline at a murder scene.
“Shit,” I hear a gravelly voice say, and I know that voice. My response is nearly Pavlovian, even though I’ve only heard it once before. I can’t help it. His voice is droolworthy. “Sorry, dude.”
Travis hunches over me, his blond hair falling all around his face. From this angle he looks like he walked off the cover of a Harlequin paperback. I imagine the title would be something lame like Rebel with a Cause, and that the heroine would slowly turn him from a bad boy to a suitable gentleman she could bring home to Mother. As long as he kept that wild streak in the bedroom, of course.
Which isn’t too far off from the fantasies I’m sure I’ll have about him later. But at the moment, with chai all over me, that’s neither here nor there.
“Caffeine really isn’t that life or death,” I say, trying to temper my annoyance with humor.
He merely quirks a smile down at me. “I suppose not. Not if I’m gonna take out innocent bystanders in my quest for espresso.”
He leans back and offers me a hand. I take it, shoving my humiliation aside as he helps me to my feet. Before he lets go and starts to help me gather my things, I notice his hands are rough, calloused—the sure sign of a practiced guitar player.
When I have all my possessions back in my arms he stands back, hands shoved in the pockets of his black skinny jeans, looking at the ground. “
Shoulda looked where I was going.”
“It’s okay.”
“You’re wearing your coffee, man.”
“Chai.”
He looks up, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. Let me buy you some more.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“If I don’t, I’ll feel guilty for weeks. Let me get you another.”
I cock my head, studying him. Those amber eyes are soft, not hard, and apologetic. “You’ve quite the conscience for a badass.”
“Who says I’m a badass?”
“Isn’t that the look you’re going for?” I gesture vaguely at him. “The leather jacket, the boots, the half-shaved head, the smudged eyeliner that’s probably left over from last night.”
Travis takes his hands out of his pockets and holds them up in the universal sign of surrender. “Okay, Mr. Observant. What are you, a psychiatrist or something?”
“A writer,” I say back, and Travis actually looks impressed by that. “And if it’ll quiet your conscience, buy me a cup of chai.”
“What the hell is that stuff, anyway? You smell like cinnamon.”
“You’re not generally supposed to wear it,” I say, glaring at him. “And it’s tea.”
“Smells like fruity hippie shit.”
“It is, which is why I like it.”
His face snaps up, his eyes meeting mine. We stare at each other for a minute, at some sort of stalemate over our difference in beverage choices as if it signifies an insurmountable difference in our personalities, and then he shrugs it off with a snort. I am, apparently, forgiven for being a hipster.
“Wait here,” he says, lips parting into the sexiest, most promising smile I’ve seen. Ever. “I’ll bring you more fruity hippie shit.”
Two minutes later he’s back and I’m holding a new cup of chai and the old chai on my clothes is starting to get really cold. Which kind of sucks in early November. Travis takes one look at my shivering self and shakes his head, his hair flopping over his eyes.
“Come on, my apartment’s right across the street,” he says, stepping out into the street without even a glance of concern toward oncoming traffic. “You’re freezing. You can borrow one of my badass jackets.”
I follow him, sprinting into the street to catch up—not without looking both ways first, mind you. Travis isn’t lying. His apartment is literally across the street, and he’s fitting his key into the lock as I reach him. He kicks at the bottom of the door a couple of times and it swings open, revealing a flight of stairs.
Travis gestures for me to go in first, but I hesitate. He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to harvest your organs or something.”
I know that. Or at least I think I can sense that about him, but still. It hasn’t occurred to me until now that I just followed a guy I don’t even know to his house. Alone. But I can’t really voice those fears out loud, that would be insulting to both of us, so I just stand there like an idiot.
“How old are you, exactly?”
“I’ll be eighteen in a month,” I say.
He nods, flicking his tongue ring against his top lip. “So when do kids these days outgrow that whole stranger danger thing?”
“I’m not scared—”
“Tell you what,” Travis says, and he takes a step closer to me so that our chests almost meet. The chai is cold against my skin but I feel his warmth beyond that, and my body aches to get closer. And it’s such a good ache. “Come in, and I promise I’ll put my kitchen knives away. Maybe I’ll even keep my hands to myself.”
I make a noise that may or may not be a small moan. “Okay.”
He leads me up his stairs and into a small apartment at the top, which looks to be about three rooms in total. The staircase comes up to the living room. There’s a kitchen next to it, and a little hallway where his bedroom must be.
Not that I’m even thinking about that.
I stand at the top of the stairs, watching as he digs through a pile of clothes on a futon against the wall. The whole place is kind of a mess, the way I figure college students live, with posters of bands and women with huge boobs on the wall. Then he whips a T-shirt at my face that I catch before it hits me. It’s black, and on the front, in a deep turquoise color, the name Liquid is printed. The letters themselves look like they’re dripping.
“Your band?” I ask, and he doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised that I know this information. He continues rummaging in the mess of clothing.
“Yeah. They sell like shit. Want another?”
I look at the shirt and smile. “No thanks. I’d like to hear your band, though.”
He straightens and looks at me. “You’re seventeen?”
I feel myself blush, suddenly embarrassed by my age. “Yeah. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.” I sink at that answer. Almost out of college. Almost into a different stage of life altogether. For some reason, age feels like a bigger stumbling block between us than his penchant for posters of women in leather bathing suits. “But I’m asking because you could hear us, if you went to the Smiling Skull tomorrow night.”
He goes back to searching and pulls out a jacket that, surprisingly, isn’t leather, but is black all the same.
I take the jacket from his hands with a nod of thanks. “I can’t sneak in there. No way.”
“No, but I could leave your name at the door. If I want you there, they won’t ask questions.”
My mouth falls open. “And you want me there?”
He jerks his shoulder. “It’s the least I can do, after soaking you in chai. Don’t expect too much, though. Vanessa’s been playing like shit lately and Brendon’s voice is still screwed from his cold.”
“Landon says you guys are really good.”
Travis blinks at me. “Well, if Landon says so . . .”
I close my eyes, embarrassed again. “He’s my best friend. Kind of a self-proclaimed music critic. If he says you’re good, you are.”
He shrugs. “We’ve got a few possibilities. Indie labels, maybe something bigger.”
“Wow,” I say lamely. “So you’re what, going to drop out of school?”
“Already did.” I blink, and Travis rolls his eyes with an impatience that tells me he’s already been over this with multiple people. “College isn’t for everybody, man. Don’t start.”
I shake my head. “I’m not. If I had your talent I wouldn’t go to college either.”
“You don’t know anything about my talent. Yet.” He clicks his tongue ring against his teeth. “But you will if you come see us. Invite Landon too. Whoever. If they’re with you, they’re in.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“Whatever. You gonna put that stuff on or just stand there freezing?”
“What? Oh.” I look down at the clothes he’s given me and realize he wants me to change. Now. In front of him. I am rarely self-conscious about my body, but for the first time in years, maybe since Landon undressed me the first time, I feel bashful.
Then I square my shoulders and tug my shirt over my head, because damn it, this is why I do sit-ups.
Before I have the Liquid shirt pulled down over my skin, Travis’s hands are on me. On the skin of my stomach. I let out a yelp, startled, and he just chuckles, his breath coming out in hot bursts against my neck as he pulls me against him.
“Sorry, I know I promised to keep my hands to myself . . .”
“No, it’s just . . .” Wow, he’s close and he smells so good and his hands are like fire on me. I struggle to pull myself together and nod to the posters over his shoulder. “You seemed like maybe boys weren’t your thing.”
“Boys are just one of my many things,” he growls out, and pulls me closer so that his hands fan out across the skin of my back and our mouths are close enough to kiss.
And Great Goddess I hope we’re going to.
“Yeah, it’s good.” Then he does kiss me. Kind of. He licks at my lips, sliding that metal knob in his tongue between them to part them, and then he kisses me. He tastes like he smells—spicy and dark, and I swear for a second that this must be what danger itself tastes like. The good kind of danger. When your heart is racing and blood is pulsing in your veins and you know something’s coming. Something amazing.
When he pulls away all I can do is hold on to his shirt, steadying my swaying body, like how the drunk college kids hold on to the lamp posts uptown on Friday nights. He chuckles again.
“What name should I leave at the door?”
“I’m, um . . .” Shit. What is my name? Travis laughs, wicked and mocking, and it clears my head just enough to remember. “I’m Sam. Sam Raines.”
Travis takes the black jacket from my hands and helps me into it, clearly amused. I’m moving slowly, still like a drunk, and I think I might actually be in shock. Kissing Travis Blake was definitely the last thing I imagined I’d do today.
“Get home safe, Sam. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He takes my chin in his hands, forcing me to look at him, his skin as rough as his manhandling of me. Part of me feels insulted by that; part of me hopes he’ll do it again. “Bring my jacket back. And tell your mom you won’t be home until morning. We’ve got plans after the show.”
I suck in a breath, thrilled and terrified at what he means, but I nod to him and say as casually as I can, “See ya,” before heading down his stairs without a backward glance.
The note I pass to Landon through Rachel Gliesner the next day at school simply reads, Tonight. The Smiling Skull. Pick me up at 9.
Of course I get a note back in big capital letters saying, WHAT??? that I don’t answer. At least not until after Latin, when Landon corners me in the hallway.
“How?” he says.
“Travis is going to leave my name at the door,” I answer, trying not to look overly pleased with myself. That only leads to more questions from Landon, which I shrug off by saying I just bumped into Travis at the Donkey yesterday—literally, ha—and he promised to get me in. I leave out the whole thing about borrowing his jacket and the spilled chai in general, and I most certainly leave out the part where Travis kissed me dirtier than I’ve ever been kissed in my life.
