Vintage Volume One

by Suzanne, Lisa

  I’d been listening to Flashing Light for five hours, and I wasn’t tired of it. Playing the album on repeat made the fans happy, but it also pulled at something inside of me.

  I had opened the booklet inserted inside the CD case at one point.

  Aaron “Fitz” Fitzgerald –Vocals

  Vinnie D’Angelo – Drums

  Parker James – Guitar

  Garrett Harper – Bass

  It wasn’t the lead singer whose voice spoke to me. There was some other voice in there, the one whose voice wouldn’t stop playing in my head.

  I read through the entire insert. The guitarist seemed to have written most of the songs. It was his words that were washing over me, his words that were whirling around in my mind.

  What was it about this song, this disc, this band, these artists, that bass drum, that guitar, that backup voice?

  That voice.

  It was the first thing I’d really felt in months.

  three

  I needed a ten minute break, a quick getaway from the throngs of screaming women clad in tight jeans and tighter shirts before the band arrived and the real insanity began.

  The café was overcrowded with fans. The entire store was, actually. So instead of my usual Coke in the café, I headed to the break room for a few minutes of meditative peace.

  The back door was open. It led out to the alley where I took my smoke breaks—or, rather, where I occasionally smoked a cigarette just to have an excuse to get out of the store for a while.

  I made my way over to shut it when I heard voices.

  It had to be the guys from the band.

  I sat at the break room table, an old table that looked like it had once sat in someone’s kitchen. It was filled with grooves and scratches, a table that had clearly lived a long life. I strained to hear the conversation outside. Of course the first words that caught my attention were: “I heard Gideon Price’s daughter works in this store.”

  It wasn’t the back-up’s voice. It wasn’t the lead singer’s voice either. I didn’t recognize the voice.

  There was a grunt in reply, as if whoever voice number one was speaking to didn’t really care who worked in the store. I liked that about him.

  “Maybe we can figure out who she is and she can talk to her dad,” voice number one said.

  “The fuck good is that gonna do?” I heard his voice. He was muttering, but it was in the same timbre as the back-up. It was him. I recognized it immediately.

  “You never know, Parker.” Parker. Guitarist Parker. Songwriter Parker. “Do you think it’s that hot piece of ass with the dark hair and the luscious tits?”

  “Jesus, Vinnie. Have a little respect.”

  Vinnie laughed. I remembered reading that he was the drummer. “This coming from you? Don’t pretend like you don’t want to bang the shit out of her in this alley.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.” Parker’s voice was forceful. He was pissed at the way his bandmate was talking about me.

  I didn’t blame him. I was pissed, too.

  “Why are you being so defensive?” Vinnie asked.

  “I’m not. Yeah, she’s hot. Yeah, I’d fuck her. But what does it matter?”

  Guitarist Songwriter Back-Up Vocalist Parker wanted to fuck me.

  “Since when do you pass up pussy?”

  “Since when did she offer hers to me?”

  He had a point, but now that I’d heard him defending me to his friend, I was ready to serve it up on a platter to him.

  “Since when did you need an offer?”

  Guitarist Parker changed the subject. “We should probably get in there and sign some shit.”

  I heard some rustling. Maybe a cigarette thrown down and ground out with a shoe. I heard footsteps, and then the two of them appeared in the doorway. Both of them had their heads down as they walked into the break room, and the moment I saw Parker in person for the first time, I knew which one was him.

  His appearance matched his voice. He looked like heat and sex. He glowed with a light that shouldn’t have been surrounding him given the dark hair that peeked out from the cap he wore backward on his head, his dark eyes and facial scruff, his black shirt and black jeans and black Nikes, the black ink of tattoos snaking down his arms. His voice alone had made me feel emotions that I’d blocked for a year, but the visual image matched that voice. He was goddamn sexy and I felt my blood boil just looking at him.

  Vinnie, on the other hand, didn’t have a light surrounding him. He was tall—taller than Parker—and thin with defined muscles in his arms. His dark hair was a little on the longish side, and he tossed his head to the side as he walked through the door to allow the fringe across his forehead to fall into a perfect sweep to the side.

  “This is gonna be a long ass six weeks if you’re gonna act like a pussy every time we talk about a woman,” Vinnie complained.

  They looked up at the same time. When they saw me, they both froze.

  I pressed my lips into a thin, fake smile, trying to communicate without words that I had heard everything. I forced myself to maintain my cool in the presence of Guitarist Parker. I was used to putting on an act for people, anyway.

  I maintained my dignity when what I really wanted was to pull off my clothes so Parker could fuck me on top of the old kitchen table.

  It didn’t really matter either way. I’d never see either of them again after that night. But it was kind of entertaining to watch them suffer.

  They glanced at each other and back to me, and I raised my eyebrows.

  “My father doesn’t give a shit about new bands,” I said. I stood and faced Vinnie. “Neither do I. And just for the record, I would never let you bang the shit out of me.” I looked over at Parker, a ripple of adrenaline firing up my spine. “You? Maybe.”

  I turned and exited the break room, a smile of triumph on my lips.

  It was the first time I had really, truly smiled in a while. My face stretched into a wide grin once the door to the break room closed behind me. I brought my fingers to my lips in wonder.

  I couldn’t get over the torrent of wild emotions crashing through me, emotions I had essentially shut off. I forgot what it was like to have highs and lows when everything was set on even for so long.

  It was Guitarist Parker. He made me feel again.

  And for that, I owed him.

  I just wasn’t sure what I was going to do to pay him my debt.

  I stood in the hallway leading from the break room to the main area of the store to catch my breath for a minute when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was warm. It felt like summer or maybe sex in the rain.

  I wasn’t really sure what that felt like, but I knew who it was before I turned around.

  “I’m sorry about Vinnie.” My eyes met Parker’s when I whipped around at his voice. Typically band members were ushered to the table for the signing and ushered out just as quickly. They didn’t have time to spare on long conversations with their adoring legions.

  But Parker had made an exception. He’d come after me.

  The question was why he’d done that.

  The insecure part of my brain told me that it was because of my dad. But a tiny speck of confidence reminded me of what he had said to Vinnie only moments earlier. I’d caught a conversation neither of them could have had any idea I’d been listening to. Guitarist Parker had stood up for me anyway.

  Just as I was about to respond with something clever, something that would hook him in, something that would allow me to repay my debt to him, I realized that I couldn’t.

  I couldn’t understand the waves of emotion coursing through my system as I faced Parker. I’d never felt so pulled to a man—to anyone—before in my life.

  It wasn’t just because he was attractive. He was.

  But it was so much more than physical beauty.

  I was attracted to something inside of him, something that connected me to him. I was pulled toward him. I could see myself becoming addicted to him, and that obse
ssion was unhealthy. I’d lived it once before, and I couldn’t go through it again.

  Besides, he was a musician.

  I didn’t date musicians.

  I wanted nothing to do with musicians.

  Even if a little part of me was curious what he was like when he was in his element. What he looked like shredding a guitar on stage in front of a crowd.

  He had to be sexy as hell on stage.

  But I couldn’t get involved.

  I was far too vulnerable to be with someone who could potentially only want to be with me because of my dad.

  So instead of saying anything at all, I simply nodded my head once and turned away from him, walking toward the store and the monotony of folding t-shirts.

  For some reason, Katie popped into my head. After my best friend had been taken from me, I’d had a hard time getting close to people. But when Damien left, he shattered me. It was too painful to deal with the roaring ache of loneliness, so I’d gotten in the habit of shutting off everything around me.

  Emptiness had surrounded me, gathered me up in its arms and sheltered me. It had become my companion, my comfort after I’d lost everything.

  And then he walked into my store.

  He was like a ray of sunshine in my dark existence. If I was rain and thunder and clouds, storms, then he was warmth on my skin and a balmy breeze. But much like oil and water or truth and lies or fire and gasoline or order and chaos, darkness and light had little chance of surviving together.

  Flashing Light was scheduled to sign for two hours. Eight to ten. They’d barely even started, and I was already counting the seconds until they left.

  I was used to my monotonous life. I didn’t like events that threw off the curve. I didn’t like upsetting the balance.

  I couldn’t help my traitorous eyes darting over in his direction. His fans loved him. The ladies were swooning and flirting and acting like immature fools.

  All four men in the band were attractive, but Parker stood out the most. It was the dark shadow of a beard, the way he wore his hat like he just didn’t have a care in the world, the confidence that oozed from him.

  Vinnie sat next to him, and instead of a sexy confidence, he showcased an ugly arrogance. He knew he wasn’t hard to look at, and he used that when he flirted with the women asking for his signature. The other two, Fitz and Garrett, I assumed, were more like Parker than Vinnie. One had sandy hair and piercing blue eyes. Just by quick observation based on the things he said and the way people reacted to him, he had to be the lead singer, Fitz. The other, Garrett, had longer blond hair and green eyes.

  My eyes returned to Parker.

  I couldn’t help it.

  I was intensely attracted to him.

  But it would never happen.

  People were buying vintage t-shirts like they were going out of style. The store was busier than I’d ever seen it. I was glad for Barry and his pocketbook, but I missed the quiet hipsters that typically shopped our place.

  I went back to the break room to check our inventory. Three boxes marked “TSHIRTS” were stacked on top of one another. I yanked on the top box and let it crash to the ground in front of me. I used my box cutter to slit the tape over the top. I slipped the box cutter into my back pocket and bent over the box to see what was inside. I was sorting through the t-shirts when I heard a voice as I bent over the box.

  “Well if that isn’t an invitation, I’m not sure what is.”

  I straightened and whirled around at the voice. It was Drummer Vinnie. The one who’d been making lewd comments about me. The one Parker had stood up to in order to defend me.

  I felt my face heat. I didn’t like the idea of being alone in the break room with Vinnie. He seemed somehow…dangerous. After what had happened to my best friend, I tended to side with my instincts about people.

  “I wouldn’t invite you to the last party on earth.”

  “Ouch. She’s got fangs.”

  “And she isn’t afraid to use them.” It wasn’t true. I was suddenly terrified, and I hated Parker for one hot second for making me feel emotions so strongly again. Before my shift had started that day, before I’d heard Flashing Light for the first time, that lush voice that called to something deep inside of me, I wouldn’t have been so scared. I’d been used to blocking out my emotions, and I could’ve faced Vinnie head-on. But now I had fear, and he sensed it.

  He laughed, a fake, harsh, tinny noise that grated on my ears.

  He walked toward me. Stalked toward me.

  I was uncomfortable, but I was working hard not to show it. I couldn’t let him see that I was weak. It would only allow him to take advantage of me.

  When he was mere feet from me, he stopped.

  I held a t-shirt in my hand and held my eyes steady to his. I slowly lowered my hand, trying to appear nonchalant. I felt the cool handle sticking out of my back pocket.

  If this asshole took one step closer, I was going to use my box cutter as a weapon.

  “Vinnie, leave her alone.”

  The breath that had been expanding my chest flew out in a whoosh as my eyes darted from Vinnie’s and fell straight onto Parker’s.

  He saved me. My savior had come to protect me.

  If my instincts told me that Vinnie was dangerous, they also told me that Parker was safe.

  “I was just messing with her,” Vinnie said, another harsh laugh echoing through the break room as he turned from me and headed to the alley door for a cigarette break.

  Once he was out the door, Parker moved toward me. “Are you okay?” he asked when he stood across from me, as close as Vinnie had been, his voice soft.

  I found it funny how the wrong man standing in front of me could trigger my fight response, while the right man standing in front of me could trigger my emotional response.

  “I—I’m fine,” I said, the strength gone from my stuttering voice.

  “You’re trembling,” he said, looking at my hands absently wringing the t-shirt I held.

  He took another step and reached toward me.

  My natural reaction was to fold myself into him as he wrapped his arms around me. My cheek met his chest. I breathed him in. He smelled like whiskey and cigarettes and some expensive cologne that reminded me of a field filled with sunshine after a violent thunderstorm.

  He gently stroked a hand down my hair, smoothing it before running his fingertips down my back. “I’m sorry Vinnie’s an asshole.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, pulling out of his embrace.

  “No, it isn’t.” He reached for me again, but I backed away and returned to my box of t-shirts.

  I couldn’t do this. Not with Parker.

  Not only was he a musician, but I knew he was good. I couldn’t get tangled up in him. He’d only leave me, or he’d be taken from me.

  And based on the emotions that had been running rampant through me since I’d heard the first song on the Flashing Light album, I knew I was incapable of handling our imminent end.

  “It’s not the first time some asshole from a band thinks he’s too good to follow the rules, and it won’t be the last.”

  “Will you at least tell me your name?”

  “Roxanna.” I realized I should’ve asked him his name, but I already knew.

  “Roxanna?” I could feel his eyes on me even though I wasn’t looking at him. “That name doesn’t fit you.”

  I shrugged. “Tell that to my parents.”

  He laughed, and it seemed like the room got a little brighter just with the sound. “What’s your middle name?”

  “Cecilia.”

  “Roxanna Cecilia. If that’s not the daughter of a musician, I don’t know what is.”

  “I hate my name.”

  “What do you want it to be?”

  “Something simpler.”

  “How about Jimi?”

  “Jimi?”

  He nodded toward my shirt. I’d thrown on a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt and a pair of jeans that morning. It was sort of an undeclared uniform
that employees of Vintage had to wear a vintage t-shirt to work.

  “Sure. Jimi it is.” Like it mattered. This guy was in my store for one night, but I’d at least have the memories of our conversations to hold after he was gone.

  “Okay, Jimi. I just came back for a break with Vinnie.”

  “Do what you need to do.”

  “You’ll be around?” He took a step closer to me.

  “Yeah. I’m here until close.”

  “What are you doing after close?” he asked. He reached out and briefly fingered a stray lock of my hair.

  I ignored the shudder that rolled through me at his touch. “Going home.”

  “You probably shouldn’t do that alone.” His voice projected confidence. He seemed like the kind of guy who was used to getting what he wanted.

  I rolled my eyes. “Good line.” I turned my attention back to my t-shirts.

  “What time is close?”

  “Eleven. But with cleaning up after you, I’ll probably be here until after midnight.”

  “Perfect. I have a short set to play at eleven, but I can be back here around midnight.”

  “You have no reason to come back here.”

  He took off the hat he wore backwards and set it on the table with the grooves. He ran his hands through his thick, luscious, messy, dark hair. I found myself wanting to do that for him.

  I stared down at the hat for a second, memorizing it. It was black. The word “Sox” was embroidered in black letters, black on black. It was the Chicago White Sox logo.

  “Looks like I forgot my lucky hat. I can’t go on tour for six weeks without it.”

  I couldn’t help my smile. I didn’t want him to see it, so I ducked back into the box of t-shirts. I didn’t want him to know how he affected me. I didn’t want him to know that when he’d touched my hair, an air of intimacy and eroticism accompanied the gesture. I didn’t want him to know that just feeling like he cared—that miniscule act of caring that came so easily to some people—was enough to send a shudder of desire through me.

  And I certainly didn’t want him to know how goddamn sexy I thought he was.

  I’d forgotten what desire, true desire for another person, felt like. It had been far too long. I needed to pull myself out of the despair that I’d been in, but I still wasn’t sure how to get out.