by A. K. Rose
Learning to Love Again 2
A.K. Rose
© 2016, A.K. Rose. All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
ALSO BY A.K. ROSE
Laura and Mel Series
We Need to Talk (Book 1)
Second Chances (Book 2)
Through it All (Book 3)
Always (Book 4)
Learning to Love Series
Learning to Love Again
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This is a sequel to Learning to Love Again. Slight overlap is provided, but it may be helpful to read the first story in the series prior to Learning to Love Again 2, if you haven’t already.
For T.L.
“Never give up, for that is just the place and time that the tide will turn.”
–Harriet Beecher Stowe
ONE
This is new, she thought, turning the calling card of the bass player over in her hand, the edges of the card already showing wear from the abuse it had received for the past half hour.
Jessica Taylor was wracked with indecision. She’d had the gumption to ask the mysterious bassist for her number. She’d had the calm, cool exterior to pretend like she knew what she was doing in the first place, which she most certainly did not. She’d looked into the eyes of a beautiful woman and asked her for her number, and then taken the card with a smile. The card she held in her hand right this very minute.
At the time she’d been two Lone Stars in on the evening and had just enough liquid courage coursing through her veins to make her behave in completely new ways. In the light of day, she wasn’t so brave. She’d never been on a date with a woman. Sure, she’d dated plenty of musicians—musicians were her type—but never a female musician. The thought hadn’t crossed her mind until her best friend had admitted to being in love with her a mere three months prior.
The irony, of course, was that Cassie had moved on. She’d met a woman who seemed made for her, fallen in love again, this time with the right person—the person who could love her for her—leaving Jessica confused and lost. It had been such a short amount of time, and yet so much had changed.
In those three small months, Jessica started to see Cassie Hollander with a new lens. The power of suggestion had planted something in her that made her consider the options with her friend, had made her think of more than friends ideas, even though she’d only ever dated men. She’d even tried to kiss Cassie, unsuccessfully. She’d acted so out of character she didn’t even recognize herself. When she went to a gay bar with her friend Steve and proceeded to ask for the bass player’s—Lana’s—number, well, she turned over the biggest new leaf in the history of her personal leaf-turning resume.
Now she sat nursing a cup of cold coffee—red hair still wet from a late morning shower—staring at the card, and wondering what to do. If she called Lana, she was setting herself up for the unknown. She was going to be thirty-one in less than a week. It didn’t seem like the time to try same-sex dating. On the other hand, she was going to be thirty-one in less than a week, and didn’t she deserve to know if there was something there with the bass player? She had a long list of failed romances with men; didn’t she deserve to see if she was perhaps missing something entirely?
Jess dropped the card onto her dining room table, the white of the paper stock bright in contrast against the dark mahogany wood of the table, and picked up her phone.
What the hell? You only live once.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she dialed the number on Lana’s card, a card intended to drum up gigs, and printed with only the essential information.
Lana Parker
Manager, Bassist
The Crickets | Austin, TX
512-345-3452
The phone rang twice, and then a woman answered, a hint of struggle in her voice, “Hello?”
“Hi, is this Lana?” Jessica asked, drawing out the “a” to pronounce it “Laaana,” her eyes fixed on the yellow-painted wall just behind her dining room table. Her idea of fixing up her house a few years before had involved brightly colored paint. She hadn’t bothered doing anything other than painting—it was just too time consuming, and her job as a researcher at the law firm kept her busy sixty-plus hours a week.
“It sure is. Who’s calling?”
Lana’s reply was efficient and not overly welcoming, making Jessica wonder if she’d made a huge mistake. “It’s Jessica, we met at the bar a couple of days ago. I’m not sure if you remember . . .”
“Of course I do,” Lana started, clearing her throat away from the phone, but close enough that Jess could hear it. “I never forget a beautiful woman who’s gutsy enough to ask for my number. I didn’t think you’d call. I’m glad you did.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Jess paused. This was so new. She sat paralyzed momentarily as she realized that, without traditional gender roles, she had no idea what to do next. Ask her out? Let her do the asking? Make small talk? It was unclear and confusing.
“Hey, listen,” Lana jumped in to help. She didn’t yet know that Jess was new to the community, but sensed she was uncomfortable. She’d slept in that day, the foggy haze of a late night burning off as she blinked, her people skills coming back to her in a flash. Lana was nothing if not good at making people feel comfortable. It’s what made her a good leader for the band, and what made her a good social worker. “Listen, we’re playing at The Back Door Thursday night. Why don’t you come? Sit up front and enjoy, and then we can get a drink together after? I’ll make sure you have a reserved seat. What do you think?”
It was the week in between Christmas and New Year’s. Jess was preparing for a big case starting in the new year; she’d be really busy soon. Staying out late drinking and watching a band was well within her idea of things to do for fun—it always had been—and she was available. “That would be great, thanks,” she said with a smile, certain it radiated through the phone line. And then, “I’ll see you there.”
“Sounds good; I’ll see you there,” Lana offered. “Hey, what’s your favorite song anyway?”
“What do you mean, like, of yours, or of all the songs ever made?”
“Any song ever made. What’s your favorite song?” This was a signature Lana Parker move. Find out the girl’s favorite song, learn it fast, and then have the band play it while she sat in the front row at a gig. It worked every time. It also told her everything she needed to know about the woman. She thought a person’s favorite song was a window into their soul; a good indicator of the kind of human they were. Even though she had a bit of a tough exterior look when they played gigs—she had to support the bad girl bass player image—Lana was quite sensitive and caring on the inside. She wouldn’t be good at her day job if she wasn’t, and she was quite good at her day job. The rock ’n’ roll exterior was just an image.
“Wow, that’s a hard question. My favorite song ever? I couldn’t say. I love music way too much to have a singular favorite song.”
“Try. Give me one song that’s a contender, anyway,” Lana didn’t give up; this info was important to her.
“Okay . . . something I’ve played over and over again on repeat? Probably I Can’t Make You Love Me.”
“Bonnie Raitt, huh? I wouldn’t pick Bonnie Raitt for
you, but not a bad choice . . . ”
As suspected, Jess’s song choice told Lana everything she needed to know. Here was a woman who had clearly been loved and left time and again. Luckily, it was a pretty easy song musically and lyrically. It was well within the realm of something the band could learn quickly. Her plan was in place. She was quite certain she could turn this song into a desirable outcome—an outcome that put a young redhead in her bed sooner rather than later. She might be a sensitive soul with a tough exterior, but she had needs too, just like anyone else. And now, she needed to convince the band to cover the song and let her sing, and the magic of music would do the rest.
# # #
“We need to cover I Can’t Make You Love Me,” Lana announced to no one in particular as the band pulled itself together that afternoon. It was early by their rehearsal standards—everyone had a day job, so they were used to practicing late into the evening. Since it was the Christmas break, they’d managed to assemble in the early afternoon. For once they could rehearse for that week’s gig and still have a chance at having a personal life that night.
The life of a gigging musician wasn’t all that glamorous, especially since The Crickets weren’t exactly burning up the music scene. Their five-person band was hanging on by a disintegrating thread. They’d talked about breaking up at least once a week for a year. And yet, they still tried. They still showed up for each other, still practiced two nights a week and played a gig on most weekends. They still came home smelling like cheap liquor and whatever that smell is when too many hot bodies cram into too small of a space. They were in their mid-thirties, one of them pushing forty, and they still had the fire in their bellies to make music together. The fact was, they loved hanging out more than anything. They’d been a band for ten years. They’d been through marriages and divorces and babies and job changes. They’d been there for each other when loved ones were lost, when life threw curveballs, through triumph and tragedy. That’s a lot of history to cast aside by breaking up. So, they stayed together.
Whenever Lana asked for a cover song, they all knew what it meant. Cover songs were signature Lana Parker, and as the only single member of the band, she sometimes asked everyone else to take one for the team and let her sing a cover to woo some unsuspecting young woman. For the most part, nobody minded. Lana deserved to have some fun too. The downfall was they never had much notice to learn these special requests. Sometimes they were easy; sometimes, they were nightmarishly hard. Luckily, this request wasn’t too hard in the scheme of all music and they still had a couple of days to learn it.
“So, who’s the lucky lady?” Jon asked from behind his drum set in the back of his garage, the band’s de facto practice location. He was tapping a drumstick on his snare drum slowly, beating out a steady rhythm for no reason in particular, surrounded by a selection of bikes mounted to the wall and a shelf overrun with boxes labeled “Xmas” off to the side. Those probably needed to come back down soon to be re-filled with their contents. A large Texas flag hung behind his head.
“Just someone I met a few days ago at the gay bar we played.”
“What’s her name?” Jon persisted. Tap, tap, tap. That stick kept lightly hitting the head of the snare, over and over again. He was a typical drummer, full of energy and unable to keep his hands still, a partially-inked tattoo sleeve peeking out from the tattered cuff of his thermal undershirt.
“Her name’s Jessica. She’s a redhead, she’s gorgeous, and I know literally nothing else about her except her favorite song is I Can’t Make You Love Me.”
Jon kept tapping the snare and smiled. Brothers Josh and Chuck tuned their guitars, picking notes here and there and humming to each other while Jeanine went through a chord progression on the keyboard for the same reason. The Crickets were a lot of things: almost middle-aged, mediocre, and sometimes monotonous. But they were always in tune.
“So, you think it’s enough?” Josh chimed in, his guitar suitably dialed in for the practice now. “You think you can swing this girl into your court with that song only?”
“It works every time, J. Why do you doubt me?”
“Probably because you have more game than he ever did,” Chuck laughed, giving his brother a snarky grin.
“Trust me, it’ll work. I know what I’m doing when it comes to single women and winning them over. I’ve done this experiment a few times, ya know.” Lana was confident. This idea worked time and again. The average woman fell at her feet when she sang to them, practically begging her to take them to bed. What she didn’t know was that Jessica Taylor wasn’t your average woman.
TWO
It had been a few days since Rachel Gifford had popped the question over breakfast in bed on Christmas Day, and Cassie Hollander was feeling good. She was in love; she was happy. Mostly. The promise of a fresh start that comes with a new year was just around the corner, and she was headed to finally get the fiberglass cast that had accompanied her everywhere for almost a month removed from her leg.
Cassie had been hit by a pickup truck in a crosswalk a month prior, her face covered with road rash and contusions, her leg broken in two places. Her face had healed fairly well; she had a few hints of scars showing; nothing a little make-up couldn’t hide and a laser treatment could remove if she wanted. The real struggle was her leg. She felt like she was dragging a fifty-pound anchor weight around with her, the cast seeming heavier every day as her calf got smaller and smaller, the atrophy of her muscles evident even under the shroud of fiberglass. She’d find out soon how small her leg was; exactly what it was going to take to rebuild the muscles she’d made over a lifetime but lost in no time. She was tough though, and she would put in the work her body required to get back to normal.
The only thing that lingered in her mind—the only thought she couldn’t easily dismiss—was that she was on rocky ground with her best friend, once again.
Their relationship had been so good for years, and then it came crashing down a few months ago when she told Jess she was in love with her. She knew now it wasn’t Jess, not really. She’d been hiding, her small view into the world only made smaller by the fact that she was so far in the closet even the skeletons didn’t know she was in there. When she finally decided to be herself, when she finally stopped caring what people would think, when her heart was finally open to meeting her soul mate, she did. It sounded so cliché. It was hard to believe, but it was true. The very day she decided to step out of the closet, Rachel two-stepped her way into Cassie’s life, and everything changed.
“Hey, what are you thinking? You seem a million miles away,” Rachel asked from the driver’s seat of her Lexus, noting Cassie’s considerable lack of conversation skills since they’d left the house. She should be excited—they were heading to get her cast off—and yet she’d barely uttered a word, letting music fill the airspace between them instead of their normal banter.
“Oh, sorry,” Cassie said, bringing her thoughts back into the present. “I was just thinking how good everything is right now, how much things have turned around for me in such a short amount of time.”
“Things are good, that’s for sure. Are you happy?”
“I’m so happy, you have no idea.”
“So then, why the far off look? What’s up?”
Cassie was picking at a strand of fiberglass that was peeling off her cast, her nervous hands in full force as she considered if she wanted to tell Rachel the rest of what she was thinking. “It’s Jess. We haven’t spoken since that day . . .”
“The day she kissed you?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t even know we’re engaged. I don’t know how she’s doing. It’s just awkward. I don’t know if I should call her, if I should give her some space, or what. It feels like we’re in such a weird place in our friendship again, and it’s weighing on me, I guess.”
“Well—and don’t take this the wrong way—do you want to stay friends with her?” Rachel had been understanding about Cassie’s friendship with Jessica. She was, after all,
Cassie’s best friend. Though she’d be lying if she said she didn’t have a twinge of jealousy from time to time. She was only human. She knew how Cassie felt about Jessica—she knew she’d been in love with her. She’d wondered if those feelings were still lurking in the background, if they would always be there in some ways.
“Yes, of course I do. She was my best friend. I don’t know if she can still be—we’ve had a hell of a weird year—but I still want to be friends.”
“Okay, why don’t you just call her? Ask her to coffee, go hang out like you used to. Go have one of your dinners at Alejandro’s and talk about all your lawyer drama and gossip. It’s only going to get more awkward the longer you wait, and the odds of staying friends will just diminish.”
“You’re right,” Cassie agreed. “Let’s go get this cast off and I’ll call her when we get home.”
# # #
“So, Cassie, how are you feeling?” Dr. Radner asked, his white lab coat perfectly pressed, the stitching of his name on the pocket a shade of bright blue that matched his eyes. “Are you ready to get this cast off?”
“I’m good, thanks, and I’m more than ready,” Cassie answered with a smile as she looked at the medical posters hanging on the wall, an anatomy lesson confronting her without her consent. How anyone remembered all of those bones, she didn’t know. Then again, she remembered obscure legal facts, so she guessed it just came down to interest. If you’re interested in something, it’s easy.
“Then, let’s free your leg. Michelle will be in shortly with the Dremel and she’ll cut it off, and then I’ll be back to have a look. Sound good? Any questions you want to ask before we do this?”
