by Kat Bastion
Close. Too close.
Sweat glistened on his face, a single drip falling from his hairline to his brow.
Right, “You’ll breathe easier.”
My gasping breaths sucked in his controlled exhalations, mingling our air. Our lips hovered mere inches apart as he stared down at me for the briefest second.
Like we could throw caution to the wind and bridge the gap.
Like it didn’t matter what he’d challenged, and I’d promised.
An instant later, the moment vanished as he released his hold on my arms. He lifted his hands above his head and locked his fingers of the right hand on his opposite wrist. Then he nodded forward and resumed our course in a casual stroll. “Keep that chin up, opens the lungs. Walk it off.”
Unable to catch my breath, a sharp stitch stabbing my side, I mimicked his posture and pace, a few steps behind this time. I had no idea where my competitive streak had come from—easygoing and free-flowing more my style—but the limits of my body had overridden all else.
Along the curve of the track, we walked. When we reached our initial starting point at the end of the curve, he stopped. “Ready?”
No. “Yes.”
And there it was, my newfound competitive streak, back with a vengeance. Maybe it wasn’t running itself, but Darren that kept provoking it from me.
Or maybe it was frustration that my plan to flirt kept falling by the wayside. Every time I got close to him, he threw me off-balance.
On our resumed run, his pace slowed. And this time it was a bit easier to keep up with him.
One additional lap. No collapse.
Another: winded but hanging.
After the third nonstop lap, fourth if the lame first one was included, we slowed and eased up to two shaded metal benches where he’d left the Gatorades. Slight condensation beaded the surface of the bottles. Arms up again, we paced along the short length of the benches. Then he uncapped one of the bottles and handed it to me before opening his own and chugging.
After a slow inhale, I tipped my head back to let the sweet chilled liquid splash over my tongue and, with greedy swallows, coat my parched throat.
“Not bad.” He wiped the back of his arm across his mouth.
His tone had lowered a timbre, almost as if he’d weighted the statement into a double entendre. But with his face tilted slightly downward and his eyes hidden under the shadowy bill of his hat, I couldn’t decipher his expression.
I shrugged, acting nonchalant. “I’ll get better.” Just being out of the warehouse—away from the pressures of real life—boosted my spirits, made the abuse of my muscles worth it.
“Give me about ten while you cool off.” He began jogging away.
“Where you going?” I screwed my cap back on, placing my half-full bottle beside his empty.
“Stadium runs.” He paused and pointed up an incline of metal bleachers.
I eyed the bleachers that glinted in the bright sun. Before he had a chance to run off again, I smiled and raced to catch up with him. “Are you training me, or what?” I gave a light shove to his chest, then charged in front of him.
The last image in my mind was the corners of his lips twitching.
But soon, all thoughts of him vanished as the wisdom of my cockiness reared its painful head. Regardless, I forced myself upward, step after step—muscles screaming, me ignoring.
When I slowed a half dozen steps from the top, he caught up beside me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” All I could get out.
“You sure? Your face is turning red.”
“No.” Everything hurt. But I powered on.
When we reached the top row, he stopped. “No shame in taking it easy your first try, Flash. Better to pace yourself so you don’t get injured and have to stop training.”
My eyes narrowed. “Why are you calling me ‘Flash’?”
He grinned. “Better than slow poke.”
I punched his shoulder. “Kiki. The name is Kiki.” I tore down the metal steps, legs shaking. “And I’m done.” I shouted over my shoulder.
Rapid clanking followed until he was right behind me, voicing, “I’ve gotta shower then head to class anyway.”
Second to the last step.
Last step.
Bottom.
And I hadn’t fallen on my face: major accomplishment.
“What are you studying?” I didn’t picture him in college. Yet another tidbit of info I hadn’t bothered to ferret out of him.
“Sound engineering and music theory.”
“Music theory?”
“We analyze how the great composers create. We learn the language behind the music. Sound engineering because musicians don’t always make it. But there’s usually a need for technicians in music, movies, and gaming.”
“Wow. Sounds…technical.” Brilliant. Clearly, my thumping heart had cut off my brain’s ability to formulate educated responses; it had siphoned all the oxygen to my screaming muscles.
“So what do you think? Ready for something different next time?” He held the gym door open.
I brushed past him, doing my best to ignore the enticing heat from his body and his sexy-as-hell masculine scent. “I don’t know. What constitutes different?”
“It’s a surprise.” He leveled a serious look at me, then waited a beat. “In or out?”
Both. My nerve cells pinged to life as my thoughts guttered. He looked incredible, all hot and sweaty and shirtless.
What the hell was I doing? Losing control. I kept guys at a safe distance. Man candy. Fun. That’s all I’d ever felt comfortable enough after…
I swallowed hard, refusing to go there.
Alarm bells that should’ve been clanging my eardrums deaf seemed to muffle. Self-preservation instincts had gone nonexistent. Everything about the man standing before me tempted me to get closer, find out more, take whatever he had to offer…no matter the risk.
I took a deep breath, then blew it out, daring to face the unknown—enticed by it.
“In.”
Most definitely in.
Darren…
Quick shower. Race across campus.
I’d barely made it. I jogged faster, then shot my hand into the two-inch gap of the door slamming shut.
Everyone else in my class, all seventeen of them, had already settled into their seats.
As usual, I veered left, toward the back.
Trey gave me a chin up, then lifted a Starbucks cup. I grabbed it as I took a seat.
“Wasn’t sure you’d show,” he rasped right as the professor entered our tiered room from the opposing corner front door.
“Wasn’t sure either.”
Turned out, I hadn’t been in a hurry to leave Kiki. I’d walked her to her car. Asked her what she’d be doing for the rest of the day. Got caught up in her description of a new sunflower sculpture she’d begun working on. Shocked the hell out of me when I’d realized the time—or that I’d lost track of it wanting to spend more of it with her.
Trey slouched in his chair until his shaggy blond head rested against the brick wall. He tilted his face toward me. “Got you the audition.”
I blew out a relieved breath. “Thanks, man.”
In the following seconds, as the professor droned on about the focus of transformational theory, excitement rocketed through me so hard my legs started to bounce.
It was a longshot: studio drummer for trumpeter Dino Mathis, a rising jazz phenomenon. The once-in-a-lifetime opportunity didn’t typically come to working-class college kids like me. But Trey’s dad owned a record label in New York. And I wasn’t above using his connections.
Yeah, it wasn’t exactly what I’d dreamed about as a kid. Wasn’t my own gig in a band. Wouldn’t be on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans.
But my dreams had changed in the last couple of years. Food on the table, stable home life, and everyone tucked into bed at night and waking up in the morning were my primary goals. Working multiple jobs, finishing my degree,
and exercising like a machine—holding me on the better side of sanity—helped keep those goals in check.
No time for anything I wanted for myself. Not yet.
Time with Kiki fell into forbidden territory. Something that made me feel a little more alive. Something for myself. But the only way it worked? Keeping things neutral. And sliding it into already-scheduled workouts seemed like the perfect way to have it and not lose control of anything else.
Trey leaned his head toward me. “Audition’s Friday at 9:00 a.m.”
“Damn. That’s early. And at rush hour.” In Manhattan. A two-hour drive not in rush hour.
“Sorry, dude. I only put the good word in. Pops calls the shots. Still want to jam at Nick’s?”
Nick’s was on Thursday, right before I’d agreed to meet Kiki for her second training session. The audition was a whole day later. But Trey knew how crunched for time my schedule was. In order to blow a whole day for an audition, other things had to give. I’d miss two Friday morning classes and a monthly staff meeting at Loading Zone. But things were on autopilot at the bar¸ and I was set for the Invitation Only party on Saturday.
“Yeah, I’m good.” In order to move up, make more money, and get more secure in life, sacrifices had to be made.
A studio drummer’s salary could be more than quadruple what I made as a DJ. Maybe allow me to quit Loading Zone. Ease up on my time-crunch. Spend more nights at home.
The reminder of home warred with thoughts of Kiki. Guilt pinged through me. How did clearing room in my schedule for training Kiki mesh with the commitment I’d made to the one thing most important to me, the only person I’d promised to care for, make safe…love?
I blew out a hard breath, angry at myself for burying my head in work and exercise and school. I stewed about it for a solid ten minutes, staring at the clock over the chalkboard, not hearing a word of the professor’s lecture. Then something fundamental shifted deep in my gut. The justification of keeping a shallow existence in order to avoid another disaster no longer sat well with me.
Why all of a sudden?
Kiki.
Damn.
The bright sculptor with an easy laugh and strong determination, a girl who strived for more in her life, made me want more for mine…and for everyone in it.
The girl I hadn’t seen coming tugged at my heart—even though it couldn’t belong to her.
Kiki…
Thursday afternoon, I pulled up to the address Darren had texted me, ten minutes early.
Nervous excitement hammered my pulse, and I blew out a hard breath to calm myself.
I gripped the steering wheel, staring out the windshield at an empty street. Then I glanced in my rearview. “Flirtatiousness, adorableness, and sexiness.” The words had been a fortifying mantra last time I’d met him.
And venturing into the uncharted territory of friends—that I wanted to fuck—at least I hadn’t fallen flat on my face. Running or otherwise.
But it didn’t soothe my nerves this time.
Friends. No sexual qualifier after. Just friends. My heartbeat began to gradually slow. After another few seconds of easier breathing, I stepped out of my car.
Older houses lined the well-maintained street on both sides. A handful of cars were parked along the curbs. A couple sat on driveways. Most were older vehicles.
A captivating bass rhythm caught my attention. It streamed from the house straight ahead and drew me halfway up a flower-lined walkway before I realized I hadn’t shut my car door.
Yet I remained rooted in place. Something soulful about the sound penetrated deep into my bones. The effect was mesmerizing.
An errant breeze skittered a small brown paper bag down the sidewalk. Its crinkling racket continued until it lodged behind my back right tire. I returned to my car and shoved my door shut. Then I picked up the paper bag, crumpled it, and slipped it under the lid of a metal trash can set along the curb.
Seconds later, the incredible music stopped. The hum of a motor began as the two-car garage door slowly lifted, revealing the occupants inside. Five people stood in the empty space. Two college-aged guys held guitars. Haunting deep tones began to stream from the bass guitar, played by a girl, while a lanky guy draped a thin cover over a keyboard.
The fifth stepped out from behind a set of drums.
Darren.
He glanced my way for a split second before turning back toward his bandmates. One of the guys ducked his head under his shoulder strap, removing his guitar. The remaining guitarist stepped near the girl with the bass. They played a short rock riff, then stopped and laughed when she hit a wrong note.
Uncomfortable about intruding, since I had shown up early, I leaned a hip on the back corner of my car, waiting.
Darren secured his drumsticks into a case hanging on one of his larger drums, then walked over to the girl. She nodded, then glanced my way.
Did her charcoaled eyes narrow?
I narrowed my own, assessing her anew. She was young, maybe just out of high school. Her dark shoulder-length hair had a thick bright pink streak on one side. She wore frayed faded jeans, a dark gray henley that clung to a shapely figure, and a black newsboy cap that sat askew, dipping low over her right brow.
My view was suddenly blocked by Darren’s body. He embraced her—as well as one could with a bass guitar between them—then stood there for a moment, head angled down. Seconds later, he turned my way and began striding down the driveway.
“Hey, Flash.” He grinned.
I scowled at the nickname I’d inherited. “You ready?”
“Yep. Want to follow me or go in my truck?”
Hesitating, I glanced down the quiet street again. “It’s okay to leave my car at your house?”
“Not my place. It’s Nick’s. But yeah, it’s cool.”
About to clarify which one Nick was—the girl or one of the guys—my jaw dropped open, mind blanking as I stared at his feet.
“Vibrams!” I pointed to his gray-and-orange shoes in accusation.
He shrugged and opened the passenger door for me. “Yeah, so?”
“But…you harassed me about mine.”
He leaned in my open window, grin twisting sly. “Had to give you shit about something, friend.”
“When did you get them?” Much as I loved mine, his wearing them blew my mind.
“While ago.” He rounded the front of the truck, got in, started the engine, and pulled away before continuing, “You’re right. They are the best shoe for your feet. But, in my opinion, it depends on where you run.”
“Like where?”
“You’ll see.” At the end of the street, he paused, then turned toward the highway.
He said nothing further as he merged into traffic. We passed an exit, then another. A comfortable silence settled between us and I closed my eyes, wondering at the anomaly. What happened to the anxious girl needing her mantra?
Even so, without opening my eyes, I felt a subtle exhilarating tension between us.
I slowly exhaled, thrilling in the sensation. My breaths shallowed within seconds. My body began to warm.
I suddenly blinked my eyes open, off-balance yet again. Then I quickly focused on mundane things: green road signs, stripes on the pavement.
After another mile, once I’d gotten a handle on my libido again, I glanced at him. “So how was class?” He’d mentioned at the community center when he’d walked me to my car that he had two midday classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
“Good. Typical.”
I snorted. “What? The class? Or your short stereotypical guy-speak?”
“Ha ha.” He dropped a put-out look at me. “The professor’s great. He plays alto saxophone and clarinet. Toured with Wynton Marsalis for a few years. Then performed with his Jazz at the Lincoln Center Orchestra for over a decade before deciding to teach.”
“Sounds like a wonderful teacher.”
He gave a short nod. “You can tell he loves it. Just hearing his stories gets my blood pumping.”
“What kind of music were you playing back there?”
“That last was one of our original songs. Rock with a heavy drag rhythm. Did you like it?”
“Yeah. A lot. It was…different. Almost primal.”
An easy smile curved his lips. “Why I like it too. Seeps into your pores.”
I nodded. It had. “The band sounds really great. Do you have a lot of original songs?”
He shrugged. “Half a dozen or so. We noodled around after playing covers for about a year. Created our own sound during a drunken jam session late one night.”
He leaned over, picked up his phone from the floor, then cast a quick glance at it. He took the next exit, slowing to a four-way stop.
We sat at the intersection, idling. “Okay. Decision time. Left or right? Easy or hard?”
“Easy sounds boring.”
“Can be.”
Vague. And interesting. “I choose the opposite of boring. Think I can handle hard?”
“I dunno. Can you?” His tone thickened with innuendo as he turned the truck right.
Okaaay. I’d actually meant running. My leashed libido snapped to life again.
“Not fair.” I glared at him. “You want me to keep my mind out of the gutter, you have to help.”
He let out a deep unapologetic chuckle. “I can’t help where your mind goes. Challenge yourself. Show some discipline.”
“Grrr…” I growled, pulling a laugh from him. Then I sighed, resigned to the task. “Fine. I’m up for it. Why not? I’ve been celibate this long.”
“How long?”
“Whoa.” I arched a brow at him. “Is this proper friend talk?”
“Sure.” He fought a smile. “Friends can console friends on sexual frustration.”
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t buy it. I had a hard enough time being in the same truck cab with him. At least today he wore a shirt. So I didn’t have to keep picturing him naked.
Great. Now I’m picturing him naked.
“See.” He interrupted, saving me from my dirty thoughts. “I’ll go first: I’ve been celibate two months.”
“Bullshit,” I coughed out. I’d been at Loading Zone often enough. Had seen him leave with other girls. But maybe it hadn’t been recent. The months seemed to blur together.
