by Amelia Mae
I blush. “Sorry.”
He shrugs it off. “If I minded, I would have left.”
“So you’re looking for a rebound?” The blunt question is out before I can stop them.
“No.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just got dumped and you’re the only one who knows. And at least for the time being, I’d like it to remain that way.”
“So you invited me out tonight to make sure I’d keep my mouth shut,” I tease.
“Kind of,” he answers, teasing me right back.
He pulls onto a quieter street as we get closer to our destination.
“I’m glad you’re here, Aya,” he says, more seriously.
“And here I thought I was boring you.”
“I’m driving through our fair city in a flashy car with a beautiful woman. I’m plenty entertained,” Shawn says, “Doesn’t matter to me if you stay quiet all evening.”
“Well, get a couple drinks in me,” I say, “I’ll loosen up.”
“Me too. What do you drink?”
“Whiskey.”
“Really?” he asks, amused.
“Yeah. Never met a girl that likes whiskey?”
“Not often. Girls who like whiskey are a rare breed. Straightforward. Simple, but know what they want,” he says.
“You sound like you had that assessment ready to go,” I say.
“I tend to size people up by their drink orders,” he explains, “Comes from my bartending days.”
He pulls into a garage and parks.
A torturously slow elevator ride later, we arrive at a palatial apartment in Hollywood. A small party is underway. Nothing too out of hand.
All eyes are on Shawn and I expect him to run off and mingle with the pretty people, but he doesn’t leave my side. Instead, he leads me to the makeshift bar, pours two large shots of whiskey and hands one over.
“Cheers,” he says.
“Cheers,” I repeat. I take my shot and look around. “You live here?”
Shawn nods. “Me and Jack.”
I look over at the black-haired guitarist who has appointed himself DJ for the evening, as he fiddles with a laptop and ignores a girl who’s clinging to his arm.
“Cora said you two were brothers, but you guys don’t look alike at all,” I say.
“We’re step brothers,” Shawn clarifies, “My dad married his mom when we were in high school.” He refills his shot glass and hovers the bottle over mine. “Another?”
I nod.
I like the way that whiskey burns, but I’m actually kind of a lightweight. I’ve had a few beers at the show and I haven’t eaten much today. Another one is a bad idea.
But, still…
“One more,” I demand.
He raises an eyebrow, but pours me the shot anyway. Shawn abstains this round, switching to water instead.
“Party pooper,” I tease, noticing how much more easily words are pouring out of me.
He chuckles. “One of us has to be responsible.”
“Hey, I’m plenty responsible,” I say as I trip over my heel. I reach out for something to stabilize myself and grab Shawn’s bicep. “That doesn’t count.”
He helps me back to my feet.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
You have really nice arms, I think to myself.
“Thank you,” he chuckles.
“Oh, crap, I said that out loud, didn’t I? I have a tendency to do that. Think out loud,” I explain, “It doesn’t always even matter if I’ve been drinking.”
“You did say that out loud,” he tells me, “But don’t hold back. I have a feeling that Aya unfiltered is going to be pretty damn interesting.”
“Oh, she is,” I tell him, whiskey-confidence hitting me full-force, “I’m hella interesting.”
“I believe you,” he says with a smile that’s all dimple.
Damn, focus Aya.
“I teach pole dancing. Did you know that?”
“Like… stripping?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, “Though I do know a lot of strippers. And I teach exotic classes occasionally. But I mostly do the athletic, arial stuff. I have some of my stuff on YouTube if you want to check it out.”
He looks amused. “I didn’t know that there was more to pole dancing than stripping.”
“The more you know,” I taunt. I cross my arms over my chest playfully and stroke my chin like I have a beard. “Let’s see, let’s see. What else don’t you know?”
“Everything,” he says.
“I have a dragon tattoo on my left tit.”
Shawn chokes on his sip of water.
“Are you blushing?” I ask dramatically. Shit, I’m completely at the mercy of my drunken self. “You wanna see it, don’t you?”
His cheeks get a little pink. I decide it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen and I want to lick it off of him. I’ve made it my mission in life to get Shawn Kinney to blush more.
“You should give me a tour,” I tell him. I head towards a closed door and go to throw it open, but he stops me.
“That’s Jack’s bedroom. Chances are we’ll walk in on something we can’t un-see in there,” he says, steering me towards another closed door. “This is our practice room. It’s safer in here.”
“You’re not going to show me your bedroom?” I ask, eyebrows raised. Tactful, well-mannered Aya is now a thing of the past. Drunk idiot Aya has taken her place. “I’ll show you mine, you show me yours.”
“Let’s start here,” Shawn says with a smirk as he opens the door and leads me inside.
2
Shawn
I lead Aya inside to where a couple of Jack’s guitars and my bass are scattered around on stands. There’s not a whole lot to see in terms of decorating, just some do-it-yourself soundproofing, but Jack’s guitar collection could rival some museums.
I’d start explaining some of the more significant instruments, but I’m not sure how interesting that’d be to a non-musician.
Plus, I also don’t think she’d really remember much anyway.
Her eyes go wide when she steps inside. “How long have you been playing bass?” she asks.
“Since I was about seventeen.”
“Why bass?”
“Why not bass?” I counter.
“It’s not…” she trails off, searching for the second half of her comment.
“It’s not as cool as guitar,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” she says with mock outrage. “I was going to say that it’s not as common. But I like the bass. It makes the floor vibrate. I think it’s where the power comes from.”
I smile. Where the power comes from. I like that.
“Well, when my dad married Marisol, Jack’s mom, Jack was already playing guitar and wanted to start a band. He found Ian and they started playing with a different vocalist. We didn’t meet Dylan till a few years later. But they needed a bass player.”
“And you just happened to play bass” she asks, “That was convenient.”
“Not at all, actually. I lied and told them I did and since I was the only option, they let me in the band. I saved up some money from my part-time job and bought a bass guitar, but I had no idea how to play it,” I tell her. “It was pretty obvious at the first rehearsal. I couldn’t even plug it in.”
That makes her laugh. Shit, it’s been so long since I’ve made a woman laugh and I love it. Even if it is at my expense.
And Aya has that perfect laugh. Sweet, bright and genuine. The kind of laugh I could listen to every day.
Stop it. You can’t be thinking like that, I tell myself. You’re fresh off of a breakup. You can’t want someone new just yet.
Only, I definitely can.
The last few months of my relationship had been rough. I’d been on tour and, while Torie had visited me periodically, we’d drifted apart. I was in a different city every night and she didn’t trust me to keep my hands to myself. It got to the point w
here most of the time, she didn’t want to talk to me, let alone touch me.
Aya looks like she wants to touch me. Fuck, she looks like she wants to devour me whole.
But you’ll drive her away like all the others.
“Shawn? You’ve been staring at me and not saying anything,” she says, jerking me back to the moment. “You want to see the dragon tattoo on my tit, don’t you?”
Fuck yes I do. I want to get my mouth on it.
I chastise myself for wanting that. I did just break up with someone a few hours ago and I’m not that gross a person.
“I bet you want to kiss me, too,” she says. She leans in, but stops suddenly, putting her hands up to steady herself. “Hang on. The room just started spinning a little bit.”
I help her lean against the wall and sit down on the floor. I crouch down next to her. “I do want to kiss you, Aya,” I admit, guiltily, “But you’re drunk.”
“No, I’m not,” she protests, “You should kiss me.”
She leans in, her pretty pink mouth aiming for my lips, but I shift so she kisses my cheek.
I shake my head no. I don’t mess around with drunk girls, no matter how cute they are.
“Can I at least have a hug?” she asks with a pout.
I open my arms and welcome her tiny frame pressed against me. Her silver-blue hair swirls around us. My breath catches as I inhale. She smells so pretty, like flowers and honey. Sweet and feminine. I let it wash over me as I fight the desire to bury my face in her hair.
I notice a smattering of freckles on her nose. My weakness. I’m such a sucker for freckles.
Her eyes close. Mine do too.
It feels so good to be touched.
To have a woman in my arms.
To have Aya in my arms.
Fuck, I’ve got to let her go before I fall in love with her.
“You hate me,” she murmurs.
“I don’t hate you,” I tell her, softly, “Not even a little.” Her eyes are still closed. “You’re getting sleepy, huh?”
“Not really.” She tries to fight a yawn.
“Yes, you are,” I say as I scoop her up into my arms like a damsel in distress. “Up you go.”
“Shawn, I’m sorry,” she says, “I don’t want to be that girl.”
“What girl?”
“The girl that got too nervous to talk to the hot boy so she drank to much and got all annoying and…” she trails off.
“Aw, you think I’m hot,” I tease.
“Oh, god,” she groans, burying her head in my shoulder.
“Want me to drive you home?” I ask.
“You were drinking too.”
She’s right, but I have easily seventy or so pounds on her.
“Just call me a Lyft,” she says, “My phone is in my purse.”
There’s no way I’m letting her get into a car with a stranger when she’s drunk.
“Stay the night,” I tell her, “I’ll take you home in the morning.”
She’s too tired to argue, so I carry her into my bedroom and lay her down on the bed. I help her out of her shoes and jacket, tuck her in, and lean over her to turn the light off.
I head for the door.
I know I should go back out to the party and be social. Maybe have a few more drinks. Try not to think about the ex who smashed my heart apart tonight.
Or, more likely, obsess about the blue-haired pixie in my bed.
Aya stirs. “Do you hate me, Shawn?” she asks again, worry in her voice. “Do you completely regret asking me out tonight?”
“Of course not, sweetheart. Actually, I like you a lot.”
It’s true.
I mean, I had no idea what I was in for when I invited the mysterious blue-haired girl to my party.
And I certainly didn’t expect this.
I get a spare blanket from the closet and settle in for a night in the reclining armchair. Screw the party. I don’t really want to be anywhere else right now.
Touring for the better part of every year and spending a lot of time on planes and busses, I’ve can fall asleep just about anywhere and in any position. But I hate sleeping in clothes, so I kick off my sneakers and socks and strip off my tee shirt.
I leave my jeans on, though. I don’t want her waking up and thinking anything happened.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” she says.
“It’s what you do for people you care about,” I whisper, “Even if you only started caring about them a few hours ago.”
She doesn’t reply. She’s fast asleep.
I lean back and close my eyes.
And when I wake up, she’s long gone.
3
Aya
Present Day
“I’m so happy for you!” I cry into the phone.
“I’m so happy for me too!” Cora shrieks back.
“The ring is beautiful! Congratulations!”
“Thank you! God, I miss you so much. I can’t believe I’ve got another year and a half in New York.”
“Me neither,” I lament, “But at least we’re going to see each other tomorrow.”
I’m happy for my best friend. She’s chasing her dreams and living it up in New York, but I miss her like crazy.
“Ian and I are hosting Christmas at his place. I mean, our place,” she says, catching her mistake. Shortly after Cora moved in with her fiancé, she got accepted into the graduate acting program at NYU and had to move across the country. I guess she never really had time to settle in.
“That’s nice,” I say.
“You’re coming, of course.”
“I’ve go to clear it with my mom,” I tell her. My mother - adopted mother - wants to be with her brother and his family in Arizona.
“You can bring her if you want,” Cora says, “She’s very entertaining.”
I laugh. My mom is certainly a character. She’s definitely where I acquired my tendency to speak first and think later.
“Who else is coming?” I ask. Of course I mean, is he coming?
“The guys in the band. And Ian’s sister, Nikki.”
“Okay, cool,” I tell her.
“Shawn will be there,” she says, “In case that was what you were trying to ask without actually asking it.”
“Damn you.”
“Busted.”
“I don’t think I can face him ever again,” I whine, “I was such a drunken mess that night.”
“He’s never mentioned it, Aya,” Cora reassures me, “I’m sure he barely remembers. Do you have any idea how many drunk girls have thrown themselves at him in his life? He’s in a rock band for fuck’s sake.”
“I did not throw myself at him.”
“How many drunk girls he’s…encountered, then.”
“Way to make me feel special,” I say sarcastically.
“The point is that it probably wasn’t such a big deal. And even if Shawn remembers, he’s a decent enough guy that he won’t bring it up.”
I nod. It’s true. Shawn was a total gentleman that night and I’d expect nothing less if I saw him again.
“Okay, I’ll be there.”
I arrive at Cora and Ian’s apartment in Los Feliz with a bottle of champagne in hand, decked out in my favorite black cocktail dress and sensible heels.
Cora’s begun teasing me about my shoes, calling anything that isn’t the eight-inch platform stilettos I teach pole dancing in sensible heels.
I look pretty. Sexy, but not too sexy. Classy sexy.
I just hope that I stack up in this room full of ridiculously hot rock stars and, of course, my music-video-model best friend.
I knock and Cora opens the door. I practically leap into her arms and we jump up and down like children. Ian looks on from the kitchen, rolling his eyes, but smiling.
“Oh my God, tell me everything,” I demand.
Cora tells me all about New York, her apartment on the Lower East Side, her acting classes, and the bitch who kept calling her video slut until Cora did her first exerci
se in a scene study class and floored everyone.
“What about you?” she asks.
I take a deep breath. This is the news I’ve been dying to tell her.
“I’m quitting the Caspiar Club,” I say, beaming.
“Congratulations,” she exclaims, the shrieking and hugging starts up all over again.
“I started teaching a few classes at Torque Dance and a few more at Iron Mavens. Between that and the other workout classes I teach, I have enough to quit. Especially if the studio will let me take private lessons,” I tell her. “And I got approval to do an eight week exotic dance workshop for beginners.”
“You’ve got patience, girl,” Cora says.
“I love the beginners,” I say earnestly, “I love helping someone fall in love with pole dancing and get comfortable in their own skin. Sometimes they find exotic dance really cathartic.”
Cora muses, “I guess so. I just found it kind of awkward.”
I shrug. That’s okay. It’s not for everyone.
“After everything that happened with Greg, it was the only thing that made me feel like a person again. It helped me reclaim… I don’t know… myself.”
Cora nods. We don’t talk about my ex-boyfriend that often. Frankly, I’d be just as happy to write him off the face of the planet.
The doorbell rings.
My breath hitches as Cora opens it.
I immediately recognize the blonde singer with the reddish five o’clock shadow. Dylan Cotter. He and Cora hug like old friends. Cora’s told me most of what happened during their fake-it-for-the-cameras relationship last year. It got a little rough there at the end, so I’m glad to see there’s no bad blood.
“I’d kiss you, but I’m afraid your boyfriend would deck me again,” Dylan smirks.
“He’s my fiancé now,” Cora brags, showing off her ring.
“And fuck you,” Ian calls out, emerging from the kitchen with a pitcher full of some amber colored, a bowl of maraschino cherries, orange slices and several high-ball glasses.
“Aya, this is Dylan,” Cora introduces us. “Dylan, Aya.”
I shake hands with the tall blond man with the piercing blue eyes. He’s gorgeous, but I feel nothing.
