by Daryl Banner
Behind them is Dessie, the beauty who owns a room the moment she walks in. She changed, wearing a sexy sleeveless red top and tight jeans. Fuck me …
But her face seems pensive. I see the tension in her body before she’s reached us. Her foot kicks into a chair and she glares down at it, annoyed. She squints against the smoke in the air, a scowl on her face for a moment as she gazes over the room.
Then her eyes land on me and her expression changes. The tension there drops away. The trace of a smile crosses her face and her stride becomes lighter.
Did I do that to her?
I’m fucking floating right now at the sight of her.
I hope I’m not grinning like a dumb shit, because I’m definitely grinning like a dumb shit in my mind.
“Dessie,” I say when she’s come to a stop in front of me.
“Clayton,” her lips say.
I’m really holding back right now. I want to grab hold of her and claim her as mine in front of everyone in this room. I want every ogling dude in this room to know that she’s taken. I want to put my mouth on her pretty pink lips and taste her.
Her gaze shifts, and in the next instant, she’s greeting my roommates. Brant gives her half a hug, which is more than I even gave her, the big drooling ogre that I am, and Dmitri offers her a curt nod and a dimply smile after readjusting his glasses. The table only has two more chairs, so Brant offers his to Dessie, opting to just stand squished between Dmitri and her. Eric and Chloe take the two that remain, making our table an unnecessarily crowded one.
Eric reaches his hand over the table, introducing himself to Dmitri, if I had to guess. It belatedly occurs to me that Eric’s gay. I snort, amused at the prospect of anything happening between those two. Good luck cracking Dmitri’s bisexual-slash-asexual egg, I’d tell him.
Dessie touches my arm, getting my attention, then asks what I snorted about. I shake my head, smiling. “Nothing. Want something to drink?” She shakes her head and smiles back. I study the side of her face for a while as she watches the others chat away. I love how her eyes light up, her face turning as she listens to the conversations that break out over the table. I’m not a part of any of them, yet vicariously through her, I feel somehow connected to it all. Chloe says something and Dessie laughs. Eric reaches out and runs a finger down Dmitri’s tattoo, seeming to ask about it. Brant leans over the table to shout what I can only assume is something lewd and suggestive to Chloe, who doesn’t seem amused by the humor, rolling her eyes. Dessie, however, laughs so hard that she falls into me, her hands clinging to my shoulder as she laughs.
God, I want her to stay right there on my shoulder and make a fucking home. I love when she clings to me. Before this night is over, I vow to myself, I’m gonna get her to claw those sexy fingers of hers down my back.
Over the next half hour, more people start to pack into the Throng, and I feel pretty fortunate that we all got a table when we did. What the fuck with Tuesday nights? It’s never this busy unless it’s a weekend.
Dessie seems to notice the same thing, because she nudges me and says, “It got really loud!”
I smirk and take the opportunity for a joke. “Totally loud,” I agree. “Can you ask them to keep it down? Having trouble hearing my friends here.”
She laughs too hard at that, then slaps me on the arm and says something.
I focus on her lips. “What?”
She says, “I’m happy I came.”
Squeezed into the table like she is, her breasts rise and fall with every breath. I don’t know if that’s due to her bra, or her top, or being squeezed between me and Brant, or fucking magic or what, but I’m enjoying the view as I peer down at her in all her glory.
I lean in and say, “Can’t wait ‘til you’re up there.”
She studies my eyes too long, her own glowing in the dim light that hangs above our table. If I’m not mistaking that look, I’m feeling a pull toward her lips. She’s inviting me to kiss her, just with that daring, mischievous look in her eyes.
Then she looks up at the stage. I look too, only to discover everyone applauding suddenly.
The very next moment, Dessie’s left my side. I watch as the guitarist relinquishes his stool to her, sliding to the side of the pianist as Dessie steps onto the stage. Everyone at my table is clapping, so I do the same, following their lead until I see their hands stop moving. Then the only thing in the room that’s got my attention is Dessie.
And she’s looking right at me from the stage. Her body glows under the harsh stage light. I have to say, from my experience in technical theatre, it takes a special kind of person to make ugly light look pretty.
And fuck, she does that job without trying.
Dessie’s hand runs up the microphone. She brings her lips to it, then introduces herself to the room.
But I can’t catch any of the words. Frustrated, I pull out my phone, determined to find that horrible speech-to-text app I’d downloaded. Then, coming to my rescue, Dmitri starts moving his hands for me, and I could kiss him for his keen intuition.
Hey, I’m Dessie, my awesome roommate interprets for me. Some of you know me from last time. Or last night. Or whatever, I’m not good at these things. Ha! These crazy musicians, Dirk and—what’s your name?—Lorenzo, wanted me back here to sing one of my little tunes. Want to hear it? I have something … but it’s a little angsty. I … Dmitri stops, looking up at Dessie to gather what’s happening, because she’s laughing. When she starts speaking again, he resumes: Alright, then! I’ll sing it. I hope you like it. I have no idea what the musicians are going to do, but they’re good at improvising. This one’s called, “The Liar”.
Dessie closes her eyes to bring herself to that place where all the music and beauty comes from. All that tension I saw the moment she came in, it’s like it was never there. Totally relaxed, loose as the breeze, she holds the microphone and kisses it to her pink lips.
And through Dmitri, I watch the words flow:
These nails that I wear,
the curls in my hair,
my talent and my flair,
it’s all fake. I’m a liar.
And the makeup on your face,
wearing leather or wearing lace,
or that cologne you embrace,
each just another lie, I say,
just another thing in the way.
You’re a liar, too.
That’s not how you really look.
Just another billion dollar lie
sold to you by a billion dollar book.
And that’s not how you really smell.
Whether from soap, cologne, or shampoo,
I don’t think you know yourself as well
as you think you do.
Just like me, an actress who lies all day
reading another line from another play
being some other person, some other name.
We’re all liars just the same.
And just when you’re ready to let it go,
too exhausted to keep up the show,
you get a glimpse inside another’s eyes
and you’ll finally see
the only way free
is to be a liar who never lies.
After the last lyrics are signed, the musicians seem to still be filling the space with music, the guitarist’s hands strumming as Dessie hums against the mic, her eyes closed and lost in the song.
And I’m lost in her, my arms folded and my jaw tight.
She opens her eyes and they find me.
I wonder if she sees my lies.
My truths.
My way free.
And then the room shakes with applause, and I lift my own hands to join them, watching as Dessie takes in the cheering with a laugh, a pink face, and then a grand, demonstrative bow.
She returns to the table and her friends explode with their reactions, offering compliments and happy faces and laughter. Dmitri tells her how beautiful her voice was, but was worried about what the lyrics meant: If I’ve
lied to you, he says to her as he signs at the same time for my benefit, then I’m totally sorry and, you know, please don’t write a song about me.
After some time, Dessie turns and says something. I look at her, waiting for her to repeat what she said when suddenly there’s a screen in my face:
Want to get out of here?
I smirk my consent, then slap Brant’s shoulder, telling him that we’re gonna head out. Dmitri takes note of my departure, waving goodbye. To him, I sign back: We’re gonna need the apartment for a bit.
Dmitri’s response is a dimply flat-line for lips and a resolute nod.
Good boy.
After leaving the place, my skin feels a noticeable departure of vibrations and noise, drinking in the calm silence of the street like a cool glass of water. Or maybe that’s just literally the breeze of the night air on my thirsty skin.
We might as well be holding hands, but we’re not. We’re not at that point. Honestly, I’m not even sure I’m really the hand-holding type. I don’t know why I’m suddenly obsessed with that idea. Maybe it’s how close she’s walking by my side. Maybe I’m wondering if I should put an arm around her or—
No, fuck that. What am I thinking?
I look over at her. Either it happens to be the moment she looks at me too, or else she’s watching me as we walk. I chuckle dryly. Not sure if that laugh came out or not, but I felt it in my chest.
Then I notice her lips move. I might be wrong, but I think she asks if we’re heading back to my place.
“If that’s okay with you,” I say back.
To that, she nods.
I’m fucking floating right now.
When the door’s in my face, I can barely get the key in I’m so fucking excited. I’ve been desperate for another night alone with her for the past three days. I’ve craved her touch on my skin and longed to put my arms around her body. I want my hands on her skin so fucking bad that I’m practically hopping right now.
“Want anything to drink?” I ask automatically, edging quickly toward the kitchen while peering over a shoulder, keeping her in my gaze.
She bites her lip.
I stop cold at the kitchen counter, watching her. The world grows very, very still. “So … is that a yes?”
Her lips part. She takes a breath, her eyes lifting to meet mine. There’s something very intense about her. I think she’s expecting me to make the first move. She wants me to cast everything off the counter with a reckless swipe of my hand before gripping her and slamming her on the counter to fuck her. The fantasy is painted in her eyes. The yearning for it …
“Yeah?” I prompt her. “A drink?”
Then, the tears touch her eyes.
Uh, fuck. Misread.
“Dessie?”
She shakes her head, the tears sitting up there in her eyes, refusing to fall. Then she lifts her chin and, with a coldness in her eyes, she says something.
I don’t catch all her words. “Liar,” I think she said. “Don’t deserve,” I think she also said. My insides turn to stone as I watch her, frustrated by her quick lips.
“Dessie,” I repeat, coming up to her and grasping her shoulders with my hands.
She looks away and clenches shut her eyes, her jaw tightened.
She’s angry.
“Dessie.” I try to get her to look at me, bending my neck and rubbing her shoulders calmingly. Fuck, her skin feels so smooth. “Dessie, talk.”
“I am talking!” she shouts, her furious, tear-filled eyes meeting mine. I see the shout in her neck pulling taut, her nostrils flaring, her whole body contracting in the effort. “It’s all I ever do!”
I’m so fucking confused. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, all the guilt from this weekend that I thought we had gotten past rushing back into my stomach. “I should not have blown you off. I was scared. I was a fucking idiot. You deserve a guy so much better than me.”
“No.” Her eyes widen. “You deserve better than me,” she says, slapping her own chest. She waves a palm in front of her face once, then throws a thumb past her ear—Better. She pokes a finger at her chest—Me.
Is she fucking crazy? “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you, Dessie. Don’t mistake that for a second. You’re too fucking good for me.”
She takes a deep breath, shutting her eyes, and then her lips move.
And this time, I catch the words.
Every word.
I knew what she was going to say because it’s exactly the conclusion I had come to earlier when we ate lunch together at the UC. Her father got her into this school. Her father is a famous lighting designer. She knew Kellen. She’s the reason he’s here, designing the lights for the main stage show.
And she’s the reason I’m not.
“My being here … has ruined … everything,” she says.
But all I see is strength in her. Those tears, she won’t even allow them the courtesy of falling. She isn’t trying to earn my sympathy; she’s owning all of this. If she’d ask me, she’s owning too much of it.
She didn’t ask for Kellen Douchebag Wright.
She didn’t ask to get all intimate with me and put herself between me and my dreams. She just fucking met me a couple weeks ago. She owes me nothing.
And here I am, standing in front of this strong, incredible woman who has so much passion in her that she’s bursting at every carefully-stitched seam, singing on stages and earning artistic respect from all these beer-guzzling morons. That’s respect her father did not buy for her, respect she got all on her own.
And here I am with this incessant raging hard-on in my pants that’s been distracting me for the past hour, and I don’t deserve a single fucking tear of hers.
The truth is, her being here saved me.
“Your dad can give you a school,” I tell her, pushing through the vacuum in my ears as my teeth and throat and chest vibrate with my speech, “your dad can give you a whole play,” and I see her trying to protest, so I speak even louder, praying my words are reaching her, “but your dad can’t give you what you did on that little stage an hour ago. Did you see their eyes? Did you see all those people in that room, the way they listened to you when you … when you sang?”
Her eyes shift, the tears threatening to spill as she speaks to me through her clenched teeth. “The one person … who I want … to hear that song,” she mouths, her whole body trembling, “can’t … hear … anything.”
“I hear you.”
Her eyes flash at those words. Her brows flinch as she stares at me uncertainly, the emotion frozen on her pained, broken face.
“I hear you,” I repeat to Dessie, every nerve in my body pulling tight. “You aren’t the only one who’s had parents try to ruin you. You aren’t the only one who’s fought the destiny that everyone keeps trying to push down onto you. I hear you.” I even feel my voice cracking. Today might set a new record for how many words I’ve let myself speak out loud. It’s all Dessie; she’s pulling me out of myself. “You aren’t alone in this battle to find your voice. To find where you belong. To break free.”
The emotion hanging between her eyes and mine is practically tangible. I worry there’s even tears in my own eyes now, tears I also refuse to spill for that stupid fucking world out there.
“I’m sick of people thinking they know who I am,” I whisper, feeling the breath thrust its way out with each word. I take her face, a hand on either cheek, then pour into her eyes. “People trying to tell me what kind of man I am.”
“What kind of woman I am,” she echoes back.
“Telling me I’m just Texas trash.”
“Telling me I’m just a New York snob.”
“Dessie, I hear you.”
The anger has drained from her face, replaced with something else entirely.
“Clayton …” she mouths.
“I hear you.”
Our lips collide. Dessie’s breath washes over my face in uneven torrents as our hands clasp to each other’s bodies.
Her hands grab
the base of my shirt. A tremor of anticipation lances up my side as her fingers move.
There goes my shirt.
I pin her to the wall, our mouths still locked as we mutually try to consume the other’s face. The warmth between us is a fire I’m helpless to try putting out.
My hands brush up her sexy hips.
She bucks against my body, our lips unlocking so I can free her from that sexy red top she’s wearing.
To the floor it goes.
She finds her lips a new meal at my earlobe. Then her teeth are invited to the party.
I moan against her, needles of pleasure racing up my neck and exploding where her teeth dig into me. Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? I could claw the wall until there’s nine doorways into my room with the way she’s making work of my ear.
I can’t hold back any longer. Goddamn, Dessie …
I pick her up under her knees, her arms throwing themselves around me as I push us into my bedroom. The mattress gives as we land on it with a bounce, and she’s slammed onto her back. Her eyes flash up at me with alarm.
I hope she can handle me.
I play rough.
Like the beast I am, I crawl over her, then launch at her lips with mine. She reciprocates, just as hungry. We don’t let each other utter another pointless word; our fingers and locked lips do all the talking.
