“No fucking way!” he gasps, taking his helmet off.
I nod.
“You have the worst luck, Victory,” he chuckles.
“Not helping,” I hiss, hunching my shoulders. I’m so pissed about the Contrares I want to bite someone’s face off.
“Wow, you look like that snake on your shirt!” he snickers. “With tits and everything!”
The smile on Kellan’s face is so big and genuine and friendly, I know he’s trying to make me feel better. I punch him in the arm. “Jerk!”
“Ow!” He rubs his muscled arm.
Not only did my dad teach me how to ride dirt bikes and play guitar, he also taught me how to make a fist and not punch like a girl.
I shake my head, “Don’t be a baby. I didn’t hit you that hard.”
“I don’t know, Vic—I mean Victory, I think you might have broken something.” He winces like he’s dying.
He’s not really hurt. I really appreciate that he’s working hard to get my name right.
He says, “Well, do you want to grab some sweats, or whatever you sleep in, and go inside?”
“Ahh…” I consider the Contrares in my mind. I don’t know how to repair a broken acoustic, but luthiers can do amazing work. “I should probably bring the guitar inside.”
“That’s not gonna fit on the bike. Hop on. I’ll park my bike, then we’ll come back for your stuff.”
“I can walk.” I’m somewhat worried about snuggling up to that ass of his on the back of his black Honda.
“I’ll go slow.”
And make me have to snuggle up against him that much longer? I don’t think so. “I’ll walk. Or I can wait right here.”
“I’m not leaving you here.”
I like that he’s protective. “I’ve got a knife.”
“Is that a threat or are you telling me you’ll be safe at your car?”
“Both,” I grin.
“Quit being a girl, and hop on the bike.”
My eyes goggle. “A girl! Now I’m totally gonna stab you in your sleep. No, wait! I’ll cut your balls off! Don’t think I won’t!”
“As long as my dick still works, I’ll get by.”
“I’ll cut your dick off too!”
“You’ll need a chainsaw. It’s like a fucking tree trunk.” He grabs his crotch and makes a growly face. Then he shakes his head and laughs, “You’re crazy, you know that? Hop on the bike.”
I give him a shrewd look before slowly climbing on behind his…behind. I put my hands on his shoulders. “If you feel anything sharp against the side of your neck, that’s my knife.”
“Duly noted.” He puts his helmet on without strapping it and rides us back to his apartment complex. He parks the bike inside the courtyard and locks it to a post with a big steel cable lock.
We walk back to my Altima through his neighborhood. It’s quiet here compared to Wilshire Boulevard. Our stroll reminds me of walking in my neighborhood in Bakersfield when I was growing up. Me and my high school buddies would wander aimlessly, sharing a single six pack of PBR, trying to get drunk but not, and totally content having nothing to do but stroll. Walking with Kellan feels the same way and I like it. It’s a nice break from the go, go, go attitude I’ve had since hitting the streets of Los Angeles when I left Bakersfield and my buddies behind.
At my car, I pull one of my black plastic garbage bags out of the trunk, and the Contrares, before slamming the trunk shut. “Ready,” I say.
“You wanna bring your Marshall cab inside? I’ve got room.”
“After the last twenty four hours? Yes. I’m not taking any chances.” That applies to my speaker cabinet and Kellan.
Kellan pulls the Marshall out of my car like it weighs an ounce. I’m staring at his flexing muscles the whole time.
Who am I kidding? I don’t stand a chance.
What am I getting myself into?
I’ll worry about it tomorrow.
Chapter 37
VICTORY
I’m on the couch with Kellan.
Oh. My. God.
I never thought it could be like this.
With him.
This good.
My head is spinning.
The chemistry, the passion. The heat. It’s incredible.
It’s primal.
Like he’s invading my soul…
We are two people working in perfect harmony, making beautiful music together. I’ve never felt a connection like this. I thought Scott and I had an intense connection in the beginning. But it wasn’t like this.
Not even close.
This is paradise.
How could I have doubted it?
A strand of hair hangs in Kellan’s face as he eyes me with his baby browns. “Wanna do that again?” he grins.
“Totally,” I sigh, nearly breathless. “I can’t believe we didn’t wake your neighbors.”
“We totally need to record it this time,” he says, standing up from the couch.
“Okay,” I smile. “That trill you added in the middle was amazing.”
He smirks, “Thanks. But you totally set it up with that D major arpeggio. It always amazes me that a major chord can sound so dark. I always thought they were the happy chords.”
“Not at all,” I smile. I turn up the volume knob on the Ibanez RG550 that Kellan is letting me play. The Ibanez is plugged into one of his little practice amps.
Kellan’s got a bunch of amps around his apartment living room and several different guitars on guitar stands or hanging from the wall. There’s a big table across from the couch that has a computer, mixing board, and monitor speakers. He has several different mics and mic stands, and sound baffles on his walls to absorb echoes. It’s a mini recording studio in his living room.
I play a series of major arpeggios in response to Kellan’s comment, moving them up a half tone at a time.
He nods, “That’s wicked. It sounds like pure evil. I love it!” He’s standing in front of the table with the computer on top. There’s a condenser mic on a small stand in front of it. “This should catch the sound of both guitars pretty good.”
“You must have thick walls. I could never play my guitar this late in Scott’s place. The landlord always shut me down.”
“As long as I don’t crank it at night, nobody complains.”
“That’s awesome,” I say.
He suddenly looks excited, “You know what? We should film this too. Put a video on YouTube.”
I frown, “Can we just record the audio? I don’t want to fix my makeup.”
He chuckles, “You look hot. You’re makeup’s fine.”
I roll my eyes, “How about my hair?”
He grins, “You’re such a girl.”
“Kellan! You know women are judged on their looks. It’s like, no matter how awesome you are at what you do, the men on the planet are going to deduct points from your accomplishments for not having your hair and makeup perfect.”
“The women too,” he chuckles. “They’re worse. Women are women’s worst enemy.”
“See?” I frown. “I haven’t looked in a mirror all day. I worked eight hours then went to the Promenade to busk for six. Please, let’s just do audio, or hide our faces like every other guitar player does on YouTube.”
He grins, “Come here.”
“What?”
He motions with his hand, “Come here.”
I arch an eyebrow.
He rolls his eyes, walks to the couch, and grabs my hand. I put the Ibanez on the couch and he pulls me into the hallway. My chest locks when I suspect he’s pulling me into his bedroom. He pulls me into the bathroom instead, and stands me in front of the mirror.
He stands behind me and pulls my long hair out of my face and behind my shoulders. I automatically look away.
“Look,” he commands.
“What?” I whine.
“Look in the mirror.”
I do. “What?”
“You’re perfect. After working fourteen hours, you’re
perfect.”
I realize I should be exhausted, but I’m not. I think the excitement of hanging out with Kellan has pushed my tiredness away. Looking in the mirror, I’m surprised I don’t have huge black plastic garbage bags under my eyes.
“I’d totally fuck you,” Kellan snickers.
“You’d fuck a knothole, you knothead.”
He frowns, “Hardly. I have high standards. You look fine.”
“Fine?”
He grins and winks, “I said I have high standards. Anyway, 99% of guys would think you look smokin’ right now. We’re filming it.”
“At least let me touch up my eyes first.”
He rolls his. “Make it quick.”
I grab my purse and spend two minutes on my makeup before returning to the couch and picking up his Ibanez.
He’s leaning over the computer. “Camera’s all set up. You ready to rock?”
I nod.
He hits record on the computer and sits back next to me on the couch, picking up his royal blue skyburst Les Paul.
The metronome on the recording software clicks off: one, two, three, four, and then the drum track starts…and we’re playing the harmonized riff together again.
It’s magical.
The riff is extremely complex, and we just made it up over the last hour or so. We play through it like we’ve rehearsed it a thousand times. I thought I had a tight connection with Bobby and Rex, but this is the next level.
Kellan and I play together like we’ve got wires running between our heads or like a four armed being that plays two guitars at the same time. It’s uncanny.
Few musicians ever connect with someone who is their total equal, both technically and stylistically. It’s almost like he’s my brother, or we’re identical twins or something.
It’s epic.
We finish the riff, which is almost an entire instrumental song at this point. I end by wiggling the whammy bar on the Ibanez and Kellan bends a high screaming note on his Les Paul.
He holds has hand up for a high five and I slap it.
“That was awesome,” he says, standing up to stop the recording. “Let’s listen to it.” He grins like a little kid on the playground who has just discovered that tag is the most fun game ever invented.
He hits play and sits on the table, listening intently.
At first, I’m barely paying attention to the video. All I can do is watch Kellan watching the video. He sits on top of the table, one boot on the ground, the other half-bent leg dangling a boot in the air while he rests his elbow on the jeans of his bent thigh.
I drool over the casual way Kellan relaxes into everything. I can’t decide if he looks like he’s posing or if this is how hot men have conducted themselves since the beginning of time, and fashion photographers have merely learned which moments to capture that best magnetize a woman’s attention. Whatever it is, Kellan has it. That fabled “it” factor you always hear about in Hollywood, whether it’s hot bands or A-list actors.
Kellan has it.
But what sets him apart from the average superstar is that Kellan has depth.
As the rough recording of our mini song plays out, Kellan is absolutely focused on the part I played. Not his own amazing playing. Every time I hear my guitar stand out in the playback, where I did some particularly awesome riffs (if I do say so myself), Kellan is air guitaring along to them like it’s the most awesome guitar playing he’s ever heard.
“Yes!” he cheers. “I need to hear that again.”
He backs up the recording with the computer mouse and plays my solo again, air guitaring along with it. “That’s fucking shredding right there, Victory,” he grins and holds his hand up for a high five.
I slap it and he lets the recording play through to the end.
“Damn, Victory, you’re incredible.” He shakes his head, awed, “I can’t believe you came up with those riffs off the cuff.”
I shrug, but I’m smiling from ear to ear. Who doesn’t like being acknowledged for a lifetime of hard work? Scott never gushed over my guitar playing like this. Not once.
Kellan smiles, “You’re incredible. Truly talented.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, trying to diffuse his enthusiasm. It’s so much, I’m almost uncomfortable. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’s an equally amazing player, I’d think he was bullshitting me.
He drops back into the couch next to me. His t-shirt slides up an inch, revealing his hard abs. He says, “I’ll post that shit online tomorrow.”
I don’t register his words, but I feel his heat. It pours off of him. It’s alluring and I realize I’m chewing on my lip, eyeing him up and down. I would love to rip his shirt off and play him like a guitar. My eyes pop ever so slightly at the thought. I hope he doesn’t notice.
“Damn, Victory, we could turn this into a complete song. We need to find a drummer yesterday and lay that shit down on tape.”
All I register is the word “lay.”
He beams at me, “Don’t you think?”
I stare at him, “What?”
“Earth to Victory, you there?”
I shake my head and massage between my eyebrows. “Oh,” I sigh, “I must be more tired than I realized. I didn’t sleep well in my car last night. It’s super late.”
“Wanna hit the sheets?”
YES!!
NOOO!!!!!
I stammer, “Ahh…”
“You can sleep in my bed if you want.”
My eyes goggle. “Slow down, Casanova!”
“I meant, I’ll sleep on the couch,” he grins. “Give you the comfy bed to make up for sleeping in your car.”
“That’s sweet, Kellan.” But his bed will smell like him and I will be unable to sleep a wink. Or, I’ll dream about him all night long, tossing and turning, thinking about his hot self. Either way, I will wake up tomorrow a frustrated mess. As it is, I don’t know how I’m going to sleep on the couch without going nuts.
He arches an expectant eyebrow.
I open my mouth, struggling to find some kind of response that makes sense and doesn’t incriminate me. “Couch,” I say, my head circling dramatically as it nods and shakes at the same time because I can’t make up my own mind. “Yes, the couch! Definitely the couch!”
“All right, I’ll grab you some pillows and blankets.”
Not from your bed!!!
I heave a sigh of relief when he pulls clean sheets, bedding, and a pillow from a linen closet built into the apartment’s short L-shaped hallway that leads to the bathroom and bedroom.
“You can clean up in the bathroom while I make up the couch,” he says.
“Okay.”
I close the door to the little bathroom and brush my teeth and wash my face. His towels match the shower curtain, which I peel back so I can check the tub. He wasn’t kidding. No guy grime in the whole bathroom. He doesn’t even leave his toothpaste uncapped. It’s put away in the medicine cabinet. And no porn magazines on the toilet tank like some guys I know. Instead, he has the latest four issues of Guitar World magazine stashed in a nice woven magazine rack beside the toilet. Maybe he watches his porn on his smart phone? Nah, something about Kellan tells me he doesn’t need porn. He has plenty of floozies for that.
Which is why I need to refrain from becoming one of them.
After I change into my yoga pants, I walk out of the bathroom.
He stands proudly beside the couch, “Will this work?”
Wow. The couch is all made up. It’s not a fold out, but he tucked the sheets around the cushions, and he even folded the top sheet back. I wonder if he put a mint under my pillow too.
“Uh,” I laugh, “yeah.”
“Well, I’m off to bed,” he smiles. “I’ll leave my door open. In case you want to have sex in the middle of the night.”
My eyes bulge, “Kellan!”
“What? You know you’re thinking about it.”
“No I’m not!”
He smirks confidently, “That was th
e weakest denial I’ve ever heard.”
So what if he’s right? “Do I need to sleep with my rape knife?” I threaten, even though I’m basically bluffing.
“Why, so you can rape me at knife point?” He grins, “I can totally do kink.”
“That’s not what I meant! I meant you, you jackass!”
“I wouldn’t be worried about me…” He lifts his Gibson t-shirt over his head and his dancing abs are liquid rock cocaine. They beg to be licked. He takes about an hour to pull the shirt off entirely, flexing every muscle known to man in the process. “…I would be worried about you,” he drawls seductively as he slaps his t-shirt over one incredibly well-muscled shoulder. “You’re not going to be able to resist.”
I jab my finger toward his bedroom, “Out!”
He chuckles and leans against the opening of the L-shaped hallway. His jeans ride low on his hips. Intricate tattoos cover his muscled arms. He’s got more abs than I can count, he’s got the V, and he knows how to use both. He totally practices posing in the mirror. It’s the only rational explanation for how damn sexy he is at every single moment.
I reach down into my purse. “This—” I pull out my rape knife and the rainbow blade pops open with a swift click, “—will be under my pillow. If you want to wake up in the morning with your nut sack intact, you’ll keep that in mind.”
Kellan chuckles, “You’re too bad ass for your own good, Vic.” He’s clearly calling me Vic to irritate.
I wave my knife menacingly at him, “I mean it Smellan. Unless you want to go ball-less, you’ll stay in your room.”
“Easy, Lizzie Borden,” he soothes. “You better put that shit away before you cut your own balls off.”
“I don’t have balls!”
He chuckles, “You act like you do.” He grins, undeterred, “Anyway, I can see you’re serious about raping me. I’ll make sure to lock my door.”
“Go to bed!” I huff.
“Night, Victory,” he winks and turns.
Oh my god. He has those little dimples above his butt. The tops of the cheeks rise above his jeans and flex sexually when he struts around the corner to his bedroom.
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 18
