Cherry Beats

by Vicki James

  He stared, shocked, for just a moment before he burst into laughter and fell back on the floor, holding my phone above his head with both hands. He was naked and spread out with nothing but that shitty little blanket covering his private parts. We’d had sex three times already, and I was sore. But, my God, did I want more.

  “Alone by Heart? Jesus, Cherry.”

  “Don’t you dare remove that from any playlist, ever. I adore that song.”

  Presley began to sing the first few lines of it, immediately making me smile. I joined in at the chorus, way more out of tune than he was, until it hit the big drum break and Presley closed his eyes and air-drummed with my phone.

  It isn’t until you sing the lyrics of a song in front of a person you secretly love that you realise just how fitting they are.

  He was poking fun at my music.

  My face was falling with each word that passed my lips, realising how true the words were and how much they fit my feelings for him. Feelings I’d had since my youngest high school days.

  That heart began to pinch again like a belt too small or a shoelace tied too tight.

  “Next song, please.” My eyes fell to the blanket in my lap, and I tried to stay in the moment rather than worry about the future because that’s where happiness was meant to live, right? In the here and now. In the present. The past held regret and the future held worry. The here and now was the only place to truly let yourself feel the euphoria of the moment.

  Be present, Tess, I chastised myself. Don’t waste a second of this.

  “Thank you for loving me,” Presley said smoothly.

  I looked up. “What?”

  He lifted his head and pointed to the phone. “Bon Jovi. Thank You for Loving Me.”

  “Oh. No. Too morbid for tonight.”

  “Maybe.” He sighed, something flashing across his eyes. I didn’t have time to study it before his head fell back on the floor, and he began swiping again and again. “Make It with You, by Bread. This is ridiculous. We need to get you up-to-date.”

  “Hey! There’s nothing wrong with my music. Let me be me.”

  “Aerosmith, Air Supply, fuck my life.”

  I reached out to pinch his toe with my nails.

  “Ouch.” He yelped between fits of laughter, sitting upright to rub it with his free hand. His hair was erratic yet somehow perfect in its wildness. There weren’t many men who could pull off that style—the surfer waves and the natural blonde cut that fell to his chin. When he pushed it back and ran a hand through it, a pang of jealousy hit me in the chest. I was jealous of his fucking fingers that got to bury themselves in there whenever they felt like it.

  I quickly pinched his other toe, pulling the exact same response from him.

  He scowled. “If this is you introducing me to some kind of D/s relationship, I ain’t buying into it.”

  “Foot fetishes not your thing?” I challenged, lifting a leg and wiggling my toes in front of him.

  Presley quickly grabbed me by the ankle and yanked me towards him. I squealed like a typical girl, laughter pouring free as he tugged me closer and closer until I was sitting in his lap again, only this time on top of his blanket.

  “Your feet are only good for one thing, Cherry: bringing you closer to me.”

  “You should write songs for a living.”

  “I plan on it.” Presley looked at me, and the stare-off lasted a long time. At least it seemed that way. Dropping my phone to the floor beside us, he hit play on a song, and my Bryan Adams and his lust-crazy lyrics filled the air.

  “See. I knew I’d make you come around to my way of thinking sooner or later,” I teased.

  “I only like him because you love him.”

  Do I Have to Say the Words took over as I wrapped my arms around Presley’s neck and mouthed the lyrics with my eyes closed. I began to sway in his grip, and his fingers dug into the flesh of my arse as I moved, squeezing me tight. I told him I didn’t want to let him go. That I was standing in his way. Then I asked him if I really had to say the words. I silently mouthed and swayed to the whole damn song, because it was Bryan and he was my god, and that’s what you did when you worshipped someone. You sang with them. For them. About them. Because of them.

  “You have this ridiculous ability to make me fall in love with things I should hate,” Presley said, staring at my swollen lips.

  With nothing but a shy smile back at him, I was laid back on the floor and kissed from head to toe, while the fire blazed behind me and Presley’s tongue created a flame between my legs. All while Bryan sang Thought I’d Died and Gone to Heaven in the background.

  Oh, Bryan.

  Oh, Presley.

  The hours flew by like they were seconds as we talked about our biggest influences and inspirations. Presley’s passion for anything musical made me tingle more than his tongue did.

  “Who’s your favourite drummer of all time?” I asked, keen to know every little thing about him.

  “Big John Bonham.”

  “You didn’t even hesitate.”

  “That’s because it’s an easy fucking question. I’d choose him every time.”

  “Tell me why.” I smiled.

  “Aside from the fact that he’s a legend that needs no explanation? He was by far the heaviest player—bass drum like a cannon going off. He kept things simple, playing the songs rather than being on top or over them. There’s nothing worse than a manic, crazy drummer ruining a song with overfills and double bass drum madness. Power, precision, and quality. That’s what you need. Bonham could play fat beats that made your hair stand on end, yet keep them simple, too. Anyone who has ever listened to Moby Dick on 69’s Led Zep II knows for damn sure his solo is second to none. The only other man to get close to him is Grohl. He plays similar, but even Grohl knows that no one will ever be Bonham.”

  My smile slowly morphed into a cheek-shattering grin, and when Presley looked up, his face came alight with happiness, too.

  He went on to say how he loved Nikki Sixx from the Crüe for his work ethic alone, and how he thought Sixx A.M. were severely underrated. He made me listen to the track Permission, which I’d never listened to before, but suddenly became my new favourite song. He talked about what he wanted to achieve in his future with just a pair of drumsticks in his hand. He loved a rebel, hence why he could sit back and listen to Mötley Crüe forever, even though he wasn’t all that keen on Tommy Lee as a person but respected his drum skills and showmanship. Metallica was a no brainer, and Led Zeppelin were obviously his Jesus. Presley dropped them into conversation whenever he could. Dave Grohl was every man’s secret crush… so he told me. There was no denying that he’d been brought up with Elvis since the day he was born, and he secretly loved the fact that music had been a part of his world before he even knew how to speak his first word.

  I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

  This wasn’t the guy I’d admired from afar at school. This version—the naked one who kept running a hand through his golden locks while smiling a secret smile just for me—was so much better than anything my dreams could have conjured.

  I’d always assumed he was the brooding type. Someone who would listen to me ramble on with nothing more than a sparkle in his eyes and a smirk on his face, but sitting there in his apartment, I saw a side of him I hadn’t expected. He opened up, splitting his chest in two and letting all the musical notes pour out for me to see. His face was filled with passion, his voice full of knowledge, and the way he air-drummed to a tune when it played on my phone had my smile aching with happiness.

  I was witnessing a star before he’d even been taught how to shine.

  “You’re so easy to talk to,” he said at one point, stopping halfway through his declaration of love for James Dean because that’s who his father had always reminded him of. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked this much before. Especially not with a girl I’ve just screwed.”

  “It’s the bartender in me. Part of the job description is being a good listener, a
nd being able to pull out your punters deepest, darkest secrets.”

  “You deserve a raise.”

  “I’ll tell my boss.”

  “You and him close?”

  “Very.” I nodded softly.

  “He kisses you a lot. I’ve seen him.”

  “It’s platonic. He’s like a big brother. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “You sure about that?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why? You jealous?”

  Presley laughed softly, never taking his eyes off of mine, but I saw the small scowl of confusion he wore before he shook his head, changed course, and continued to tell me how he would have loved to have been alive during the 60s. All I could do was listen and try not to fall in front of him and pray.

  We played Guess the Intro to almost every song in my Spotify collection, and Presley entertained me through my odd loves and fascinations. He was annoyingly perfect at everything, including knowing the songs I thought would definitely get the better of him in the first few bars of the intro. The loser of each round had to down a half a shot of whiskey, and I was on the verge of passing out from both the alcohol and the exhaustion of the night. My body was tired, my mind even more so, but my heart was begging me to stay awake just that little bit longer.

  The sun was coming up, illuminating Presley’s apartment with a seductive orange glow. The fire had gone out. Empty bottles, bowls, and shot glasses were scattered everywhere, and the two of us lay on his couch. My head rested against his chest, and my back was pressed against the sofa, completely cocooned in by the main man himself.

  Presley’s eyes were closed as he trailed his palm down my arm lazily. My finger was drawing lazy patterns in between his firm pecs, because the more I touched him, the more he felt real to me.

  No longer a dream—a wish upon a star.

  “Are you scared?” I asked him quietly.

  “Of what?” he asked, eyes closed.

  “What’s coming next. The journey you’re about to go on.”

  “Excited, mainly.”

  “I’d be scared.”

  “You can’t stop doing what you want to do because you’re scared. You’d never do anything.” He paused, a low moan rumbling in the back of his throat. “And that good fear isn’t real fear. It’s adrenaline.”

  “It’s still scary, though.”

  “Dreams are scary to chase, Cherry. That’s what makes it so much more satisfying when you finally catch them.”

  “Quite the deep little thinker, rock star.”

  “Nah. I just say whatever comes to my head. I don’t have time for filters and all that crap.”

  “That’s why you hate people wearing masks so much?”

  “Exactly.” He pressed a tender kiss to my head, and I closed my eyes, digging my fingers into his chest. “You okay?”

  “Yep,” I croaked, quickly clearing my throat. “It’s getting late.” I looked outside at the rising sun while my heart began to sink, slipping away like the moon. “Or early. I should probably think about leaving.”

  Presley’s fingers froze, his chest, too, as he held his breath.

  “Now?” he finally exhaled.

  I looked up at him. “We’ve had our night, right?”

  His nostrils flared as he looked at me, and I saw vulnerability in the formidable Presley West that I’d never seen before. “Right. Sure. Yeah. Whatever you think is best.”

  There wasn’t a part of me that wanted to leave, but I knew if I stayed any longer, the break would only hurt that much more.

  His arm dropped as I released it and tried to climb over him. Now the sun had risen, and daylight was bringing a certain daunting clarity with it, I felt sober and shy. The spare blanket lay on the floor, so I picked it up quickly and wrapped it around my chest, tucking it under my arms before I pushed my hair behind my ears and looked down at Presley.

  “Stay,” he said.

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Says who?”

  “Me.”

  “You can do whatever you want to do.”

  “And how long do I stay?”

  Presley’s half-smile was ovary-destroying. “At least for breakfast.”

  “You have to get ready to leave,” I reminded him quietly, unable to stop the small smile that tugged at the corner of my mouth.

  “I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.” He held out his arm. “Come back to me.”

  “Oh, the days and nights I dreamed of you saying those words to me throughout high school,” I sang. It was true. If I could have shown the thirteen-year-old version of myself this moment right there, I would have. The promise of Presley West begging me for more would have kept the smile on my face on even the darkest of teenage days.

  His eyes trailed up and down my blanket-covered body before they eventually fixed on my face again. They shone like bright blue beacons of devilish delights. Strands of his blonde, wavy hair were splayed on the cushion behind him, making it look like he was wearing a damn halo. His tanned, glowing skin begged for me to lay down on top of him. And those lips. Those sweet, pink, perfectly-shaped lips were parted, waiting for me to accept his invitation. My skin prickled with a promise of more.

  My heart begged for it.

  My mind, however, was having a panic attack.

  You’re never going to get over this, it taunted me.

  I had to look away.

  Moving around the room, I began to pick up the stray bits of clothing he’d thrown all over the place.

  “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

  “Do whatever you want.”

  Presley was staring up at the ceiling now, one arm above his head while the other hung limply over the edge of the sofa. He was lost in a private thought, a moment of silence and calm, and I would have given anything to know what he was thinking.

  “Thank you, rock star,” I said with a smile.

  His head slowly rolled my way, and when our eyes connected, his smile came alive.

  I shuffled over to him with my hands full of clothes and blanket. My cheeks were flaming red with lust. I wanted him so badly that it was painful. The whole world was going to want him this way soon, and the thought of sharing him with anyone else ever again made my stomach roll with an ugly jealousy I wasn’t proud of.

  Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to his stubbly cheek, moving my mouth to his ear. “Whatever you’re feeling right now, I bet Bryan has a song for it.”

  Presley’s laughter was husky and raw as I walked away.

  “To be loved like you love Bryan Adams. That’s the new dream,” he called out to me.

  I smiled all the way to the bathroom—grateful he couldn’t hear my response.

  “You already are, Presley. You already are.”

  Once inside the bathroom, I closed the door, dumped my clothes on the counter, and I blew out a breath as I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  Cherry red hair in the style of freshly-fucked? Check.

  Eyes bright and alive with that post-sex glow? Check.

  Lips swollen from his growing stubble and assaulting kisses? Check.

  Cheeks aflame with happiness and desire? Check.

  Neck tinged with red and pink marks from his caress? Check.

  Chest bouncing with heavy breaths as the reality of what’s happened over the last few hours finally sinks in? Check.

  On the outside, I looked good.

  It was a good thing I couldn’t see the way my brain was exploding on the inside or the way my heart had its hands over its eyes as she waited for the impending crash.

  I dropped the blanket, letting it pool around my feet, and I ran my hands over my stomach, my chest, my breasts, and my waist—all the places he’d spent the night. I could smell him on my skin; still feel the aftershocks of his embrace.

  There was no stopping the small smile that broke free as I looked myself in the eye again.

  “Remember this,” I mouthed to myself. “Remember all of it.”


  The shower was bliss, taking charge of my body and making my skin burn. I’d been standing underneath the pounding water for too long, staring at my feet as I let my head hang limply and my hair fall forward to create a constant waterfall from the ends of it.

  I didn’t hear him come inside the bathroom.

  It wasn’t until his feet came into view—his toes pressing against my toes—that I pushed the hair from my face, gasping as the water invaded my mouth, and I allowed myself to look up at him.

  “You’re staying for breakfast,” he said, not leaving it up for discussion. Presley stepped forward, sliding his fingers into my wet hair and cupping my neck. “I figured I could let you do what you wanted to do, or I could remember who I am—the selfish bastard—and make you do what I want.”

  “Selfish bastard wins again, huh?” I blinked repeatedly, trying to see him clearer until he tugged me closer to him and out of the stream of water.

  “He always wins, Cherry.”

  He crushed his lips to mine, and he stole my tongue, using it as his. He stole my lips, playing with them like they were as easy to manipulate as his drumsticks. He stole my face and my body, breaking them until I was a mushy mess of want and desire at his very fingertips all over again. Without effort, he lifted me, wrapping my legs around his waist, and he pressed me back against the hard, wet tiles.

  Then he pushed inside me.

  Only this time it felt so much stronger than all the times before—the sting of it too much, both on my body and my soul. His movements were slow and controlled, masterful, and heavy.

  Presley’s breaths fell into my ear. His grunts, pants, and wants filling my head with a fairy tale dream of the hot drummer boy finally falling in love with the sarcastic quirky girl.

  “Why can’t I let… you… go?”

  “Please,” I panted, closing my eyes and moving where he wanted me to move—riding him with a rhythm he was controlling.

  “You want this?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “Y-yes.”

  He pushed inside of me violently, pausing when he was deeper than he’d ever been. “Don’t ever fucking make me beg again.”

  I cried out in pure ecstasy, blinded by the intensity of the orgasm that ripped through my body. He came with a guttural moan, burying his head in the curve of my neck, leaving the two of us panting and breathless against the tiles as the water rained down around us.