by Kendall Duke
~~~
Benji
So… Leo was a weirdo.
I hadn’t thought about what that word would mean to someone else, someone in his position. To my brothers and I, it was a call-sign: ‘you there, weirdo?’ ‘Yeah weirdo,’ that kind of thing. We’d listened to Creep obsessively as any group of dedicated young weirdos will, especially during the incredibly shit years of seventh to twelfth grade. It wasn’t a mean thing to say in our house.
But what if people called you that because you really were different—in a physical, observable way? My size made me a target, and that made me tough; it also wasn’t always viewed as a negative thing, because certain guys got a real hard-on at the thought of a small girl. It was a good way for me to weed them out. So I didn’t have a real point of reference… And I felt strange about that.
Leo had definitely been picked on. Big time. And if he was friends with that piece of shit in high school, I would bet all the meager savings I had on the fact that Tony Didn’t-Write-My-Favorite-Song Disappointment was a primary torturer. No matter that they’d been close enough to start a band; that meant nothing, once you’d been into music long enough. You’d play with anyone you got along with for a couple hours straight, if you loved making music, and half the time you’d stick around way after the relationship went to hell if the music was still good. Tony was a monster, I’d seen it in him. And Leo…
Leo didn’t learn how to uppercut for fun. He did it because he had to protect himself. He was blunt, but not rude; he was reserved and courteous and when he sensed that you were uncomfortable, he did everything he could to help you. Leo was a decent human being, and the intensity that was so evident in his face and body was just another thing that made him interesting.
And sexy.
Also… Very sexy.
Once we were in the car together it was harder to ignore his body. He was ripped—once those overpriced jeans came off and he shed that distressed Metallica t-shirt, I bet he looked like an Olympic swimmer. With lots of tattoos. Because he was covered in those—I could see them, the dark designs swirling on his olive skin, the faintest dusting of black hair peeking at me through the tiny gap between his pants and his t-shirt when he lifted his arms… Rippling abs, soft dark hair. Sex.
I hadn’t thought about it in years. That sounds strange, but I’d never had a chance to meet anyone in high school what with the four brothers and all. College became about college, about graduating and finding a way to help take care of my family. Our dad passed away my senior year, my mom worked triple shifts at the nursing home to put us through school, and then she got sick too. Two of my brothers lived at home and took care of her; the rest of us needed to make enough to support our family. Them’s the breaks. I loved making music, but I knew that was always going to be a hobby. I never even wasted a minute dreaming about becoming a real musician, and probably wasted less on romance.
So finding a partner… A person I could make jokes with, be vulnerable with… I hadn’t needed one, I realized, while my focus was on work and school. I had my family, and I had focus. I loved music and I still fooled around with it, but I hadn’t touched my keyboard in months. No free-time. And it hadn’t really bothered me.
But… I liked Leo.
I liked Leo so much I wanted to impress him a little bit. I liked him so much I hoped he would be impressed.
And I don’t do that shit.
We pulled up to the house, and he wordlessly opened his door and stepped outside. He was very tall, and the breadth of his shoulders in the moonlight made me look twice. That dark hair was still covering most of his face, but I took a minute to steal a closer glimpse of the whole picture while he wasn’t watching me.
Leo was at least 6’4 when he stood at his full height, and as I’d noticed in the bar, he was all muscle. He could probably lift my car. His jawline was sharp, his lips full. Even in the moonlight I couldn’t see his face clearly with his bangs in the way, but we’d been eyeing each other enough for me to start to understand what I hadn’t before: Leo wasn’t just sexy. And talented, and respectful and strong. Leo was beautiful.
“Can I cut your hair?”
“What?” He turned away from the house and looked down at me, a smile dancing on his lips. Not the big one, the one that illuminated everything around it—just a small one, a surprised one.
“Let’s cut your hair,” I said, walking past him towards the front steps. “I want to see your face.”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head as he watched me pass. “I don’t think so.”
“Why?” I unlocked my door; he was behind me again, and once again, that prickling touch of fear that usually ran its icy finger down my spine was noticeably absent. I trusted Leo.
Why indeed?
“Because I want to,” I said, turning to grin up at him as I opened the door and stepped inside. I flipped on the light and the long hallway leading back to the kitchen lit up, showing the stairwell that led up to our bedrooms on one side and the massive arch on the other that guided visitors towards the front room. We’d had a lot of good shows here in the past two years. The house was kind of made for it.
“So this is your place?” He spun on his heel, taking it all in. “This is bigger than my house.”
“Rockstar digs, baby,” I said, moving back so he could see the set-up in the front. “Don’t I deserve it?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice answering mine without the slightest hint of irony. “But how did you find it, is the question?”
“My family is from nearby,” I said, pointing east. “Our property ends about two acres over there. When the farmer that lived here passed away his kids tried to sell it and didn’t have any luck. I had some friends that needed a place where they could be loud, and since we’re in the middle of nowhere, we can be as loud as we want.” I loved this house, and as I spoke I spun in a circle, taking in the old hardwood and the ornamental crown molding, all the fancy touches Mr. Jerrold had taken such good care of over the years. “Great parties.”
“I’ll bet,” he said, and then he noticed the front room, the cavernous opening beckoning him in. “Holy…”
“Right?” I clapped my hands and listened to the echo; he held perfectly still and did the same. “Check out those acoustics.”
“Damn.”
“I’m so glad you like it!” I stomped over to the abandoned guitars, basses, the drum set. “Okay. Here you go, Kissing Game. Write me a masterpiece.”
“Ah,” he said, his eyes resting on the drums in the back. “Well, on one condition.” He turned towards me again, his eyes hidden behind that curtain of hair. We were close, and I felt my body come to attention when I suddenly realized how close. I looked up and found his eyes burning down at me. “Benji… Please don’t call me Kissing Game.”
“Why?”
“I’m not drunk, so I’m not going to t-tell you,” he said, turning back around. “But,” he said, a finger in the air as he sauntered through the sea of guitars and flipped on an amplifier, “I will write you a song tonight, I promise.”
“Really?” My heart stopped beating in my chest, I was so excited. I froze and stood there, staring at him for a full minute before he realized I was still in the room and turned around.
“Really,” he said softly, his damn hair hanging in his eyes.
“I…” I wanted to see him. That’s what I wanted. But he gave me that small smile and turned back to the instruments spread out across the floor, and I could practically see the notes switching place in his mind as his fingers began tapping on those long, thick thighs, a rhythm defining itself in the air as he held it and prepared to trap it in a song. It was fascinating to watch. I kind of regretted offering to make a fancy dinner; I was going to miss the show.
I shouldn’t have worried, though, because as soon as I stepped into the hall, Leo started humming. And whatever left-over misgivings I might have had about his boast earlier immediately disappeared; I listened to The Kissing Game a million times. May
be more. And his voice—not Tony’s—was the one I recognized. Sure, I could tell that they used harmony and I understood the voice from the stage a little better as well, now that the full effect could be imagined; that’s why they sounded like a cover band. Leo was the guy behind The Kissing Game. Not the guy who couldn’t play an instrument, whose voice was naturally nasal and a little higher pitched. This was the voice I’d been listening to, over and over, for four years, in good times and bad.
I stood there and closed my eyes. I imagined Leo singing those songs to me, just me, and a ripple of goose-flesh covered my skin.
The Kissing Game was a sad album. It was impossible to guess what someone meant or was like in real life from the music they made—no matter how intuitive you believed you were—so I’d taken for granted that the charming lead singer was capable of a depth and insight that just didn’t need to come across in interviews, because he poured it into his music. But this made sense. It all made sense.
I’d had a crush on Leo for four years. A serious, gut-twisting, fan-girl crush.
“Holy shit,” I muttered, and Leo immediately stopped singing and came over to the big door, his dark eyes peering down at me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah…” I stared up at him, my own eyes as wide as saucers. “Yep. I’m great.”
“Benji?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head and still staring up at him. “I’m just… I’m freaked out. I believe you—I have listened to that album so many times, I had to buy a new copy of the CD—yes, I said CD—three times. Three! Who buys CDs, let alone multiple copies of the same—”
“I’m flattered,” he said, leaning one broad shoulder against the sturdy frame of the door, and chewed on his lip. “So… Why do you l-look so freaked out?”
“How… How did you let him take the credit?” I shook my head, as if that could make it shake out the memory of Tony’s hand gripping my wrist forever, sweep it up with a broom and throw it away. “Why would you let people believe—”
“He was there,” Leo said, standing up a little straighter. “And he did sing on the album.”
“But—it’s you!” I pointed at him for a minute, then rushed over and tapped his hard chest, unable to stop myself. “You’re the guy—not him. You’re the guy girls like me should’ve been falling all over, you’re the one that should’ve been in the center of the stage—don’t you get it?” I flattened my hands on his chest, staring up at him, and his nostrils flared. “Leo! Do you?”
“No, I d-don’t think so.”
“I don’t want girls all over the country to be obsessed with an asshole,” I snapped, and when his big hands flattened over mine, preventing me from slapping him, I tilted my head back so I could look directly up at his face. “I don’t want people to think something like Tony is capable of that kind of… That kind of beauty.”
“You really l-l-liked that album,” he said slowly.
I still couldn’t see his fucking face. “I love that album,” I said, and then I stood on my tippy toes and reached up, brushing the hair out of the way. One of my hands was still resting on his hard chest, using it to support my weight as I reached up as high as I could to just… Push… His hair out of the way. I tucked it behind his ear in a big floppy swoop, and as my fingers trailed over his cheek his other hand came up and grabbed mine. My palm slid against his rough jaw as I gazed up…
Yes. Leo was beautiful.
Black eyebrows over chocolate brown eyes, thick lashes, straight nose. High cheekbones, those lashes. Full lips. Those lashes.
“I—”
“I’m going to go make us some dinner,” I said, swallowing a knot the size of a golf ball as I pulled my hands away. “Right now.” I took a step back, gazing up at him like I’d never see him again. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from his, not even to take in the rest of him… Those lips, those beautiful eyes…
I spun on my heel and headed towards the kitchen, the thudding sound of my heart in my chest reminding me that I’d never been ready before. It’d been two months since I got beat up, I’d just found out the biggest crush I ever had was standing in my living room, and I never, never had sex before.
I was way out of my league, in every possible way. He was a fucking rockstar. And I still got the shivers if Geordie came behind the bar without announcing himself first. And I’d been listening to The Kissing Game in anticipation of tonight’s show for a week straight.
It was just too much—too many different problems, too many things happening at once.
It didn’t matter that when I looked into those eyes, I felt safe. I understood the person who wrote my favorite songs, and I felt like they understood everything about me. I felt…
“You’re not ready,” I hissed at myself, pulling some flour off of the shelf and getting to work.
I wasn’t going to rush this. I couldn’t—I didn’t want my first time to be riddled with attacks of anxiety because I’d run into too many creeps recently.
I wanted it to be… Sexy. Tender. Slow.
And profound. Powerful, even. I wanted it to mean something.
Was that even possible with a rockstar?
I forced myself back to the moment, bringing my gaze down to the countertop. I didn’t know him well enough to guess the answer to that question; with other rockstars, I felt like it wouldn’t be much for them to take a fan’s virginity after a random fist-fight with the band. But… Leo was different. Really different.
I turned the dial on the oven with shaking fingers. It was three o’clock in the morning, and bar-tenders everywhere were making dinner. I emptied my head and focused.
~~~
Leo
What the fuck was I doing?
I looked around the giant room and sighed, unable to move away from the doorway where I’d been sure, for one sweet, delicious second, that the woman I was pretty damn sure I was falling in love with was about to kiss me.
That was a bold statement, but I felt the truth of it ringing down in my bones.
I feel things deeply. It might be because my mom died when I was so young, it might be because having a stutter painted a target on my back; who cares, in the end, why we are the way we are? We have to move across the earth with whatever baggage we’ve got, and that’s all there is to it. Surrender to gravity or keep going. Some of my teachers, the kindest and most insightful, would describe me as ‘sensitive’ on the report cards they sent home to my foster families. Some of my foster families even cared.
I was twelve when my mom died, which is a tough age to deal with anything, let alone a car wreck that takes away the only person who loved you; place after place, I had to fight my way through walls of animosity and territorial violence. When Tony and I became friendly, his dad was the only person that seemed to understand I wasn’t going to become a teen-age saint with the hand I was dealt, and he gave me a job and told me to learn how to watch my temper. It allowed me to survive. Tony helped me make music; that allowed me to live.
I understood that the incident Benji had been through was going to cast a very long shadow; her run-in with Tony earlier tonight was just another in a long list of attacks she’d dealt with, however casually she might treat them. And just because she had a mouth like a gunshot and a practiced swing didn’t mean she wasn’t in a lot of danger—and she knew it. She was too smart not to. She probably had walls around her walls, protecting herself completely from any in-comers, and in the end, I was just another guy she met in a bar.
But I didn’t feel that way about her.
Not in my heart. Not when I looked under my skin and pried back my own walls. When I did that, I saw the knot she’d tied around my soul—I saw the chords of her laughter, the ripple of her smile like a heatwave over summer asphalt, the song she built in me without trying. Benji made me feel… Hope.
It didn’t hurt that every inch of my body was screaming to touch her, to taste that mouth, to fill her lithe body with my own as her beautiful eyes matched the shape
of her mouth in a perfect circle, to claim her as mine. I wanted Benji in a way that didn’t jibe at all with her obvious need for space. I wanted her so badly I was standing here with a hard-on so stiff I could probably use it to play guitar, which was good, because my fists were clenched so tight at the moment I couldn’t strum one.
It was just that look—that delicious, delicate moment. I had to relish it, roll it around in my mind.
I trusted Benji; she couldn’t help but be herself. But I also understood what she needed, and that was to be left the fuck alone.
So was that what I was doing? Was I leaving her alone?
My heart clenched in rebellion. Nope.
I wasn’t going to leave. I wouldn’t do what my body was begging me to do, I wouldn’t go down that long hall to the kitchen, pick her up and fuck her so hard the house rang with the echoes of her cries. I wouldn’t lick that sweet little pussy until she begged me to stop. No.
I’d just stay right here… And write her a song.
I forced my body to move, to let go of the wish for what almost happened and return to the here and now; I had a lot of practice so it wasn’t too hard. When I started back towards the instruments scattered everywhere I let myself experience everything that had happened in the last couple of hours: the fight. The terrible show, the knowledge that it didn’t even matter to anyone else on stage. The way Louie yelled in my face when I punched Tony. The bruises that were already showing on Benji’s tiny wrist.
The execs, staring in disbelief as I told them no over and over again.
The freedom I felt leaving the bar with a pretty girl who liked talking to me.
The pride in my heart when I realized she was a big fan of my work—my work, the only thing I could point at and say was mine, without any of Tony’s fingerprints showing up under the lights.
And then I stopped moving, because I was thinking about The Kissing Game again.
