by Julie Cannon
“Quite an eclectic taste,” I commented, picking up the greatest hits of Aretha Franklin. It was between ABBA and rap artist Drake.
“I like variety,” Tobin stated, looking directly at me.
Heat flushed through me, and I had no doubt it was written all over my face. I found it hard to breathe, and my nipples hardened painfully. Tobin must have sensed a shift because her eyes traveled slowly across my face, down my neck, and settled on my breasts: the ones with the rock-hard nipples poking out of my T-shirt. My knees almost buckled when she licked her lips.
The room was suddenly too small, and I was very aware that Tobin and I were completely alone. No one would bother us for at least five days. No interviews, rehearsals, or sound checks. No photo ops, rest stops, or schedule to keep. Nothing and no one for five full days. Whatever would we find to do?
“I’m very aware of your love of variety.” There was more than a little sarcasm in my voice. It was my standard defense when I was uncomfortable, and I was definitely uncomfortable.
“Are you going to hold that against me forever?” Tobin stopped looking at my chest and sat down in one of the recliners.
“Sorry.” I mumbled an apology. “I guess I’m just tired.” Tobin looked at me again, and I could tell she was trying to determine if I was telling the truth or feeding her a line of bullshit. I think it was a little of both.
“Your place is really nice,” I said, changing to a safe topic. “What do they call this?” I waved my hand around the room.
“It’s called a park model. Smaller than a typical manufactured home but with all the same features. It works for me.”
I finally felt like my legs could function properly and walked the few steps to sit down on the couch. The fabric was something incredibly soft, and the two cushions were plump and firm. “What do you do when you come here?”
Tobin kicked up the footrest on the recliner and crossed her ankles. “Absolutely nothing.” She waited a few moments before continuing. “Well, not quite nothing,” she said, chuckling. “The first day or so, all I do is sleep. Then when I feel human again, I have coffee and get beat in pinochle by Mr. Justin, and I join Mrs. Foster across the street for afternoon tea and cookies. I putter around the yard, take walks, and binge-watch Netflix. Sometimes I pick up a guitar and work on a few things, but only if the urge strikes me.”
“You sang some songs at the nursing facility I’d never heard before.”
“Just a few little things I’d written. They’re a very forgiving crowd,” she added with a touch of self-deprecation.
“They were very good.” Very good couldn’t even describe what I thought of them. The lyrics told a story, the guitar adding the mood. Some were funny, some sad, and others were often touching. “Why don’t you play them in your show?”
Tobin shook her head firmly. “They aren’t show quality,” she said simply.
“What does that mean?”
“That means they wouldn’t fit anywhere in the set. The songs are put in a certain order to set the mood or get the crowd pumped. Always open big and close even bigger.” She took another drink and set her now-empty bottle on a coaster on the table.
“Then make a new set.” Like I knew anything about what I was talking about.
“No. It’s not that easy.”
“Why not? It’s your show.” Sounded simple enough to me.
Tobin didn’t answer right away. She had a faraway look in her eyes, like she was envisioning something no one else could see.
Finally she answered me. “They aren’t for public consumption. They’re just some things I threw together when I was killing time.”
I looked at Tobin, thinking. First she said they wouldn’t fit in a set, then that they weren’t for public consumption. Which was it? I decided to let it go. It wasn’t any of my business what songs she played.
“What are you working on now?” I asked, hoping to hear more. Tobin’s voice was strong and melodic. I pulled my leg up under me and turned so I could face her.
“Nothing special. Just something I’ve been messing around with.”
“Can I hear it?”
Tobin looked at me for so long I was getting nervous and was about to recant my request, when she reached over and picked up her guitar.
She played a few chords and then sang one of the most beautiful ballads I’d ever heard. Her voice was strong, and every word reached into my soul. It was as if it was the first time I’d ever heard music. The song told a story of two people who fell in love, experienced heartbreak, then found each other again years later. It was poignant, tender, and moving—absolutely not what I’d expected.
“That was beautiful.” My voice was thick with emotion. “You should sing it in your show.”
“No,” she said, sounding a little harsh. “It’s just for me, not anyone else.” She seemed less emotional this time.
“Why? It’s beautiful.”
“It’s not a Tobin Parks song.”
I was confused. “Didn’t you say you wrote it?” Tobin nodded. “Then why is it not one of your songs?”
“It is. I said it wasn’t a Tobin Parks song.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not getting this.”
“You’ve seen my shows. Sultry ballads of lost love are not what people want to hear. It’s not what I sing.”
“Why not?”
“I have…” She looked from me to her guitar and back again. “An image, and that song doesn’t fit it.”
I thought for a moment about her explanation. Yes, her songs were all edgy, some much more so than others, but to not share that song was almost sinful. Kind of like having an original van Gogh painting and hanging it on the wall in your bathroom.
“But—”
“No, Kiersten. The song is mine and it stays mine. It doesn’t go anywhere.”
“Do you think your fans won’t like it?” Before she had a chance to answer I added, “Or you?”
“Fans are fickle,” she said, standing and moving the guitar to behind the chair. She took another bottle of water from the fridge, and I nodded when she offered me one.
Our fingers touched when I took the bottle from her, the lightning heat shooting up my arm and landing in the pit of my stomach. Tobin felt it too because she didn’t move. Our eyes locked and I didn’t breathe. Everything except Tobin and this moment drifted away. I’d read about this phenomenon in books and magazines but never experienced it. Until now. Tobin was the only thing I could focus on, and I watched the muscles in her jaw clench. Was she in pain? Wanted to say something but stopped herself? Wanted to do something but stopped herself?
I don’t know how long we stayed that way, but the buzzing of my phone broke the mesmerizing moment. Go figure. I was seriously thinking about stripping and jumping into her arms. So much for that idea. By the time the irritating buzzing stopped, the moment had passed.
“Well, I thought it was beautiful.”
“Thanks.” Tobin picked up her bottle and headed toward the small kitchen. “Hungry?”
I pondered her question for a moment, and then my empty stomach answered for me. Tobin laughed and my pulse skittered.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She opened a few cabinets and the refrigerator door again. “I need to restock a few things tomorrow, but I think I have some gumbo in here.” Tobin’s freezer was on the bottom, and I had a bird’s-eye view of her ass as she bent over the drawer. Her jeans pulled tighter across her butt when she reached into the back of the large compartment. She pulled out a gallon-size Ziploc bag and held it over her head like a prize. “I knew I had some. I can get some rice going and thaw this out in no time.”
I didn’t need to answer. Tobin was already setting two stainless-steel pots on the stove.
Forty minutes later I pushed my empty bowl away. “I can’t eat another thing.” I’d had two servings of the steaming, spicy soup, which was delicious. Chunks of chicken and sausage were surrounded by green onions, celery, and a variety of other delicious sme
lling and very tasty ingredients.
She’d opened a bottle of wine, and after dinner and an hour on the patio, nothing was left in the bottle. I was relaxed and had a nice little buzz going on. The sky was clear, and thousands of stars were sharing the quiet evening with us.
“I love your place. How did you ever get here?”
“I was in a helicopter going from the airport to the arena and just happened to glance down as we were flying over.” Tobin looked up as if she was remembering the scene. “My life was crazy at that time, and when I saw it, well, it sounds corny, but I just felt at peace. From the air it’s this little enclave sequestered from everything else. The houses were lined up in neat little rows, spaced perfectly apart. Everything was neat and tidy and orderly. I’ve never had neat and tidy and orderly in my life.”
“What did you have?” I asked quietly. The tone of Tobin’s voice warned me that she was sharing something she probably didn’t tell many people.
“Chaos. White trailer-trash chaos. When I was little I swore I’d never live in a trailer again, that I’d rather be homeless than set foot in one again. And look at me now. I travel across the country in one on wheels, and here I am,” she opened her arms to encompass everything around us, “living in another one.”
This was the first I’d heard anything about Tobin’s life before she hit it big. There were countless articles on her but nothing before she was discovered in a nightclub in Harrisburg, and she refused to answer any questions about her past. It surprised me that in this day and age anything could be kept a secret. Especially if you were as famous as she was. Someone was always sniffing around looking for dirt no one else had uncovered.
“What about your parents?” I asked and was immediately rewarded with a scowl and Tobin’s sharp tongue.
“My family, if any, is off limits. Don’t ever ask me again.” Her voice was hard and unforgiving. “You’ll find clean towels in the bathroom. Lock up when you come in. I’m going to bed.” And with that any conversation was definitely over.
I was up early the next morning and opened the bedroom door quietly. I didn’t want to disturb Tobin. When I’d come in last night she was asleep on the couch, her head on a flat pillow, a blanket casually thrown over her legs. Her shirt was off, and she was wearing a white wife-beater undershirt. Her arms were long and muscular but not very tan. That verified her statement in my office that she didn’t get out much. A three-inch tattoo of a red guitar was on her left bicep, the accompanying notes drifting upward from it. The outline of her nipples was evident under the thin material, and I swallowed hard. She was so young and completely off-limits, and I needed to keep reminding myself of that as I tried to fall asleep.
I cracked open the door and saw that the lights were on over the kitchen table. Maybe she was up and had made the coffee. I hoped so because I certainly needed it. I’d gotten no more than four or five steps when I saw her, this time sitting in a chair, bent over the table. I gasped, thinking the worst, and hustled to her. I was just about to call either her name or 9-1-1 when I realized she was sleeping. She was still wearing the wife-beater, and this time I could see she had on a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I don’t know why I was surprised to see her sitting there in her kitchen in her underwear. It was her house, after all.
Her arms were folded under her head, and I noticed a large opened book, paper, and a pencil on the table around her. I careened my head to read the words on the page, and it took a few moments for me to realize I was looking at a textbook. The subject was the only class I’d gotten lower than an A in. Physics. And I was pretty damn glad I passed with a low C.
What was Tobin doing reading a physics textbook? I picked up the tablet, careful not to wake her. I skimmed the contents of a few pages, and the best I could figure out she was writing some kind of a report on Stephen Hawking. Her handwriting was neat and small, her punctuation and sentence grammar flawless. Being a snoop, I touched the trackpad of her computer. The screen jumped to life, and I looked at Tobin to see if the bright light woke her. She was still sleeping, and God, she looked cute.
The screen was locked, requiring a password, and even if I could figure it out that would be a huge breach of privacy. I looked around at the clutter and didn’t see any other information that would answer my question. I decided to leave it be—for now.
A long strand of hair fell over her forehead, and I had an overwhelming need to touch it. I reached out, careful not to wake her—shit, careful not to get caught was more appropriate—and touched it. It was soft, and I quickly pulled my hand away before I did something really stupid that I would get caught at.
I grabbed a well-worn book off one of the shelves and sat in a large, overstuffed chair. I wasn’t normally interested in biographies, but I was curious about what Tobin found interesting about Eleanor Roosevelt. Enough light was coming in from the window shades I cracked so I could see, so I opened the cover and started reading.
I felt eyes on me before I turned my head to see Tobin staring at me. She was looking at me intently, and I felt almost naked. I had to clear my throat to find my voice. “Good morning.”
She sat up, giving me a glimpse of bare skin through the arm hole of her shirt. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” she said simply. Her morning voice was scratchy and sexy. I needed an ice-cold glass of water to quench my parched throat, or a cold shower to quench other things.
“You looked uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to wake you,” I said, indicating the table.
“Thanks. I guess I fell asleep.” She started gathering up her books and papers.
“Physics?” I asked, like that question would answer all the questions I’d built up sitting here across the small room from her.
She blushed, then continued stacking the papers on top of the book. “Yes, and it’s killing me.”
I smiled, relieved she wasn’t angry that I’d looked at her stuff. “It killed me too. Got a C, barely. And then only because I think my teacher had a crush on me.”
“This is an online class. Nobody sees anybody. Anonymity is the way to go,” she added, pointing at her laptop.
I took a leap of faith she’d talk about it. She might still be upset about the parent question last night. “What are you studying?”
“Business. I’ve completed all my other prerequisites and all my core classes, but I saved this one for last. Why does anyone need to know these things? Do we ever use the theory of relativity in our everyday lives? Those that do can learn it. Why do I have to learn it to run my business?”
I chuckled. “I asked the same question.” Fifteen years ago, I thought but didn’t add. “I think it’s one of those rites-of-passage things. You know, like an initiation into adulthood or something.” Tobin smiled and my heart skipped.
She looked so goddamn cute and hot sitting there in her underwear, with her mussed hair and sleepy face. I grabbed the arms of the chair I was sitting in to keep from standing up and going to her. I didn’t have the guts and certainly wouldn’t know what to do if I did.
“How long have you been up?” she asked, scooting her chair back and coming to sit on the couch in front of me. She curled her legs up under her, which gave me a lot of bare flesh to try not to stare at. I failed.
“Two chapters.” I held up the book I’d forgotten was in my hand. I had no idea if it was one, two, or eight, or even if I’d read anything. My eyes had kept drifting to Tobin asleep at the table, her face calm and smooth. She had absolutely no lines on her face, which again reminded me just how young she was.
“I’m sorry about last night, how I snapped at you when you asked about my parents.”
“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “It’s none of my business.”
“No. It’s just that I don’t talk about it. They’re not worth the words or the air it would take, so I just don’t.”
That simple statement spoke volumes about her childhood and her family. The hurt was back in her eyes, and I changed the subject.
“What are we going to do today?”
*
Not what I want to do, that’s for sure. “I promised Mrs. Foster I’d fix her bathroom faucet next time I was home. It drips,” I said. Wow, what a stark contrast in activities—have sex with Kiersten all day or fixing a leaky faucet. I must be losing it, I thought.
What I hadn’t lost was my appreciation of a beautiful woman. I was in between sleep and being awake when I felt Kiersten beside me. I could wake up and didn’t want to. The scent of her, the heat coming off her body, and just the nearness of her were intoxicating. When I’d opened my eyes I was looking directly at her, and a warmth coursed through me.
She was framed in the morning sunlight, her legs crossed at the knee, a book clutched in her hands. She was completely focused on what she was reading, and I simply enjoyed the view. My neck was killing me, and I was just about to move when she looked my way.
Her face was flushed, either from what she was reading or because I was looking at her. It was probably the former, but my ego wished it were the latter.
“I can’t believe you’re going to fix a faucet,” Kiersten said, laughing.
My stomach flip-flopped, and my clit throbbed when she laughed. “Why not? I know how. And if I run into any trouble I just YouTube it.”
“I don’t know. Maybe because you’re Tobin Parks.” Her tone made the statement sound like “duh.”
“You’re right. I am Tobin Parks, neighbor across the street from a sweet little old lady who needs her faucet fixed. And when I’m done, Mr. Justin invited us over for lunch.”
We’d been pretty much inseparable that day and the two days after that. We watched old movies, laughed at reruns of I Love Lucy, and I tried real hard not to cry at the end of Ghost. Mrs. Foster fed us, and Mr. Justin filled our afternoons with stories of his days in the CIA. Kiersten was completely enthralled by them, and I was completely enthralled by her.
