by Roxy Reid
At least I assume they’re unsatisfactory. I don’t know, because he won’t say any of them out-loud.
Finn presses a key and frowns, “Does this note sound flat to you?”
“FINN. IT’S AN ELECTRIC KEYBOARD. STOP. WASTING. TIME. AND. WRITE. A. SONG,” I punctate each word by throwing a guitar pick at him.
“It’s not that fucking easy!” Finn catches the last pick and flicks it back at my forehead.
I stretch, “You used to write songs way faster than this.”
Finn eyes the arch of my back and smirks, “I used to have better motivation.”
“What are you … oh my God. I forgot about the Study Game,” I say, laughing. “You used to be so horny.”
“Hey! If I remember correctly, the Study Game was not my idea.”
I bite my lip and look away because he’s right. I came up with the Study Game to help him prepare for the SAT. One kiss per every answer he got right. We’d been dating for weeks, but we hadn’t had sex yet, and the scores on Finn’s practice tests improved with freakish speed.
“Area of a circle, Mr. Ryan?” I tease.
“πr2,” he says, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think there was heat in his eyes. “Do I get my kiss?”
I laugh. But suddenly I feel restless in my skin.
I hop up and head over to the fridge, because of course he has a fridge in his hotel room. I have a mini-fridge in mine, but I can’t figure out how to turn it on.
“I’m getting a beer. Do you want anything?” I call as I peer into the fridge.
“Sure, I’ll take a beer,” his voice is so close behind me I jump.
I turn around and shove a drink at him to cover up my nerves.
Why am I nervous? I’m just hanging out with an old friend.
In his hotel room.
Alone.
While we talk about kissing.
I try to twist the cap off my beer, but I can’t get a grip.
“Here, let me,” Finn says. I pass it over, trying not to notice the warm strength of his hands.
I need to think of something other than how good his forearms look as he works the cap of my beer. “So who would you use now for the Study Game?”
The cap goes flying across the room.
“What did you say?” Finn chokes out.
My cheeks heat as I realize how stupid that sounds. “I don’t really mean who, obviously, like you’re a rockstar, you can have sex with whoever you want,” I babble.
Finn looks at the ceiling, “You’d be surprised.”
“I mean, what motivates you?” I ask as I take my beer back, because clearly I need something to stop my mouth. “What’s the thing that you bribe yourself with to do the stuff you don’t want to do?”
“Fear of failure?” Finn jokes.
“Come on,” I take a swig of my beer, “tell me the truth.”
“I am,” he makes a face, then sips his own beer. “That summer, after we … ended, I did everything I could to have more time to disappear into music, because that was the only place it felt good. And that’s kind of always been true. I’m just playing for the sake of playing. Writing for the sake of writing. But with this album, it’s like all I can see is the deadline. The failure. I know I have to write something, but it’s like … it’s like when you have a crush on someone, and it makes you too desperate, and you turn into a dork, and then they won’t give you the time of day. The song is this girl I can’t catch because I want her too bad.”
I point at him, and smile, “That’s it.”
“What?” Finn asks nervously.
“That’s your first song. You’re going to write about how frustrating it is not to be able to write a song.”
Finn groans, “It’s so cliche.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
When he groans again, I grab his shirt and drag him back out into the living room area.
We’ve been stuck in this room so long, I can feel my creativity dropping just looking at the pizza boxes, and I’m not the one who has to write a song, “Any other rooms in this ginormous suite of yours?”
“Just the bedroom,” Finn says.
I let go of his shirt, grab his guitar and a fresh notebook, and head back to Finn’s bedroom.
“Charlie?” His voice sounds nervous, “What are you doing?”
“Breaking your wall down,” I say. I survey the room. There’s a luxurious chair, and an even more luxurious bed.
I gesture with the guitar, “Get on the bed.”
His eyes darken, and his next step can best be described as a prowl.
“Not like that!” I say hastily. I toss his guitar onto the bed, then back into the chair, clutching my notebook like it’s the thing that will save me from this massively bad idea.
Finn looks down at his guitar, “The keyboard’s more efficient. I can record stuff as I write—”
“This isn’t about efficient. It’s your soul. And your soul is guitar.”
Finn reaches a hand out for his guitar and there’s so much elegant longing in that gesture, I wish I had my camera so I could freeze the moment.
Finn settles on the bed, his back slouched against the headboard, his legs loose and long, the guitar cradled in his lap. His hands play a few warm-up chords absentmindedly, and I wish I had my camera again. If the False Prophet thing falls through, maybe I can just make a Finn Ryan pinup calendar.
Thinking of False Prophet leaves a bad taste in my mouth—I still haven’t called Shaun, partly because I don’t know what I’m going to tell him—so I shove the thought away and focus on Finn.
Finn, who is looking up at me from under messy curls, that dangerous smile lurking in the corner of his mouth.
My mouth goes dry.
“Are we playing the Study Game?” Finn asks and his voice slides through me like whiskey, potent and dangerous.
“Sure,” I flip my hair, nonchalant. “What do you want your prize to be? Shots? T.V.? A break from me?”
“I was thinking I’d stick with the original. Why mess with a classic?”
My lips part. “Oh,” I say, and damn it, my voice sounds breathy. Breathy and needy.
Which is probably because I feel breathy and needy, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Finn raises an eyebrow in challenge, “You game?”
Yes. Yes, I am so game.
I roll my eyes and slouch deeper into the chair, “I would have thought you would have diversified your palette, but sure whatever. I’m game.”
“Great. One kiss per stanza.”
“Per stanza? Oh no,” I drawl. “Per verse. And then one for the chorus. And one for the bridge.”
“You used to be easier,” Finn grumbles.
“I used to like you more.”
Finn snorts a laugh, and I smile. We’re trading barbs like always, but this time it feels like we’re in tune with each other. There’s a rush to it, sparring with Finn. And it’s even more heady when we’re goading each other toward a shared destination, instead of trying to tear each other down.
“Bonus kiss if you finish the song before dawn,” I say.
“That’s what, six kisses?” Finn looks me up and down, and it’s all I can do not to shiver under his gaze. I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of me, but damn him, it’s working.
“I can work with six,” Finn says, and then he bends over the guitar. His hands skate over the strings, and he tries out some different rhythms.
“Ok, the chord progression is E, B, C minor, and A.”
I narrow my eyes, “Isn’t that the chord progression that’s in half the pop songs ever written?”
His grin is cheeky, “You didn’t say this had to be good.”
I throw a pillow at him, and he laughs and ducks, but I write down the chord progression.
Finn closes his eyes and plays me two different strum patterns, “Which one do you like better?”
“The second. It’s got more pep to it. No one wants a sad song about not being able to write a son
g.”
“Right then. Peppy anger it is,” Finn says and starts playing our chord progression with his strumming pattern.
On stage Finn’s voice is rough and powerful, but this close, while he’s toying with melodies, his voice is softer, richer.
Deeper.
I shift in my chair, waiting for my kiss.
“She’s like this song, I’m trying to catch/ Like a dream waiting to hatch …”
I giggle.
Finn rolls his eyes, “Shut up. I know eggs aren’t sexy. But you try to rhyme—”
“Match,” I supply.
“She’s like this song, I’m trying to catch/ Sharp and True/ My perfect match,” he sings. He looks up, self-conscious. “This is too sappy. It’s not my brand.”
“You don’t have to marry the song, you idiot! Just write it. Sharp and True/ My perfect match,” I sing for him.
“Wait, do that again, but up a third.”
“Finn, I can’t …”
“Just listen. Match my pitch, like this,” Finn sings a note, and I match it. Normally I think of my voice as boring, but layered over Finn’s voice and the pulse of the guitar, it fits in perfectly, part of what is becoming a delightful, hot mess of a song.
Finn’s going faster now, and I’ve given up trying to write all his lyrics down, since he’s making me sing backup vocals and clap out rhythms. Instead, I’m recording it on my phone.
We’re building to something, and I’m getting caught in the bittersweet joy of the song, when it comes to an abrupt stop, and I’m left clapping awkwardly in the silence.
“Hey. What did you stop for?” I ask.
“We just finished the first verse,” Finn says, putting his guitar aside and looking at me with great intent.
“Oh. Right,” I say, as Finn comes to me. He leans over me, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he very deliberately turns off my phone’s recording. My pulse is thudding, and I’m very aware of everything. Of my tight jeans and my skimpy camisole. Of my full breasts, and my open mouth, and my restless heart.
Finn cages me in, one tattooed arm braced on each arm of the chair, and my heart skids at his scent.
He looks down at me, fierce, and maybe I’ve been watching too much HBO, because I’m reminded of a warrior king, coming home to claim what’s his.
Finn slides a finger under my camisole strap. He’s toying with me, barely touching, but the gesture is intimate, and I feel nervy butterflies dance in my stomach.
Finn bends down, hovering over my mouth for an agonizing amount of time, and it’s all I can do not to beg. Why is he doing this to me? To us? He never used to be patient before.
And then Finn does something I don’t expect. He kneels between my thighs. All that strength and power and rough male beauty, kneeling at my feet, gently parting my legs.
“What are you doing?” I breathe.
“Deciding where to kiss,” he says.
“What?” I gasp.
He grins like a crocodile.
“On the mouth,” I sputter. “The study game was always on the mouth.”
“Well, I was younger then. Too timid to give you what you deserve.”
“Finn,” I say, and I don’t know if it’s a warning or a plea.
“We never did specify where I got to kiss you,” Finn says. “Would you like to set some boundaries? Just your mouth, after all?”
My brain knows that’s the smart thing to do, but my body revolts. My body wants everything Finn’s lips have to give.
Slowly, I shake my head.
The hunger in his gaze sharpens, “Maybe your neck too then? Just your mouth and your neck, would that be enough?”
It is possible I whimper a little. He’s not touching me, and I’m already a mindless pool of lust.
“What else should I kiss, Charlie?”
I don’t say anything, so he leans in closer, until his voice is soft and rough in my ear. He’s hot as a furnace, and I’m shivering from it.
His deep rich voice roughens as he asks, “Where do you like a man to kiss you, Charlie?”
“My breasts,” I say.
“Mmm. Good girl.” His thumb is skating under the edge of my camisole, sliding against my stomach, and I suck in a breath. “Where else?” he prompts.
My pussy. Kiss my pussy. But I’m not bold enough to say that.
Finn smirks, like he knows what I’m thinking, “Well. We have six kisses. You have time to think about it.”
And then he stands, scoops me up, and deposits us both back in the chair in one fell swoop, so that I’m sitting in his lap, my back pressed to his chest. He wraps an arm around my waist and holds me tight to him. Warrior king indeed.
“I’ve made my choice,” Finn says.
“Oh?” I shrug a shoulder, nonchalant. Like he’s said it might rain after all.
“Your neck,” Finn says.
I’m about to give him crap about being timid, when he says, “It’s the fastest way to make you wet.”
And then he finds that spot on my neck, kissing and licking and biting until my breath is coming fast and my hips are rolling. He pulls me close, and I bite my lip at the feel of his hard-on pressed into my ass.
Everything in my expects Finn to flip me around and fuck me good, but he stays on my neck with a single minded determination that’s beginning to feel a little kinky.
Finn’s not breaking the rules of the game. And as long as he’s not, I can’t either.
I stand, clearing my throat, trying to get a handle on myself, and go to the bed to get his guitar, “You’ve still got a chorus, two verses, and a bridge to write.”
When I turn back to Finn, the sight of him nearly undoes me. Big sprawling body, raging cock, hot eyes, and an attitude that says That’s fine, take your time. You’ll be begging for me before the night’s over.
I’m hit with a sudden fantasy of kneeling between his legs, of swallowing his cock, while he trails his fingers through my hair, lazy and confident, a king accepting his due.
I pass over the guitar, my face hot. I don’t get fantasies like that. In my fantasies, I’m the one getting serviced.
Finn accepts the guitar, “Did it work?”
I blink, stupidly.
“Did I get you wet?” he asks, and his delicious crudeness spurs something to life in me.
“From that kiss? No.”
“Liar,” Finn says, but he sounds uncertain. Aww. My warrior-king’s got a streak of vulnerability after all.
I snag my phone, and plop down on the bed, “I was wet before you kissed me. Honestly, we could have just fucked, but you decided to go the blue-balls route.”
He chokes a little.
I hit record on my phone and bat my eyes, “Ok, Finn Ryan. Write me a chorus.”
9
Finn
She’s killing me. She’s fucking killing me. Lying on my bed in that skimpy top. Wet for me. Sending me that challenging look, like she’s daring me to come over and shove her down onto the bed and fuck her senseless.
Or maybe she’s just challenging me to finish the damn song.
One thing I can say with certainty: this is not a masterpiece I’m writing.
I use every trick and trope in the book. Repurposing licks, dusting off old harmonies, going with the first lyric that comes to mind. It’s not high art, but if it will get me back into Charlie’s arms I don’t give a fuck.
I’m almost to the end of the chorus, when I get an idea for the lyrics that would flow way better.
Charlie bites her lip like she’s trying to keep from laughing, “You have to re-write the whole chorus don’t you?”
“Shut up.”
“Better do it now before you forget.”
I groan, but Charlie’s right. So I grab the notebook she left by the chair and re-write the lyrics. It’s still not Shakespeare, but it’s a little more tongue-in-cheek, a little more me, “There, done.” I toss the notebook aside.
“Sing it to me,” Charlie says, and something
about her voice makes me raise my eyes from my guitar.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. And difficult. And kind. And passionate.
The stupidest thing I ever did was break up with Charlie. But I can’t say any of that, so instead I say, “Does it turn you on when I sing?”
“Sometimes,” she says.
“That must be kind of inconvenient, since your job is to watch me while I sing,” I joke, and she groans.
“You have no idea.”
“Wait, really?”
“JUST PLAY YOUR DAMN SONG.”
So I play the verse into the chorus, trying not to lose my head over the way she’s staring at my mouth.
“Right, get over here,” I say when I finish, setting my guitar aside.
“Why don’t you come over here?” Charlie whines.
“Because if I kiss you in that bed, neither of us are stopping,” I say, and I can tell by the way her breathing speeds up that I’m not wrong. “Now get your ass over here, Charlie De Luca, and claim your kiss.”
I watch her hips sway as she comes to me. She’s all grace and sexual hunger, and she’s driving me out of my fucking mind.
18-year-old Charlie didn’t know her power. 28-year-old Charlie does, and it’s hot as hell.
She settles on my lap. I yank her shirt off and unhook the back of her bra.
Charlie braces an arm on the back of my chair, right by my head, and I kiss the inside of her wrist on reflex. It’s simple and chaste. Her breath hitches; she freezes. I don’t get why until my sex-fogged brain catches up with our one kiss rule.
“That doesn’t count!” I say, but she’s already scrambling off of my lap.
Charlie stands over me, flushed, cupping her breasts so they don’t spill out of her unhooked bra. “I don’t make the rules,” she says sternly.
“Please,” I beg. To hell with dignity. I just need to touch her.
“You already have the melody. Just write another verse.”
I grab my guitar, “You’re a sadist.”
“I suppose I could give you a little motivation.”
She drops her bra and my brain empties. And then I write the fastest verse I’ve ever written in my life.
Charlie puts her hands on her hips, “That doesn’t even rhyme.”
I set my guitar aside, “Sometimes songs don’t rhyme.”
