Bar Crawl (8 page)

H
e kept one hand on the back of my neck and the other gripped the edge of the counter, as mine did. My loose hand made its way to the top of one of his shoulders, and I wasn’t surprised at all to feel the muscles flex beneath my fingers, rock hard and pulsing beneath his shirt. I quickly scanned my memory—surely I’d seen him with his shirt off and would remember how these muscles looked sans cotton. But nothing came up. In all the times I’d seen him, and with all the alcohol consumed and the bar environments, I’d
never
seen him without his shirt.

My hand resting on the counter wanted in on the action, moving almost by its own will to his waist—well, what there was to speak of. The lines of his face and shoulders were dangerously sharp and straight, and that didn’t stop at his pecs. His waist was hard and straight like a doorframe, hinging expertly into his narrow hips.

As soon as my hand connected with his waist, his hand moved to mine. I’m not a petite person, but his hands still covered large sections of my skin. Their scale against my curvy body made me shift my hips, pressing them closer to his body. I felt his deep inhale as his chest expanded, pressing me back what felt like several inches. Despite what I’d seen of him in the bars—and sometimes on the sidewalks or in cars—he didn’t seem anxious to do anything other than stand in my kitchen and kiss me. And I was perfectly fine with that.

Until I wasn’t.

Before I could steer the gears of my brain in a different direction, they worked in their tried and true pattern. What if, while kissing me, he realized that he didn’t
want
to go further because I wasn’t a good kisser, or he realized he didn’t find me attractive? Sure, we had kissed before—just today—but it wasn’t anything like the kiss here in my kitchen. What if I wasn’t all that he’d cracked me up to be in his head, and he was just trying to be polite and finish out the kiss?

I tried to shake those thoughts from my head. CJ, while obviously promiscuous, hadn’t really ever associated himself with anyone I would consider to be ugly. Though most people
aren’t
ugly. I refused to let my ancient insecurity take over what was the hottest kiss of my life. Regaining control over my thoughts, I bunched the bottom of his shirt in my right hand and pulled him closer. We were flush against each other, and I could feel that he absolutely didn’t think I was anything but attractive.

He wanted me.

I wanted him.

But not tonight. Not like this. I couldn’t be another notch in his bedpost. His very, very hole-riddled bedpost. Still, I couldn’t stop kissing him. Months of our subliminal cat and mouse game was at a head, and though we were kissing—our tongues barely leaving each other’s mouths—we were still circling each other. Predator and prey. And, for the first time since I’d laid eyes—and judgment—on him, I wasn’t sure which one of us was which.

The rush I’d felt when he’d first hit on me was swirling deep inside the “told you so” part of my brain as I let out a small moan into his mouth. I’d craved him immediately—which, I assume, plays heavily into his continued success with most women. There was just enough about his exterior to keep me away until this afternoon, but once I got a good look at his brain, I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop the suggestive movements and flirty words.

I couldn’t stop.

I wanted to crawl inside his brain and open all the cabinets and drawers and find all the dark places he kept hidden from everyone else. Except for me. I felt like I now owned a certain part of him, in a way. Not a psycho possessive way. But there was a piece of him that, at least for the time being, was just mine. And it sent fire through me.

Before I got sucked all the way into that fire—that need and desire—I slowly backed away from the kiss. I didn’t pull away roughly, like someone breathless and confused about what they’d just done. I knew what I was doing, and I wanted more, so I had to be careful. Slowly moving my lips to the corner of his mouth, and then down his jaw, I finished with a soft kiss on the point where his jaw and neck met and created a divine shadow. Finally stepping back, catching my breath while watching his chest rise and fall in nearly equal rhythm, I met his smoky eyes.

“Read me some of your book,” I said during an exaggerated exhale.

He laughed once, almost nervously, trying, it seemed, to gage the gravity of my request. “Are you serious?”

What I wanted to do was have sex with him, but listening to him read his words would, frankly, be better. And safer. On a number of levels.

I nodded and gripped his hand, leading us back to the couch we’d been on before. Returning him to his original seat, I walked to my entryway and picked up his messenger bag—thick with his words—placing it on his lap when I reentered the living room.

“Omphf,” he grunted as the bag landed squarely in the center of his lap.

“Sorry.” I chuckled and sat cross-legged, facing him.

CJ cleared his throat and opened up his laptop. It looked like it might break in his hands. I was still trying to put all of the jagged pieces of his personality into a complete puzzle. “Where do you want me to start?”

“How is the book organized? Is it like a novel, or short stories, or what?” My chest filled with the giddy excitement of a pure nerd. I was going to hear unpublished material straight from the author. I had no idea if he could even write to save his life, but that barely mattered in that moment.

“Uh,” CJ ran a hand through his hair, seeming nervous, “they’re short stories. Each chapter is a snapshot of people. Either one, or a boyfriend/girlfriend, or a group of people. Some I’ve seen over and over again and write about that. And some I’ve seen once and never again, so I have to reach deeper for that story.”

“Brilliant. Fucking seriously. This is going to be so good.” My knees bounced up and down as I waited. “Start with one about people you’ve seen a lot of.”

CJ looked around for a minute. “It’s too quiet in here,” he mumbled.

Of course it was. CJ’s life was largely spent in bars and/or behind a drum set. The thick silence of my home was probably choking him. I bounced off the couch and over to my iHome. Pushing “play,” I wasn’t in the least surprised to find my living room suddenly filled with ‘90s easy listening. Tonic’s “If You Could Only See,” hummed through the space as I returned to my seat.

“What?” I questioned as CJ stared at me with a curious look.

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“What the hell is this?” He pointed toward the direction of my speakers.

I shrugged. “You play your ‘90s music on stage, I listen to
my
‘90s music in here. It’s a romantic song. It sets the mood. Read, Kane.”

His eyes widened. “You know my last name?”

“I searched for drummer, Cape Cod, and Last Call. I found your last name and information about you and your cousin on there.” I grinned and winked.

“Sneak,” he teased.

“Read.” I had loads of questions for him about his cousin, but I was significantly more interested in CJ’s word talents.

He sighed. “Fine. Okay. So…don’t, like,
judge
this, okay? It’s just a rough dra—”

“I know how the process works, CJ. I’m a reader and an English teacher and a general patriot of words. Please stop stalling and read.”

CJ cracked his knuckles and looked down at his screen. “This bit isn’t in third person omniscient, just to warn you. I’m going to rework it. Anyway…” He took a deep breath and started in. “He wasn’t that big of a guy, but I could tell he was strong. His skin struggled to contain the muscles that seemed to be trying to beat themselves out. I probably had him by about three or four inches in height, but the anger that always seemed to linger in his jaw told me not to push anything with him should it come to it.
Adrian
, my friend Ember had called him. She fooled around with him for a while, then didn’t, then did. When it was finally done between the two of them, I hadn’t seen him in a while. But, that night, he was back, and Ember would be nowhere near here. She and her boyfriend, Bo, had just left for San Diego to record music full time. I wasn’t sure if Adrian knew this, though, as he leaned against the bar, casting sideways glances across the entire room.”

“How’d you know that backstory?” I questioned in a whisper.

CJ shrugged. “I got lucky, I guess. That stuff about Bo and Ember is true. Ember’s best friends with my cousin, Regan.”

“The one who is engaged to
your
best friend, Georgia?”

CJ nodded.

“Cozy,” I remarked.

He rolled his eyes. “Ember hates me.” He grinned and continued with his story before I could ask for more details.

“Marley had been working at Finnegan’s for a few months, and had met Adrian several months before. She was still new the last time I’d seen him here. I was sure it would be his last visit to Barnstable, but there he was, chatting up Marley. Still looking around. Eventually, between sets, my curiosity got the best of me. Usually one to sit back, I’d seen enough of this guy in action to know he needed a good social barometer reading before he’d be allowed to consume much more liquor…”

For the next hour, CJ read to me from his manuscript. Sometimes he’d read a whole section, and sometimes he’d just give me pieces, claiming that he hadn’t ironed it out yet, or that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to include that particular story.

In truth, I was completely infatuated on every possible level. From the way his voice smoothed as he considered his own words, to the stories themselves, I was blown away. He didn’t have a stock list of adjectives and potential stories that he pieced together in random assembly. CJ had crafted stories that considered facial expressions, body language, frequency at which bar, and what people ordered when—and that was just for starters. The maniac drummer who seemed to have a hard time focusing on any one person in the crowd was anything but. He considered
everyone
and was interested in their stories. Enough to write happily ever afters and tragedies into each one.

“Did that kid really die in the car accident?” My lip trembled as CJ closed his laptop.

He tilted his head to the side and winced. “Yeah, that part was real. The details are taken from lots of stories like that that I’ve seen over the years, though. I didn’t want to offend anyone by writing someone’s direct story, but the tale needed to be told. Bar life isn’t all glamorous.”

I snorted. “I’ve always thought it was anything but.”

CJ grinned. “Some of it is great. Take away binge drinking, okay? Going out and having a few drinks with your friends at the end of a long day or week is great. Inhibitions are just slightly lowered to let people laugh. People don’t laugh enough.”

“You laugh all the time,” I countered. I realized, looking back, that I’d always seen CJ with a smile on his face or in the middle of a laugh.

He shrugged. “I love my life, Frankie. I get to do everything I’ve always wanted.”

He looked off for a moment, gazing just past my shoulder and seemingly out my french doors. I knew there was nothing of consequence back there—nothing ever was. He was looking somewhere else. Some
time
else.

“What else do you want?” I questioned quietly, shifting slightly so my knee grazed the denim on his thigh.

CJ drew his eyes back to mine, swallowing hard before his gravel-like tone returned. “You.”

I had no moisture left in my mouth to swallow. “I think that’s been…established. But why?”

“I don’t know.” He exhaled and looked down.

“Thanks,” I mused.

“No. Not like that, Frankie.” He looked up with a plea in his eyes. “Jesus, I wish you’d stop shitting on yourself.”

I sighed. “I don’t… I don’t shit on myself, CJ. I’m just observant. You’ve never been, um,
around
anyone who wasn’t a breathing version of a Barbie doll.”

CJ’s face contorted. “What the
hell
are you talking about? Oh,” he cut himself off as his eyebrows lifted, “I get it. You just don’t pay attention to when I’ve been with anyone who is
like
you. You made me out to be the guy you thought I should be by paying attention only to the things that would fit in that box.”

My jaw dropped. “I don’t do that!”

He laughed. The roaring room-filling laugh that he alone owned. “You do. I’m telling you. I find all kinds of women beautiful, Frankie. You have a slammin’ body. That aside? Your personality is…”

“Is what?” My heart sped up, leaving me to take an extra breath.

Without another word, CJ’s face seemed to pale slightly and he shot to standing—letting his laptop slide onto the couch. “I need some air.”

“Are you okay?” I stood, studying his suddenly panicked face.

“Yeah, just…” He paced the length of the living room before spotting the door he’d stared out of only minutes before. “I’ll be right back,” he huffed as he barreled through the door and into my backyard.

The confusion and tension of the day caught up with me, and I collapsed back onto the couch, catching my breath and watching the behemoth of embodied sex pace erratically around my backyard.