Just a Girl (3 page)

“She’s probably just the tip of the iceberg.”

“After Hours at the Continental…and all I had to do to stay was get attacked by a girl with a vacuum.”

I smirked. “Some people will go to any lengths, won’t they?”

Replies:

@LivFree @MissJones2U Give her a hug for me. Miss her!!

@RekkingTommy

Let’s see if I remember how to play this damn bass.

As usual, the chairs that made up the audience seating for the Thursday night jam session were a mismatched collection of anything people found around the store. I perched on the wooden stool from inside the humidity-controlled acoustic guitar room. Paul sat beside me in one of the student chairs from the lesson room he’d been in when I discovered him. There were drum thrones, piano benches, folding chairs, the rolling office chairs from my parents’ offices. You name it, and it was holding up somebody’s rear end.

My godfather Tommy was there, as promised. He looked older than his sixty years. It was probably because he’d finally stopped coloring his hair black. I guess it had been hard for him to know when to quit, having gone completely white in his twenties. He cracked everyone up by taking the stage with his bass and singing the opening lines of Kenny Rogers’s “The Gambler.” With his signature goatee, he really did look like the country legend. But then Marcella joined him onstage and he called a couple more friends up. The quartet settled into a gritty blues riff for a few bars, then the guitar player laid down a familiar lick and the group transitioned flawlessly into a cover of “Black Velvet” that had chills running down my spine.

“Holy shit,” Paul breathed as Marcella let the gravel in her voice rumble over the final chorus.

“She’s pretty amazing,” I whispered.

“I never would have thought she’d do that song, but now…damn. I wish I’d recorded that.”

“You have no idea how many times those words have been spoken in this room.” I’d wanted so badly to avoid Thursday night, but now that I was here and experiencing it for the first time through Paul’s eyes, I couldn’t tamp down the feeling of pride.

I loved that my parents were still in touch with their musical roots, hadn’t gone retail and never looked back. I loved that they’d fit so naturally into the music scene that no one was willing to let them go completely. Even when they’d quit touring and started the life I’d grown up in. I loved that they still had the magic draw that brought people to the store for these secret shows. Even young performers who only knew Rick, John & Dinah from their parents’ records—they still wanted to be a part of this.

And Paul was watching it all unfold with exactly the right amount of awe and enthusiasm that I would have hoped for. I sensed he was trying to play it cool, but the way he sat up so straight and the slight widening of his eyes every time he recognized another of my parents’ regulars was a dead giveaway. “Charmed” was the only word I could think of to describe how I felt watching him. I was utterly charmed by him.

Eventually my mother took the stage and Paul glanced at me. “Is it weird to watch your mom perform?”

I shook my head. “Not at all. I can’t remember a time in my life when my mother wasn’t singing.”

She had a full, rich tone like Karen Carpenter, but with more play and jazz in her voice, like Ella Fitzgerald. My mother’s voice came about as close to magic as a human being could reasonably hope to. She’d given up the professional life before the polyps on her vocal cords got bad enough to need surgery. And now, with enough rest between performances, she could afford to risk it.

After consulting with my mom, the assembled backup band launched into a classic jazz riff. The music would have fit right in at a speakeasy. But I had a feeling they weren’t planning on laying down a classic, like “Mack the Knife” or something. And I was right.

When the folk legend with the honey voice, Dinah Mason, began to sing her bluesy, jazzy cover of “I Kissed a Girl” by Katy Perry, Paul actually grabbed his face with both hands and smeared his cheeks down hard enough that I saw the insides of his lower eyelids. I laughed, which immediately caused him to stop in a much-too-late attempt to regain his composure. He grinned with an embarrassed flush in his cheeks.

“You okay?” I asked.

“This is insane. I cannot believe what I’ve seen tonight.”

I smiled. “I guess it is kind of intense.”

“Kind of?” he said in a low voice, then shook his head. “Right. You grew up this way. You think this is normal.”

“I didn’t really get it until I was older and I started seeing my parents’ friends on TV and stuff. Like when Tommy played for the big Elvis tribute show on CBS.”

Paul’s eyes were glued to the stage when he muttered, “I saw that.”

“You wanna go up there?” I offered.

He twitched, just barely, but I noticed. “I don’t think so.”

“I’m serious. You can.”

“I’m just fine right here.” He gave me a weird smile.

Onstage, the jazzy Katy Perry cover drew to a close and my mom looked out, her eyes falling directly on me. “Presley honey, why don’t you come on up here and sing us a little song?”

Everyone turned to look, their faces hopeful. A few people whooped their approval.

I shook my head.

“Oh, come on, Pres,” she encouraged. “Give the people what they want.”

Heat rushed through my chest and up to my face like a rocket. I shook my head again, more definite this time.

“Pres-LEY,” my dad chanted once.

“Pres-LEY,” Tommy took it up immediately.

“Pres-LEY,” about a dozen people joined in.

“No,” I said, but my voice was lost in their enthusiasm.

“Come on, baby…” my mother crooned in a teasing tone, crooking her finger at me.

“No!” I shook my head again. “I’m not singing.”

“Pres-LEY,” the chant continued.

“No!” I stood up quickly. Behind me the stool wobbled erratically. “I said no!” My shout carried over the chanting, which died down after a few more syllables. “I’m not singing! I told you that!” I leveled my mother with an angry glare, then turned and stalked out of the back room.

The only place to go was the front of the store, so I stormed toward the cash registers, then hooked a hard left and stomped down the ramp into the sheet music room. But it still wasn’t far enough, so I wove through the aisles until I was crammed as far into the corner of the room as I could manage without actually climbing on top of a rack. Fists clenched, I tried to take a few shuddering breaths and hold back the tears that wanted to fall.

From the distance, I heard another free-form jam begin. It sounded like Tommy on bass again. Professionals that they were, they’d transitioned immediately back to the music. No worries about silly little Presley’s silly little tantrum. Growing up around musicians, I’d seen my share of emotional outbursts. The people in my life tended to let it all hang out, and everyone else let it roll off their backs. So I was surprised when I heard someone speak.

“Presley?” It was Paul, tentative.

“I’m fine,” I said automatically, even though my voice was thick with suppressed tears. I kept my back to him, not sure I could control myself in front of another person.

“Obviously.” The sound of his work boots on the ramp told me he was entering the sheet music pit. This tiny storefront had originally belonged to some other business, but my parents had eventually expanded into it and knocked through the wall. The grade difference necessitated the hollow ramp down here, and the high shelves of sheet music all around the room gave you the feeling of being dropped into a hedge maze. Paul found his way through the aisles to my isolated corner. I kept my eyes averted from him. “You clearly had a sudden need to find the”—he looked over my shoulder—
“Suzuki Flute School, Volume 2
.
”
He stretched out one of his long-fingered hands and lifted the book from the rack. “And here it is.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, lips twitching despite my gloomy mood. “Here it is,” I numbly repeated.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asked, offering the music to me.

I turned to face him, taking the Suzuki book carefully in both hands as if it were a precious gift. “I’m…” The impulse to say “fine” again was strong, but we both would have known it was a lie. Instead I tilted my chin up to look him in the eyes and didn’t say anything.

He peered at me thoughtfully for a moment. “Fine?” he suggested.

I nodded just once, then shook my head.

“I’m not sure even Dr. Suzuki can help with this situation.” Paul took the book back and leaned toward me to return it to the rack, but before he could finish the job, I reached up, caught the back of his neck, and pressed my lips to his.

There was a flutter and a smack as Paul dropped the Suzuki book to grasp my hips. His mouth met mine hungrily, opening to let my tongue explore his. My pulse rushed to life and my body surged toward him, closing every gap between us. His hands moved to my back, the calluses of his left hand rough against the skin above my waistband, while he grabbed a handful of my ass with his right and pulled me up, nearly off my feet.

I dug my fingers into his shoulders, and tilted my head to deepen our kiss. The heat of his mouth was exceeded only by the heat burning me from within. I felt like I could melt. What kind of magic did Paul have that could turn me to lava with just a kiss? Dizziness swept through me, but I didn’t dare stop.

Then just as my knees threatened to buckle, Paul nudged me backward until I bumped into the music rack. It was only a slight angle, but we leaned into it together. I slid my hands down his chest, thrilling at the hard planes of his muscles as I groped for the bottom of his shirt. I found it, and beneath, the smooth heat of his skin.

I gasped as he released my mouth to kiss my throat. I tilted my head back again, hearing sheet music crunch but ignoring it in favor of keeping all my attention on Paul’s lips. He made his way to my collarbone, then grasped my waist, sliding me awkwardly up the rack for better access to the skin exposed above the deep scoop of my tank top. I was panting, burning, head spinning as I spread my knees around his.

One of his hands moved up to cup my breast, and I couldn’t restrain a moan.

Then came the loud
crack
of the plastic beneath me giving way.

We froze.

Another
crack
sent us scrambling away from the rack. Paul held me against his chest as he looked past me. I twisted a bit to check the rack as well. The clear plastic of the sheet music slots had gone opaque in places beneath our combined weight, with two jagged splits showing the worst of the damage.

Breath still coming out in rapid gasps, I looked at Paul. “Whoops.”

He laughed, and he sounded as breathless as I was. “I’d go with something a little stronger, but sure, ‘whoops’ works.”

I touched my lips, which felt overly sensitive, as if they’d been stung. He seemed to realize he was still holding me in a tight clinch, and his arms relaxed around me a bit. Reflexively, I tightened my grip on his shoulder.

“I—” I started. “I’m—” The word “sorry” was on the tip of my tongue, but I refused to let it out. It was just a stupid female impulse to apologize. I wasn’t sorry. I’d wanted to kiss him. I’d wanted to tear his clothes off and devour him like a chocolate-covered strawberry.

“Presley—”

“I’m not fucking sorry!” I announced, a little too loudly.

“Uh, okay.” His eyebrows drew together. “Me neither?”

“Good.” I grabbed two handfuls of his shirt and yanked him down for another kiss.

Immediately, his arms tightened around me again. It was as if someone had merely hit a Pause button. We were back right where we’d left off, mouths fused hotly together. Only this time, we angled toward a thick steel support pole a short way down the aisle. My back hit it, and Paul crowded into me. His hands squeezed my waist before one of them moved up to claim my breast again. I hummed into his mouth, tugging unashamedly at his shirt until I could feel the warm skin of his back once more.

After months of nothing, and years of Brendan’s same three moves broken only by the occasional revenge fuck during our off-periods, Paul had me soaked and nearly shaking with need as he explored my body. Once again I opened my knees around his and he filled the gap. He spread his hands wide on my back and pulled my torso into an arch that might have hurt, but I didn’t even care because his hot mouth was on my cheek and his breath, so intimate in my ear, was sending shivers down my spine.

I whimpered, dear God, I actually whimpered when he drove his hands down my back and tilted my hips toward his. Even through two layers of denim and zippers, the erection pressing into my clit made me see stars. I made the little mewling sound again and he brought his lips back to mine, swallowing my arousal like water.

It took only a paltry five strokes through my jeans to release me. I clutched at him, squeezing him with my thighs even as my neck went slack. Paul ground into me one last time, and drew me up to kiss the base of my throat, in the small divot between my collarbones. “That was pretty fucking hot,” he murmured into my skin.

I couldn’t say anything, but I groaned, jelly-legged.

Footsteps on the ramp warned us both to straighten up, which I did with some difficulty.

“Presley?” a male voice called. “You in here?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” I stepped into better view of the entrance, hoping I didn’t look seconds past orgasm.

It was another of my parents’ friends, a percussionist named Mickey. “Your dad said you could grab me a set of brushes from his stash. I didn’t bring any.”

I tried to be subtle as I yanked my tank top back into its proper arrangement. “Yeah, for sure. Be right there.”

Mickey squinted at me, then looked at Paul, who was pretending to browse the music racks. “Everything cool?”

“Yep. Fine. Everything’s great.” I cleared my throat. “You head back. I’m right behind you.”

With one final, suspicious look, Mickey followed my instructions. His boots made two more hollow reports on the ramp and then he was back in the store proper.

I turned to look at Paul. “I, uh…”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Yeah, no. You gotta go.”

I hesitated. “I didn’t mean for things to, uh…” I hadn’t intended to jump his bones like this. I definitely hadn’t meant to use him as a human vibrator.

Paul laughed softly. “No explanation necessary.” He stepped toward me and bent to kiss me gently on the lips. “You obviously needed that.”

Embarrassment colored my face. “I guess so.” Our eyes held for a moment longer. I wondered if he could sense my thoughts, which involved both of us being naked. Or if he had a clue about the state he’d left my panties in.