Love to Love Her YAC (2 page)

Too soon the song reaches its end and I
replace the mic in its stand. The realization of what I’ve just
done has set in, and with it a touch of nausea. I stumble off the
stage and lift my chin to look for Rhiannon again just in time to
notice her squeezing past me on the steps to gracefully assume her
own position behind the microphone.

The crowd goes wild, because of course they
recognize her as the reputed birthday girl, and likely also due to
the fact she looks like a fucking angel standing beneath that
glaring spotlight. She turns back to instruct the DJ, then stands
still waiting for the music to begin. Her hands hang at her sides,
and I smile to myself when I notice she’s popping her knuckles.

The ensuing two and a half minutes will go
down in history as the single most enrapturing moment in my life to
date…at least that I can presently recall. Rhiannon’s mezzo-soprano
rendering of Jim Croce’s “Time in a Bottle” is hauntingly
beautiful, and even more beguiling and downright mesmerizing is the
confidence and poise she exudes as she rocks subtly back and forth,
launching her voice into the now all-but-silent bar. Gone is the
awkward insecurity I picked up on earlier when her friends took to
the stage–this goddess-like songstress has taken her place, and
she’s sexy as hell.

The song draws to a close, and Rhiannon
allows her voice to melt into a soft nothingness. She dips her
blond head in a diminutive curtsey and is met by…nothing. The girl
has effectively stunned an entire room full of intoxicated men and
women into reverent silence. The collective intake of breath seems
almost palpable.

And then, all at once, we exhale as one, and
the applause is deafening.

Rhiannon – 11:15 PM

I
alight from the
stage with adrenaline still pumping through my muscles and bones
like a fist through a wall. Corinne and Ruthie receive me with an
effusive chorus of giggles and claps on the back. They swallow me
up in their arms, and we edge through the crowd back to our table
near the bar.

“Damn, girl! Way to bring the house down!”
cries Corinne. “I was practically moved to tears!”

“Seriously…what other talents are you keeping
hidden away from us?” asks Ruthie, her striking features masked in
suspicion. “Are you a champion kick boxer or anything like
that?”

“Sumo wrestler, actually,” I tell her with a
wink as I slurp up the last of another grasshopper.

Before she can serve up a saucy retort,
Ruthie’s eyes go wide as she takes in something behind me, and I
peek back over my shoulder to see what has her looking like someone
is taking a shit on the dance floor or something.

“Mind if we join you?” asks a very tall,
attractive guy with short dirty blond hair and blue eyes as clear
as my little sister’s. He’s dressed like he came from work in
khakis and a button down shirt. I recognize the guy behind him as
the Adonis who was up on the stage earlier singing “Authority Song”
while drilling Corinne, Ruthie and me with his commanding green
eyes, which I can now see are flecked with a flashing gray. He’s
only an inch or two shorter than his friend, and his bronzed skin
is set off by a longish and semi-unruly mop of sun-lightened brown
hair. His chin is strong, his jaw line angular and covered with
day-old stubble. My eyes rake over his body, taking in the black
boots, jeans riding low on his narrow hips, and long sleeved henley
that flaunts the toned musculature of his chest and shoulders. His
sleeves are pushed up past his wrists so I can see the curl of the
hair on his lean forearms. Oh, and is that a tattoo I see peeking
out from under his left cuff?

My eyes meet his once more, and I blush at
the fact I’ve been caught staring. The lines around his eyes hold
an aspect of amusement that expands to delight when Corinne chirps
an enthusiastic “Of course, pull over some chairs!”

In one fluid movement Mr. Tall, Dark and
Handsome circumnavigates his friend and guides a stool between
Ruthie and me. Ruthie lifts an eyebrow before grinning impishly at
me, and I wonder if this is her way of calling dibs. Too bad I’m
not going down without a fight.

“Happy birthday,” he says in a deep tone that
belies the softer, more melodic timbre of his singing voice.

My heart stutters in my chest, and I rush to
steady my breathing before responding. “Thank you. I liked your
song. You’re good at it–at singing.”

His face spreads into a smile that is very
nearly heart stopping and bares a set of teeth any orthodontist
would proudly claim credit for. “That means a lot coming from you.
You’ve got one hell of a voice.”

Bolstered by the shimmering buzz of the
alcohol, I sit up straighter in my seat. “Sweet of you to say. If
you liked that, you’ll be
really
impressed when you hear me
play guitar at the same time.”

Shit
. Now I sound like I’m bragging.
Maybe I should just go ahead and mention the fact I earned first
place in fifth grade science fair while I’m at it. And that I had a
prizewinning rabbit in 4H as an adolescent.

I dart my eyes back up to his face, and my
stomach flips as I watch him flick his pink tongue across his full
lower lip. I’ve never seen more perfect lips. Thankfully his eyes
are still smiling.

“I’ll bet you’re right about that,” he says,
and already I can tell I’m in trouble. It’s as if every tilt of his
head, every twitch of his lips, every word that rolls off his
tongue, is calculated specifically to elicit the type of physical
response, the deep-seated shudder of yearning, I seem to be
experiencing.

A hand is thrust between us that liberates me
from my idiotic stupor. “I’m Corinne,” says the voice that belongs
to the hand. He takes her hand in his own and gives it a brief
shake. “Over there is Ruthie,” Corinne continues with her
introductions, “and it seems you’ve already met Rhiannon.” Corinne
leers at me suggestively before waggling her eyebrows. I glance
away and pretend not to notice.

“I’m Blake,” says the Adonis, addressing
Corinne. “And this is Adam.” He turns around again to pierce me
with his lustful gaze.

Blake – 11:45 PM

O
bserving Rhiannon
on stage was enough to induce the stirrings of a boner, but
drinking her in from an arm’s length away has me ready to either
take her out to the backseat of a car or race home solo for a cold
shower. I make up my mind not to dwell on how wrong it is to feel
this way. Her breath is sweet and smells like cream and mint, and
her innocence is evident in her beautiful, doll-like features, all
fresh faced and glancing eyed. I’d be willing to bet she isn’t even
old enough to be here, but of course her secret is safe with
me.

She turns to face Ruthie across the table as
her friend spouts off something about needing another drink for the
birthday girl, and I’m taken aback by the revelation that her
small, perfect ear is pierced at the top with three little hoops
and in the lobe with a small diamond stud.
Fuck me
. I lower
my gaze to the vellum skin on the back of her bare neck and try to
imagine what it would taste like. My hard-on grows, cinching my
jeans tighter in the crotch.

“Next round’s on me!” I say, making an
extraordinary effort to snap the hell out of it while discretely
re-adjusting the bulge in my pants. I order five shots of Jack,
which are served up on a tray moments later. Adam slides me a shot
and I grasp it in my hand. Before drinking, I lean in only inches
from Rhiannon’s ear and murmur, “How old are you, Rhiannon?” I
could swear I see a faint shiver roll off her, and it drives me
fucking wild.

“Twenty-one,” she replies.

“The big two-one? Wow…happy twenty-first,” I
say and wink at her before downing my shot.

We stay there talking for most of the night,
although it’s probably fairly obvious how disconnected I am from
the banter. I can’t seem to keep from stealing glances at Rhiannon
as she engages in the conversation around her. She’s so animated in
her reactions to things, and it’s sort of fascinating watching her
run the full gamut of human emotion as the others trade narratives.
One minute she’s gasping with eyes the size of saucers, leaning on
the table for support, and the next minute her laughter shakes her
entire frame and she’s wiping tears from her beautiful eyes. It’s
refreshing to witness a female who wears her emotions as much as
this girl seems to.

And all the while her body is angled in her
seat so that our knees are tantalizingly close to touching beneath
the table…

When we finally stand to go, Rhiannon
stumbles a bit as she slides from her stool, and it feels like
second nature when my hands snap out to steady her. I grip her
waist, lightly digging my fingers into her hip bones until she’s
had a chance to right herself, and the heat from her body is
searing. She regards me from beneath her thick, dark eyelashes
before flashing me an easy grin. “Sorry, I’m sort of a klutz,” she
says. “Thanks for grabbing me.”

“Any time,” I tell her.
And Jesus Christ,
do I ever mean that
.

Rhiannon – 2:15 AM

T
he walk to Blake’s
car feels, I suspect, much longer than it actually is.  Not
far from the bar Ruthie, flush-faced and at very high decibel,
announces for the second time since walking out the door that she
“needs to pee,” and our walk is yet again derailed.

“Geez, Ruth, can’t you wait till we get
home?” Corinne steadies herself against a bike post.  “Didn’t
you pee like right before we walked out?”

“Hungh,” Ruthie scowls theatrically. “Not
everybody has the bladder of a camel like you, Corinne.  You,
and your big camel bladder!” She stumbles a minute, regains her
composure, and looks to Blake.  “
You,
sir, need to stay
right here.”
We watch as she ambles off towards the bushes
bordering the parking lot.

“Ruth! 
Jesus, Ruth! 
Do
not
tell me you’re going to pee—
oh, no.” 
Corinne starts laughing.  “Seriously, Ruth!  What kind of
first impression is this?!” I look to Blake, who is
smirking. 

“We’re normally very composed young women,”
Corinne states flatly to him, and I start giggling.  She
clears her throat and adjusts her shoulder bag as if it’ll lend her
statement credibility.

“Is that right?”  He begins to
laugh.

“Yes,” she responds, but I can hear her voice
breaking too. She recomposes herself, looks to me and clarifies:
“Well, Rhiannon and I are, at least.  You never know,” she
nods somberly toward the bushes, “about
that
one.  But
yeah.  Rhiannon and I try to keep our urination confined to
conventional lavatories.”

I lose it.  “
Conventional
lavatory
?” I giggle.  This is
so
Corinne—always
going into clinical descriptor mode.  Ruthie and I tease her
about how vastly her vocabulary improves after just one beer; she
has a tendency to wax poetic. 
“
As opposed to what,
Cori?  A hole in the dirt?”

“I like your friends,” Blake grins at me,
resting against the door of someone else’s banged-up maroon
Corolla.  I may be drunk, but the whole sexy-James-Dean
parallel is not completely lost on me. 
Even if it’s just a
Corolla
.  Oh, God.

I prop myself up against a nearby truck,
facing him. “I just met them tonight. I really have no idea who
these people are.”

He leans in toward me, smelling like
aftershave—and real aftershave too, not that Axe body spray
bullshit that every guy in high school doused himself in right
before every date and then you had to hold your breath each time
you came within two feet of them just to stop yourself getting sick
on the stench.
Stop it,
I tell myself firmly.
Stop
smelling the man and comparing him to your previous
boyfriends
.

He smiles and I almost lose control of my own
bladder.
Shut up brain shut up brain shut up brain shut up
brain…

“Do you guys need help getting home?”

As I try to toss my hair casually, some
strands get stuck in my lip gloss, which Corinne insisted be
reapplied in excess before leaving the bar. I’m kind of a disaster
right now. “Oh, you know—I think we’re fine. We really just
need—“

Ruthie’s voice cuts me off mid-sentence.
“Hey, guys!” she yells. “I think I might have just peed on a family
of rabbits!”

I blink at him. “We’d love a ride home.
Thanks.”

2:30 AM

T
he drive back to my
apartment is uncomfortably silent.  That it’s silent in the
first place is a true testament to our rather dismal state of
affairs. For the first ten minutes of the trip, Ruthie and Corinne
were whispering conspiratorially to each other in the backseat.
Well,
Corinne
was whispering—Ruthie couldn’t stop
giggling.  Blake and I exchange a look, but other than that,
we don’t speak.  I realize after a few moments that the
whispering has stopped, and when I glance back in the mirror I see
Ruthie’s form sprawled across Corinne, her face buried
unceremoniously in her crotch, muttering something unintelligible.
I think it might be something about Greek playwrights. Those
cranberry vodkas seem to have finally hit Corinne properly, as
well; a soft snore escapes her mouth.  Composed young women,
indeed.

I stare straight ahead, smiling faintly, my
hands in my lap and my eyes burning holes through the front
windshield. Blake smells good. Like, really good. Damn whatever it
is he’s wearing; it’s taking an absurd amount of willpower not to
lean across the center console to smell his shirt.
  Maybe ten minutes pass, the entirety of which I spend
drunkenly breathing him in.  I close my eyes and revel in this
far superior form of intoxication; my mind, in turn, wanders and
does what it shouldn’t.
Focus, dammit. You are not going to be
ruled by your hormones.
  I force myself to reopen my
eyes.