LOW: A Rockstar Romance (6 page)

Me: What's this?

Zoe: It's whatever you think it is.

Me: I'm choosing to believe it's very naughty.

Zoe: Then it is.

Me: Naughty girl.

I inhaled sharply and looked more closely.

The cleft was wrong, the rise a sharper angle.

The picture finally sorted itself in my brain and I laughed out loud.

Me: Naughty girl sending me pictures of her naughty kneecap.

She sent a laughing emoji.

Zoe: Darn, I thought I fooled you.

Me: You had me going for a moment.

Me: What am I saying? You've had me going since I met you.

Me: Send me something else.

Another expanse of creamy skin. A slight rise....

This time, I was on to her.

Me: Wrong cheek.

She sent another laughing emoji.

Zoe: Your turn. Send me something.

Zoe: And not a dick pic or I swear to god I will never talk to you again.

I thought for a moment. I was hard as hell, but somehow that didn't seem sexy enough, intimate enough for a girl like her. I reversed the camera. And snapped the picture.

Me: How's that?

Chapter 9

Zoe

His eye. He sent me a close-up of his eye.

The warmest amber. The color of pinesap or burnished cherrywood. A slight turn at the edge making them catlike. The crinkle at the corner where it lifted with his lazy grin.

Fuck. Me.

In five hours, Max would be awake and be demanding his Froot Loops. If I had any sense at all, I would stop wasting precious sleep-time hours sexting with a guy I had only just met a few hours ago.

The opposite of your gut reaction.

Tonight I'd gotten this far by ignoring my better judgment. The shell was covered in tiny, hairline fractures. Now was not the time to crawl further back inside.

Fine. Fuck it. I'll sleep when I'm dead.
I got up, switched on my light and sat down at the edge of my bed. I stared at the picture of Low's eye, studying it like an ancient tome. My finger went to the screen, delicately tracing its outline, and I accidentally swiped right.

Right back to the last picture he sent me.

The kiss that wasn't.

I stared at it for a moment, and my finger went to my lip, unbidden, wanting to feel him touch it again. The feeling still lurked under my skin, like an itch that still needed to me scratched. As I stared at the picture, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the screen.

And that gave me an idea.

I turned the camera on again and switched it to selfie mode. For once, the sight of myself in the camera didn't make me want to cringe. I pulled my phone in until my lip filled the whole frame. And then touched it again.

The flash went off.

Quickly, before I could second guess anything... before the warm feeling that spread across my stomach could dissipate... I sent it to Low.

Then I threw the phone across my bed and stared at the ceiling.

And smiled.

I was flirting with a rock star.

I resisted the urge to pump my fist.

Then I gave in.

I jumped to my feet and wiggled, shaking my ass in a circle, bouncing like a kid on her birthday. And as I did, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that sat on top of my vanity that I'd had since I was six years old. I walked over and peered at my reflection.

I was smiling, flushed...pretty?

Yes.

Sadfat be damned, I looked on the outside like how I felt on the inside and that hadn't been true in a
long
time. 

My phone buzzed and I smiled even wider, then dove across my bed.

Low:
I'm saving these. You okay with that?

I thought for a moment.

Me: Why?

Low: Because if I never see you again, I want a record of the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

I licked my lips again, feeling that heat in my belly spread outward to my limbs, heavy and languid.

Me:
You're gonna see me again.

My phone buzzed in my hand. Another picture.

The curve of his lips in a wide, beautiful smile.

*****

Max was far too big for the seat in the shopping cart, but the only other option was to set him down and pray he wasn't going to bolt down the aisle of the grocery store and slam into something.

I'd played that game before.

"Get your legs in, bud," I grunted, heaving his fifty- pound-body into a space meant for a two-year-old.

Once he sat down, he smiled at me. I smiled back, pressing my lips together to hide my yawn. He knew the drill. Grocery shopping was one of our things. I pushed the cart, he pulled things down from the shelves. He knew exactly where everything was. We had this down to a science.

Which meant I could let my mind wander.

I reached into my purse, my fingers closing around my cell phone, wanting to scroll through the pictures from last night for the billionth time.

At the last minute, I pulled my hand away. If Max saw my phone, he'd want it and I'd never get it back.

"Okay bud," I smiled instead. "Let's go get some avocados."

"Let's go get some 'cados," he echoed, pointing in the direction of the produce section. I pushed the cart, humming a little. I was wearing a maxi skirt, instead of sweatpants, and even though it was the same kind of stretchy material, I still felt more dressed up, more put together. The way it swished around my ankles made me smile.

Everything was making me smile today. I didn't even mind that an old man was standing in front of the avocados, staring into space like he had never seen a fruit before.

"'Cados," Max said impatiently.

The old man turned and looked surprised, then smiled at me.

It was only then that I realized I had just been grinning away in the produce section like some kind of loon.

"Hey there, sport," he called to Max. "You're a big boy. How old are you?"

In an instant, my happy little haze cleared up. Interactions with strangers. Never a good thing. "How old are you?" I prompted Max.

Max twisted his body completely around, turning his back on the old man.

I smiled apologetically. "He's shy. He's five."

The old man stepped around into Max's field of vision. Max immediately twisted away. His face was starting to scrunch up, and my blood pressure began to rise. "What's your name, son?" the old man pressed.

"Max, say hi," I prompted.

"No!" my brother bellowed, slamming his hands over his ears. "No hi! Don' wanna say hi!"

The old man stepped back and then gave me such a withering look of disapproval that I wanted to deck him. Instead, I jumped to the side, snatched up four avocados without checking them for ripeness and threw three in the cart. "Here Max," I said brightly. "How many avocados?"

"No!" Max shouted, and smacked the avocado out of my hand. It hit the floor with a dull, wet, smacking sound and exploded overripe green goo all over the hem of my skirt.

"Oh for fuck's sake," I whispered.

"Fuck!" Max picked up. "Oh fuck sake! Oh fuck sake!"

The old man looked like he was ready to dial Child Protective Services. I stepped over the avocado, cheeks flaming, and resisted the urge to flee to the door. Instead, I held my head high and chanted soothing nonsense to Max as he rocked violently side to side in his seat. "Okay buddy. We're fine. We're good. We're just going to go. It's okay. I know. I know buddy. You're fine. You're okay. Everything's okay."

Once inside the car, Max allowed me to placate him with a pack of fruit snacks and some water. I strapped him into his seat and slipped into the driver's seat feeling like I had a hangover.

My fingers closed around my phone again and this time, I didn't resist the compulsion. I flipped through the pictures, and my pulse started racing for a different reason.

Then my phone buzzed.

Scarlett: Embarrassing, yeah. But also, kind of cool too, right?

I clicked on the attachment and my heart stopped.

It was the ad. Low stared out at me, with those eyes, those lips, that jaw. I didn't even see the half-naked girl writhing on top of him. All I saw was the look...the look he gave her.

The one he'd given me.

I had a record of that look now saved in my photo album and I could see it any time I wanted.

I could see
him
any time I wanted.

And suddenly, meltdown be damned, I was smiling again. I threw the car into drive, nearly crashing into the cart I had left sitting in the space next to us. I looked over at the cart and realized I had pretty much stolen the three avocados. Blushing all the harder, I drove my brother home.

Chapter 10

Low

The wired drummer...

...restlessly tapping....

...twitchy and high-strung...

Whenever the band was profiled, I'd only warrant a line or two about my inability to sit still. If the writer even bothered to mention me at all.

On the morning after a party like that, if my bandmates were even awake at all, they'd be moving carefully, glacially, fearful of stirring up their raging hangovers.

I woke up, popped three Advil and went for a run.

The only concession I made to my aching head was to go only six miles instead of the usual ten. And as usual, I did this without coffee.

I always swore my body produced caffeine naturally.

Once I was back in the one-bedroom condo I'd called home for the last six months, I took my usual ice-cold three-minute shower, then wolfed down some leftover Chinese for breakfast. 

I then folded my long body onto my too short couch, turned on my gaming console, cranked my sound system up to blaring and prepared myself for a long session of high-octane zombie ass-kicking.

This was my version of relaxing.

I'd played this game a million times before, so I knew exactly where the zombies were hiding. I could probably make these headshots in my sleep, which was practically what I was doing. My lids kept closing, heavier and heavier...

The shrill vibration of my phone rattled it right off the arm of the couch and onto the hardwood floor, where it lay buzzing like an angry bee.

I paused my game and stuck my foot under it, tossing it expertly back up into my hand. Damn. The guys always called me a klutz. Of course no one was around to see me pull
that
off.

"Yo!" I called into the phone, seconds before my voicemail picked up.

"Twi-er-Low!" Keith sounded all echoey like he was calling me from the bathroom. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to figure out why the fuck
you're
calling
me,"
I grunted, flicking the game back on. Keith talked to Rane. There was a fucking order to these things that I liked just fine.

"Stop your zombie game for two fucking seconds Low?" Yeah, he was definitely in the bathroom somewhere. I tried not to think about it.

Cursing softly, I paused the game. "Where the hell are you calling me from? Are you taking a shit?"

"No." I could practically hear his eyes rolling. "Grow the hell up."

"No fucking way," I grinned. "Then who would get on your nerves?"

"Mother of God," Keith complained. "And here I'm calling with good news."

"Yeah? Whaddya got?" I sat up straighter.

Keith sighed heavily, like giving the likes of me something that could be considered "good news" pained him immeasurably. I tried to stop myself from laughing and completely failed.

"Good Day L.A. called," Keith said.

I was instantly bored but still tried to be polite. "Yeah? They booking the band? Did I miss something? We aren't promoting again, are we?" I thought we were supposed to be taking a
much-deserved break
.

"No," Keith said with barely disguised impatience. "You guys aren't promoting again.
You're
promoting."

I paused the game, not sure I'd heard him correctly. "Me?"

"Jesus tap-dancing Christ, Low. The fragrance? The ad?"

I pulled my phone away from my ear and frowned into it. As if that would make what Keith was saying somehow make sense. "Good day LA wants to talk to me about the fucking
perfume
?"

"Yes, Low," Keith echoed condescendingly. "They want to talk about the
fucking
perfume."

Something fluttered through me. A strange, slippery terror. They wanted to talk to me?
Me?
"How the fuck am I supposed to do that?" I wondered out loud.

The sound of a tap running drowned out the first part of Keith's sentence, which was probably good because I got the distinct impression he was swearing at me. "...the fucking program and be all pouty and mysterious. I dunno, charm the fucking pantyhose off of Maria Whatsherface and just do your fucking job."

"Yeah okay," I said. Even though the game was paused, my fingers still tapped and flicked the controls, my knees bouncing out a frantic staccato beat. "Me. Sure."

This is a fucking terrible idea.

"So you're gonna be there? It's another early morning."

I exhaled sharply into the receiver. "Why the hell not? I'm getting used to the crack of dawn."

"Good. I'm going to email you some talking points."

"You're fucking kidding me. Talking points? The fuck are those?"

"Haven't you paid attention at the press junkets?"

"Did you forget who you're talking to?"

"Right, what am I saying. Of course you haven't"

"I'm the fucking drummer, Keith." I felt like I should get that tattooed on my forehead. Seemed like people kept forgetting that fact.

"I know. And you're
also
the face of the fragrance. So make words come
out
of your face on TV, so you make money for the band. Does that sound simple enough?"

It was my own fault that Keith thought I was an idiot. At band meetings, I always played dumb for laughs. The stereotype of the dim-witted drummer was just too easy to play into, and it cracked the band up something fierce.

But that didn't mean I wasn't pissed off right now. "It may be. It may also be too hard for my poor small brain to handle," I seethed. "I guess we'll find out together, huh?"

Keith dropped the higher-than-thou act. "You're freaking me out, Low. Are you going to do it or do I have to cancel? Maybe I should send Rane."

I was freaking out myself. But there was the small matter of not letting anyone down. This was
my
job. "Sorry, no. I'm fine. I'll be fine, Keith. Everyone can count on me."

I hung up the phone and considered. Rane would know how to do this. Rane would tell me how to charm the fucking pantyhose off of Maria Whatsherface and not make a complete ass of myself on live television.

But what if you don't need him?

The thought floated in front of my brain, as fleeting and indistinct as the mist rising up from the waterfall where my father used to take us camping as kids. But the second I turned my attention to it, it solidified.

They don't want Rane, they want you.

They're asking for you.

This is your thing.

Yours.

I looked down at my phone, still clutched in my hand in a death grip.

My thumb moved on its own.

Back to the text messages.

Back to Zoe.

The last picture, her fingertip pressed into her lip, dragging it down a little, the way my teeth would if I ever got the chance to kiss her again.

Before I knew it, I was typing.