Playing For Keeps (12 page)

9.

A car came by first thing the next morning to take us to our photo shoot. The moment I saw the van pull into the driveway, I smashed my banana and mango chunks into the blender fast as humanly possible and flipped to the highest setting. I smelled that rank odor that comes with a frying motor, but at least the smoothie was done before anyone could yell that I was taking too long. Bea and Kaitlin were already in the car.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I asked Bea as we began to head out of the city. The sun hadn’t even made an appearance yet. I yawned, then I sipped at the smoothie I’d poured into a travel cup and, for the millionth time, touched the short hairs on the shaved parts of my head. Would I ever get used to the cut?

“Secret location,” Bea said.

“Do we really have to be up this early?”

“Apparently, the light is best early in the morning.”

“Pre-dawn sucks, but maybe we’ll be done early enough for me to get to my class at ten.”

“Yeah.” Bea chewed on a piece of her newly golden hair. “I don’t want to fall behind on the lectures.”

Kaitlin rubbed her eyes. “I didn’t even get off work until ten last night. Whoever thinks musicians have it easy was totally wrong. Suck ass dawn sucks.”

“Duncan told us they need time to style us,” Bea said.

“Again?”

“Your hair is sticking up too high on one side,” Bea pointed out.

“I like the styling part, at least,” Kaitlin said. “Just lay back and enjoy the attention.”

“Your life motto?” I teased.

Laughter filled the back of the car. “Hell, yeah.”

I stared out the window at the scenery lining the freeway and watched the houses turn into strip malls, then into industrial buildings, then not much of anything at all. We drove for an hour, heading up into the mountains. I fell asleep partway there and didn’t wake again until Bea gave my arm a little squeeze.

“We’re here,” she whispered.

We emptied out of the car, looking at the people already there, milling around outside. We stretched our arms and kicked up dirt. The morning light filtering in through the branches was sharp on my tired eyes.

“It’s green,” I mumbled.

“And too early.” Kaitlin yawned.

“Good morning, ladies. Come with me, please.” An older man with gray hair and a sharp, tan jaw beckoned for us to follow him. We trudged through the trees. The trees opened into a clearing where a portable styling station was set-up around a circle of cameras and motorcycles.

A styling team waited at the secret location, led by Melva. “Those are some dark circles under your eyes,” she said to me by way of greeting.

“Thanks for the alert. I wouldn’t have noticed them without you pointing them out.”

She rolled her eyes at me, and I regretted snapping at her. But it was early. She hardly had the right to look so fresh and dewy, herself. But there she was, defying time with her smooth skin and perfectly coiffed hair. She urged Kaitlin into the styling chair and I turned away to watch another car pull up the dirt and gravel road behind us.

Jimmy Keats stepped out.

I caught my breath. If Melva looked pretty in the morning, it was nothing to the way Jimmy Keats entered the clearing, as though the dawn belonged to him. Power slid off his body in waves. His dark jeans were fitted and his soft cotton t-shirt clung to his muscles. He caught sight of me behind his sunglasses, and let his gaze linger on me before moving further into the clearing. I suddenly wished Melva had taken me to the styling chair first and that I didn’t have circles under my eyes, or that my hair wasn’t standing on end, as I knew it was.

But Jimmy Keats didn’t mention the way I looked. Or the moment we had at his house just a couple days ago—and the week before that. He didn’t talk about our—my—song, and he certainly didn’t approach the topic of our secrets. He didn’t say a word to me.

I felt like a container of milk that had been left on the counter. Lukewarm and ready to spoil.

Fuck him.

I turned my attention back to my bandmates and refused to think about Jimmy Keats. We took turns at the stylist stations, after which each lady was led to one of the motorcycles for an individual shoot. While Bea slunk over the bike like a sexy cat, I was fussed over by Melva and her assistant, who argued about whether my bangs should go vertical and if gold stick-on jewels around my eyes would look better than pink. In the end, I had swathes of green eye shadow extending past the outside corners of my eyes, a smattering of gold sparklies cascading down my temples, and lips frosted thickly with pale pink lip gloss. I was then pulled behind a temporary dressing curtain and given a skin-tight pair of leather pants and a shaggy orange tank to wriggle into. I peered at myself in the hanging mirror.

No doubt about it, I was hot as hell.

And even if I hadn’t known it, the looks I was being given by the rest of my band and the shoot crew would have confirmed it. Kaitlin pushed her new extensions over her shoulder, the fat black curls bouncing with her movement.

“Damn, look at you,” she said.

“They pretty much overdid it, huh?” I said, pressing on the sparklies at the top of my cheekbones.

“No way. You look amazing.”

“Thanks.”

I watched Kaitlin pose for her shoot. She was a little more awkward than Bea, giggling nervously when she was asked to give a fierce face or to pout at the camera. But she pulled off the “look over your shoulder seductively” pose, her hair cascading down her back like a waterfall.

Then it was my turn on the bike. Someone handed me a bass guitar, molded me and the guitar on into position like I was playdoh, and instructed me to stare intently into the camera.

Stare intently? I wasn’t a model. I twisted my face a few different ways, but got an exasperated looked from the photographer. Jimmy Keats, standing behind the oversized lollipop camera lights, put his fist over his mouth, as though to keep back a laugh. I glared.

And that seemed to work. The photographer came to life, hovering over me and flitting around me and saying things like, “wow, that’s raw” or “oh, more of that
please.
” I could see Bea, from the corner of my eye, smirking at us. I stuck my tongue out at her and laughed when the photographer
tsked
me. But I know he really liked it – the both of them – because Bea laughed back and the photographer told me to keep up the smile.

When I was done, the photographer held his fingers in the air. “Five minute break, then group shots.”

I lingered near the motorcycles as the crew moved temporary backdrops and lighting around under direction from the photographer.

“Have you ever been on one that big?” Jimmy Keats’ deep voice washed over me, enveloped me, swam into all my spaces. My stomach warmed and I held back a light shiver at his words.

Business first. No, business
only
.

“Worst innuendo ever,” I said, lightly.

He chuckled. “I’m terrible at that kind of thing.”

“It worked…once.”

Jimmy Keats watched me for a second and I knew he was remembering that night at Filth, too. “Ever been on a bike?” I shook my head. He came around, putting his hands on the handlebars and blocking the light so that the shadow of his body fell over me. “Want to?”

“You ride motorcycles?” I asked, trying to not sound too impressed.

“Sometimes, all this can be too much--.”

“And you have to escape,” I finished for him. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Exactly.” Jimmy straddled the shining beetle of a bike and waited for me to join him. My breath caught as I saw the shadowed expression on his face. The black bike, the jeans and shirt, his high cheekbones and his strong jaw jutted out. The intensity that I knew was hiding behind those gold-rimmed sunglasses. I did
and
didn’t want to join him on his bike.

The wanting won.

“You look like you’ve been riding your whole life,” I told him as I climbed up behind him.

“I have. My uncle owned a dirt bike track back in Louisiana.”

“We only have two minutes of break left.”

Jimmy snorted and didn’t bother responding. He didn’t have to. We both knew he made the rules. Jimmy passed me the helmet that was dangling from the handlebars. Then, in one swift, powerful movement, he brought the bike to life. I felt it trembling under me like an animal and I knew then why people liked riding motorcycles. It was like live wires of energy shivering through my body.

I wrapped my arms around Jimmy and pressed into his back. He peered back at me, but didn’t say anything.

A tingle ran up my arms.

Jimmy revved the motor. “Hold on.”

His grip tightened on the handles and his legs tensed up in front of mine. I pulled myself into him, held on for dear life. Dirt and leaves flew up behind us. Someone yelled something, but I couldn’t make out who or what over the sounds of the engine. In the space of a breath, we were flying.

*

I didn’t know where we were going. I didn’t think he knew either. But the desire to escape burned in us both and the only solution was the wind whipping around our bodies. Jimmy headed back the way we had come. I soaked in the mountain road, breathed in the air, so much cleaner than the L.A. smog.

For a long time we just went. All the way to the ocean. I laughed when he sped by other traffic on the line in between the lanes and grasped onto him with a screeching sound when he took turns too fast. I wanted to toss my helmet off so that I could press my cheek against his back, but even in the moment I knew better. My legs felt machine below them and warmth in front of them; the sum of us was exhilaration.

Somewhere on 101 I spied a turnoff that looked over the ocean. I pointed and felt the motorcycle slow its cagey rumbling. Jimmy crossed the highway and pulled into the dirt and gravel. We stopped sideways, the roar of the waves below us, the pounding of the surf on the cliff. I tugged off my helmet and shook my hair out. Jimmy kicked the stand down, set his helmet on the handlebars and climbed off the bike. He took my helmet, tossed it in the dirt, then reached for me.

His arms slid around my waist, just as mine had been around his, and he plucked me off the bike as though I was a dainty butterfly. Then he squeezed me into him, his forearm across my lower back, my tiptoes barely touching the ground, and pressed his mouth to mine.

The trembles of the bike were nothing compared to the shocks that shot through my body now. Jimmy’s lips were insistent, demanding. Warm and not too soft. Like he used that mouth for something important. My knees weakened, so I snaked my arms up around his neck, savoring the warmth of his skin against mine. He parted my lips and we sank into a deeper kiss, his tongue searching my mouth for secrets. My mind reeled, my body sang like a high note.

The crashing rush of ocean waves paled in comparison to the sounds in my ears. I felt Jimmy on my lips, yes, but down my spine, on my thigh, pressed against his, all the way to my toes.

We pulled apart, catching our breaths, but Jimmy kept my face close to his, moving his palms to my neck, his fingertips delving into my hair.

“I waited too long to kiss you again,” he said. “I’m not used to waiting for anything.”

“The best things come to those who are patient,” I said.

I moved closer again, a little hesitant, and touched my lips to his gently, feeling the kiss slowly. I focused on his taste – coffee and oranges – and his slowly rhythmic breathing. My hands travelled down his shoulders until they hit his waist. I slid them around to his back and pressed closer. He dropped his hands from my face and rounded over my ass.

“I couldn’t stop looking at you,” Jimmy Keats said.

“Look at me in a good way…or like, look at that roadkill on the side of the road?”

“You know that answer to that.”

“And? What does it take for a girl to get a compliment around here?”

He planted a kiss on my nose. “You’re stunning.”

“That’s all I ask. A regular stream of synonyms for beautiful tossed my way.”

“Noted. So the Cinderella moment went all right?”

I nodded. “It went all right. It was hard to let someone else take over my style, you know? But the stylist was really good. I missed my econ class, though. I can’t keep missing classes.”

Like I was, right then.

I was not supposed to be there.

I was supposed to be with my bandmates, posing for photos.

I was supposed to be getting ready to head back to classes.

I’m supposed to be emailing Local Jackson to let him know how the shoot went.

But I wanted to be there, in that moment completely, just me and Jimmy and nothing in our way. I cleared my throat and turned to look out over the ocean.

“Why do you have to escape? From what?”

He took a few breaths and looked in the same direction I did. “People think they know you. Everyone. They know what you like, what you want, what you shouldn’t be doing with yourself. It’s noise, Courtney. And it’s constant. This buzzing in my head…makes it hard to stay grounded. To always know who I am and what I want.”