Pretty Instinct (7 page)

Never breaking eye contact with me, he taps it out, then bangs his drumheads like he wants to shred them. We wrote this song together, on the roof right outside my bedroom window. It took us eight nights to get it perfect, seven if you discount the thunderstorm delay. It’s actually an upbeat song, written about the good kind of walking papers…when you’re finally free to go your own way. But tonight, Rhett’s not feeling the same vibe that went in to writing it, nor the playful tempo. No, his face and rueful eyes hold a storm.

That’s exactly how things are, always have been, with Rhett. Periods of smooth sailing, just long enough to fall into a welcomed sense of ease, and next thing you know, he’s back to sullen anger, always brimming right below the surface. Even when he’s in a good place, you’re always but a thunderstorm delay away from meltdown. I stay focused on him, my back to our audience, trying to convey love and comfort through my voice, my gaze, and the sway of my body as I sing
to
him. When the song ends and he’s still stewing, I spin around to rejoin the show and energy of the audience. One song of Rhett’s intense, cutting glare is plenty, and the non-verbal solace I’m sending isn’t getting through. He’s somewhere wicked and it will take more than a smile across stage to bring him back.

I don’t turn around again for the rest of the show, refusing to be dragged down into something I can’t fix right now. The next four songs sound great. Jarrett’s energy is always high and contagious; Cannon’s nailing every single note. He even “got jiggy with it” for one of our faster numbers and sang into my mic during “Sideswiped,” our signature ballad. I’m giddy with how well it’s gone, giggling as I again address the audience. “As always, we wanna thank Elite and all of you,” I throw an air kiss on both hands out to them, “for having us. To say goodnight, I’m gonna sing one more. A phenomenal songwriter said it all for me and I’m hoping he doesn’t mind if I borrow it, ‘cause I do so a lot.”

Bruce nudges Conner’s shoulder, his head popping up from his drawing as he yanks out the earplugs. “My song, Bethy?” he screams.

“Your song, Bubs, love you.”

Lights dimmed, I close the show the way I always do when he’s there, with only my voice and Jarrett’s acoustic accompaniment, but for the first time, and what I’m sure will be every time from now on, I switch and use Cannon’s new “sister” line when I sing “Beautiful Boy” to my brother.

***

While the guys had gotten ready to go out on the town, in the city of sin after all, I’d laid down and watched a movie with Conner. He’d fallen asleep before Optimus Prime even started stomping flowers, and I’m hoping there’s some hot water left for me to finally get a shower. I creep out of the bedroom and down the hall quietly, more than a little surprised to see Cannon sitting at the table, wet hair, jeans only.

Guys may be oblivious to, well, almost everything, but you can’t tell me they don’t know what the shirtless, barefoot thing does to a woman.

They know. Sneaky bastards.

Bare-chested Cannon won’t soon be forgotten, my brain working overtime to take in, preserve, and memorize each chiseled nuance of his magnificent torso. Not overly muscular, but more than toned and defined, he should never hide behind pesky shirts. There’s a very light dusting of dark hair between clearly outlined pecs, leading a line down to…
Oh, happy, happy trail.

Anyway, I should probably speak out loud now.

“Didn’t feel like going out?”
They better have invited him.

He bounces his shoulders and barely shakes his head, rolling a beer bottle on the table between his hands. “Not really my thing. I’m more of a homebody. Conner asleep?”

I chuckle. “Yeah, he didn’t last long. I’d have sacked out with him but I’m long overdue for a shower.”

He stands and casually strides toward me and for a moment I can’t breathe, every muscle in my body tightening and my skin tingling like I’m being poked with tiny needles. He reaches around me to throw away his empty bottle, excusing himself, yet I don’t budge an inch.

“Hold still,” he croons, reaching up to my face and gathering….and eyelash. “Thumb or forefinger?”

“Huh?”

Pinching the two digits together, he explains. “Pick if your eyelash if gonna to be stuck to my thumb or forefinger. If you’re right, you close your eyes, make a wish and blow it away,” he smiles tenderly, having just introduced me to the most enthralling game I’ve ever played.

“Thumb,” I scarcely get out.

He opens his squeeze and sure enough, there’s my runaway eyelash attached to the pad of his thumb. He leans in, warm, fresh breath fanning my face. “Close your eyes and make a wish, then blow. But don’t tell me your wish.”

I do as he’s instructed, the spell broken and my eyes popping open when he chuckles. “Only one wish Lizzie. That was like a whole list.”

“Oh,” I mumble apologetically and dip my head.

“Hey now, no biggie. In fact, you seem tense,” he says in a low, docile voice, dangerously close to my ear. “I bet you’re exhausted, always doing for everybody else. You go take that nice, long, hot shower.”

If Jarrett could see me right now, he’d be laughing his ass off and I’d never hear the end of it. My tongue’s swollen in my mouth, unable to form words, and I fear greatly that when I finally move, my trembling knees will buckle.

I’m starting to remember why I’ve never dated. Bossy, bitchy, motherly, or invisible, I have all those down pat. Whatever the hell
this
is, not so much. If I
do
open my mouth, I can pretty much guarantee that whatever I’ll say will come out stuttered and he’ll add bumbling idiot to his list of Liz-isms.

“Go on.” He smiles, giving me a small nudge at my back. “And I hope your wish comes true,” he winks. “You hungry? I could fix ya something while you’re in there.”

Like my head’s too big for my body, I awkwardly bobble it no and stumble to the row of drawers in the wall, digging for something to wear to bed. Deciding on a t-shirt and shorts, I
attempt
to nimbly slip into the bathroom and shut the door. If nimble is now defined as gawky, clumsy, and with the grace of a blind, three-legged elephant…I
may
have pulled it off. Alone at last, no one’s scrutiny or questions upon me, I slide the door closed, collapsing into a puddle on the floor.

What have I done?
I’ve knowingly invited a walking, talking panty shredder onto my bus! How am I supposed to run a band, a family, take care of Conner, all while trying not to spontaneously combust?

I’d ask a girlfriend for advice, except I don’t have any of those. I have the boys. Okay, what would they do? I run every conversation we’d ever had on such matters through my memory bank and come up with one thing. Jarrett would “knock one out.”

Ingenious
—I’ll relieve my frustration and festering attraction any time I take a shower. Then I’ll be able to act somewhat normal in his presence and eliminate that bitchy voice in my head constantly screaming, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Yes, excellent idea. I’m well versed in hand-to-self combat; I got this. With a plan, I climb in the shower and get to work. My white blonde hair washed, all 5’3” of my body takes another three minutes, and then I’m ready to let my fingers do the walking.

Closing my eyes, I let my head fall forward, bracing one hand on the wall. With the warm water easing its way down my back, I relax more with each deep breath and begin to picture Cannon Blackwell in my mind. Tall, lean and sophisticatedly handsome, country club to my punk, male to my female. Teasingly, my hand slowly creeps its way down my quivering stomach, one finger hinting at what it wants. I bite down on my lip, keeping my gasps and moans as quiet as possible, that single digit now two, rubbing a circle with the perfect speed and pressure.

Is this how a man does it? Gently, knowing exactly what you like and need? Or do stronger, larger hands, with delicious callouses on their musical fingertips make it feel even better? Not
a
man,
that
man, the perfectionist, plays me like a melody dying to escape into sound, consuming my mind’s eye as I diddle my way to orgasm.

Breathless and disoriented, I sit down under the warm spray and pull my knees to my chest. Of course I feel
better
, but still somewhat lacking, shallow, as though I only skimmed the surface of a bubbling heat inside me. When I’d had sex before, it’d been more about healing, sharing pain with another person whom I could trust, hugs and light kisses turning into something else. What I feel right now is completely different, a wholly physical pull toward a man I find unrealistically attractive. I yearn to taste his lips, learn the speed of his tongue, the punishing brunt of his force. What would he smell like when he sweats against me? What illicit words would he grunt in my ear as we writhe against each other?

Lost again in my fantastical thoughts, the chilled water on my back startles me from a lust-filled fog and second round of pleasuring myself. I’ve never gone off twice, frustration and carpal tunnel always kicking in long before second fruition, but indeed it just happened, my hand again finding my center on its own, while I was dreaming awake.

Using the wall to help me stand, I step out, right under a vent. The cold air blowing down on my naked, wet, and highly sensitized skin motivates me to hurry through drying off and getting dressed. When I’ve brushed my teeth and run a brush through my hair, I take a deep, collective breath and open the bathroom door.

“Feel better?”

Dammit if I don’t twitch, startled. This guy is erasing everything I thought I knew about myself, rattling “nothing rattles Liz” into an embarrassing fawn. And the truth is, I knew it the minute I saw him, but welcomed it anyway. I confess, I wanna feel.
Sue me
.

“Much,” I finally answer him, climbing under the covers of my bed directly across from him. He’s lying on his side, looking at me, undoing all the good of the “relaxation technique” I’d performed on myself. In five seconds, I’m once again strung tight as a fiddle. “Well, um, good night,” I mutter, rolling to face away from him.

“I had a great time tonight,” he says softly. “Thanks for the chance.”

“Oh, you’re welcome, thank you for helping us out. And don’t worry about Rhett, he’ll come around.”

Maybe.

“Speaking of that, can we talk some?”

I turn back over to face him, despite my better judgment, grateful for the low, protective lighting. “Of course. What’s up?”

“I’ve told you guys an awful lot about myself. And I know you nixed any personal questions, which is fine, but if I’m gonna be on the bus, maybe you could enlighten some on the dynamics?”

“Like?” I ask, puzzled.

“Conner’s your brother and Bruce is your uncle, got that part. But how do Rhett and Jarrett come in to play? ‘Cause I gotta tell ya, they had to drag Rhett out with them tonight. He actually threatened to dismember me on his way out. I think he might standing outside with his ear to the bus right now, waiting for an excuse to kill me.”

I wouldn’t be surprised, no more than I was at the fact he’d left us here alone in the first place. But Rhett knows if I need help and call out for Conner, my brother would have Cannon’s ass in seconds, no pause for conscience or repercussions, and snap his neck like a twig. And I suspect he needed some space to come to terms with the fact that he too has realized Cannon’s harmless. Rhett
roots
for bad—it’s easier to immediately dismiss someone than give them a chance. He just sees that as their “chance” to hurt you. With that mood of his on stage tonight, I’m glad he went out. This bus feels claustrophobic enough already.

“Rhett’s a little overprotective, but his heart is in the right place. He loves me and Conner, that’s all. We’ve been through a lot together, so he’s leery of new people.”

He shifts, elbow propped up, cheek in his hand. “You guys all grew up together, or—”

“Yep.”

“Enough already, no need to elaborate.” He chuckles.

“I won’t.”

“All right, I can take a hint. So, where are we playing next?”

“I know we’re here another night, and then, I honestly have no idea. We’ll have to ask Bruce.” I yawn, settling deeper into my pillow. I close my eyes and try to even out my breathing, our close proximity, the dim lights, and the hushed, nighttime voices making it infinitely more difficult than normal. But I can feel the weight of his stare on me; he hasn’t moved, more questions dying to claw their way out of his mouth. I’ve asked a lot of him and his blind faith, so I decide to throw him a bone and lift my sleepy lids. “What?”

“Why do you do all this?” He twirls a finger around in the air. “The band, the traveling. Why do you do it?”

“Just because I don’t know all our stops doesn’t mean I don’t like it.”

“I think that’s exactly what it means. You’re on top of every little thing with Conner, Rhett’s shift in mood, things you
truly
care about.”

I roll my eyes in the near darkness, fending off his way too keen observations. “You’re wrong. I love the band.”

“That, I know. It’s abundantly clear you love each one of them. But do you love
being
in the band?”

I hate this, the receiving end of examination. Like cooking a bug on the summer sidewalk, my skin burns, throat itches, and I feel unguarded, without my armor.
When are the guys getting back?
He’s already managed to creep into my secret thoughts, now he’s trying to unarm me out loud as well.

“Too much, I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” His voice gentles as he rolls to his back. “Goodnight, you witchy little thing.”

“Night,” I mutter, as unsettled and far from sleep as I could possibly get.

The enticing aroma of bacon and muffled, persistent laughs from Conner wake me the next morning. Stretching, I pivot and crane my neck to peek out the bunk, praying Conner’s not doing the cooking.

“Bethy, where are my fish?” He’d been ready, obviously waiting for the moment my head emerged, finally having noticed the absence of his pets, which I was hoping he’d forgotten for good.