conclusion.
“That would serve the fuckers right.”
He laughed.
“Let’s not talk about them. I just wanted to breathe tonight, remember?”
“Right.”
I tilted my head back against the stone wall and looked up at the few stars I could see. The lowest parts of the sky still had a faint blue glow. It was nearly the summer equinox and the daylight clung late into the evening. “It really is lovely here,” I said.
“When you said ‘outside,’ it was the first place that came to mind.”
“You chose well.” We sat quietly for a few minutes, though I had to slap at a few mosquitoes who found my skin in the dark. “So, Paul Kellerman,” I said. “Tell me the name of your band.”
“Jukebox Bleu. It’s spelled the French way, but we say ‘blue.’ ”
“And what does Jukebox Bleu want?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys hoping for a record deal? Your songs on the charts? Radio play? Big tours with opening acts like my shitty band that will not be named?”
He sighed. “I don’t know.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I sense disagreement in the ranks.”
He shrugged, but didn’t answer. Having been there—both band drama and not wanting to talk about it—I decided to do him a favor and not ask. After a moment, he decided to talk anyway. “A couple of the guys would like to be more serious. But our lead singer is in the Army Reserves, and his unit hasn’t been called up for a while, so it seems very likely they will be. So it’s not like we can plan big tours. I don’t know, maybe that’s just an excuse. We don’t play a ton of originals. People don’t go out to bars to hear a band they don’t know play originals, you know?”
I knew. I’d been there. “How are the originals?” I asked.
He laughed. “Musically decent, lyrically…okay.”
“Been there.”
“Who wrote the lyrics for you guys?” he asked.
“Dixon. It used to be me,” I confessed. I wasn’t much of a composer, but back in the early days, when it was just me and Brendan, I’d been the one. We stopped doing my songs after Dixon and Shawn changed the sound. I could never decide how I felt about that.
“Yeah? Which one of you wrote ‘Little Disaster’?”
“Dixon.”
“Ah, well, that’s good.”
“Huh?”
“I’m glad it wasn’t you. Those lyrics are shit.”
I laughed, a loud surprised laugh. “What if I
had
written it?”
He shrugged. “I would have lied.”
After I elbowed him in the ribs, I had to admit, “They were kind of shit, weren’t they?”
“Drink me in, this is poison, but you like it,”
Paul sang in a high-pitched whisper, sounding like my voice with all the air let out.
“Ah, stop!” I put my fingers in my ears.
“The little death comes. I bet you’ll go down smiling,”
he continued, a little bolder to be sure I’d hear.
“Stop!” I took one finger out of my ear to put my hand over his mouth.
Laughing, he pulled at my hand, trying to keep the song going. I had to stand to try to keep my grip. We tussled for control, and Paul was laughing more than he was singing each time my hand slipped off his mouth. Finally he got a grip on my wrists, spreading them wide so I had no chance of shutting him up.
“She’s a little disaster, and you want her, want her, want her—”
I rushed at him, silencing his lips with my own.
He responded at once, yanking on my wrists until I had no choice but to straddle him on the bench. Our mouths opened hungrily together, igniting my fuse again in an instant.
I’d worn my favorite black pleated skirt today, and Paul ran his hands over my bare thighs. The pieces of clothing between us frustrated me. I wanted to tear at them, get them out of my way so our skin could touch. I wanted more contact than our awkward position on the bench could give me. Already the concrete was digging into my knees. But then Paul unknowingly solved the problem by turning sideways until he was straddling the bench and I was straddling him with my
“That would serve the fuckers right.”
He laughed.
“Let’s not talk about them. I just wanted to breathe tonight, remember?”
“Right.”
I tilted my head back against the stone wall and looked up at the few stars I could see. The lowest parts of the sky still had a faint blue glow. It was nearly the summer equinox and the daylight clung late into the evening. “It really is lovely here,” I said.
“When you said ‘outside,’ it was the first place that came to mind.”
“You chose well.” We sat quietly for a few minutes, though I had to slap at a few mosquitoes who found my skin in the dark. “So, Paul Kellerman,” I said. “Tell me the name of your band.”
“Jukebox Bleu. It’s spelled the French way, but we say ‘blue.’ ”
“And what does Jukebox Bleu want?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys hoping for a record deal? Your songs on the charts? Radio play? Big tours with opening acts like my shitty band that will not be named?”
He sighed. “I don’t know.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I sense disagreement in the ranks.”
He shrugged, but didn’t answer. Having been there—both band drama and not wanting to talk about it—I decided to do him a favor and not ask. After a moment, he decided to talk anyway. “A couple of the guys would like to be more serious. But our lead singer is in the Army Reserves, and his unit hasn’t been called up for a while, so it seems very likely they will be. So it’s not like we can plan big tours. I don’t know, maybe that’s just an excuse. We don’t play a ton of originals. People don’t go out to bars to hear a band they don’t know play originals, you know?”
I knew. I’d been there. “How are the originals?” I asked.
He laughed. “Musically decent, lyrically…okay.”
“Been there.”
“Who wrote the lyrics for you guys?” he asked.
“Dixon. It used to be me,” I confessed. I wasn’t much of a composer, but back in the early days, when it was just me and Brendan, I’d been the one. We stopped doing my songs after Dixon and Shawn changed the sound. I could never decide how I felt about that.
“Yeah? Which one of you wrote ‘Little Disaster’?”
“Dixon.”
“Ah, well, that’s good.”
“Huh?”
“I’m glad it wasn’t you. Those lyrics are shit.”
I laughed, a loud surprised laugh. “What if I
had
written it?”
He shrugged. “I would have lied.”
After I elbowed him in the ribs, I had to admit, “They were kind of shit, weren’t they?”
“Drink me in, this is poison, but you like it,”
Paul sang in a high-pitched whisper, sounding like my voice with all the air let out.
“Ah, stop!” I put my fingers in my ears.
“The little death comes. I bet you’ll go down smiling,”
he continued, a little bolder to be sure I’d hear.
“Stop!” I took one finger out of my ear to put my hand over his mouth.
Laughing, he pulled at my hand, trying to keep the song going. I had to stand to try to keep my grip. We tussled for control, and Paul was laughing more than he was singing each time my hand slipped off his mouth. Finally he got a grip on my wrists, spreading them wide so I had no chance of shutting him up.
“She’s a little disaster, and you want her, want her, want her—”
I rushed at him, silencing his lips with my own.
He responded at once, yanking on my wrists until I had no choice but to straddle him on the bench. Our mouths opened hungrily together, igniting my fuse again in an instant.
I’d worn my favorite black pleated skirt today, and Paul ran his hands over my bare thighs. The pieces of clothing between us frustrated me. I wanted to tear at them, get them out of my way so our skin could touch. I wanted more contact than our awkward position on the bench could give me. Already the concrete was digging into my knees. But then Paul unknowingly solved the problem by turning sideways until he was straddling the bench and I was straddling him with my
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