joint while Rashid told Trinka about growing up in Chicago.
“Where are you from originally?” Gretchen asked Jake.
“Brooklyn.” He leaned forward to pick up his beer bottle from the floor, and she smelled the scent of cigarette smoke wafting from his clothes.
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I lost it. Besides, maybe you’re the one with the accent.”
“Really? What do I sound like to you?” Gretchen asked.
“Midwestern.” Jake sipped his beer. “Tell me about Ohio. What’s it like living on a farm?”
“Everybody assumes I’m a country girl. I’m not. My family lives in town. My dad’s a banker and my mom’s a librarian. I worked at my uncle’s car dealership before I moved to New York. We don’t wear overalls and straw hats and spit tobacco, I swear.”
“What made you decide to leave?”
Steve nudged her arm and she accepted the joint from him, inhaling more easily this time. She sucked in the smoke, which, combined with the drinks she’d had earlier, was already starting to have an effect. Her head felt light and fizzy. She told Jake about the epiphany that had sent her to New York.
He shook his head in disbelief. “You made a decision, you moved and, just like that, you got cast in a major production? Wow!”
“I know. Lucky. That’s what everyone keeps saying.” She laughed. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t stop grinning.
“Not just luck. You’re really talented.” Jake’s eyes looked pale, grass-green instead of gray this close. He had a really nice smile.
Gretchen relaxed, resting her head against the back of the couch.
“Pretty good shit, huh?” Steve’s voice was hoarse.
She rolled her head to look at him. Her eyes took a second to catch up. “Yeah.”
“Want another beer?” Jake rose from the couch and headed toward the kitchen.
Gretchen suddenly realized Rashid and Trinka weren’t in the living room any longer. She hadn’t noticed them leave, but had a good idea where they’d gone. It looked like Trinka was going to bang the drummer like she’d wanted to. The play on words struck her as hilarious and she laughed out loud. Bang the drummer.
“What?” Steve asked, finishing off the butt. It was a wonder he didn’t burn his lips.
“Nothing.” Still giggling, Gretchen shook her head. “Just thought of something silly.”
“Cool. That’s what we’re here for, to relax.” Steve dropped his hand to her shoulder and massaged it.
Jake came back with two bottles and handed one to Gretchen. “Steve, why don’t you go on a beer run?”
“Why don’t you?”
Jake stared coolly at Steve. “Now would be good.”
“Fine.” Steve sighed and let go of Gretchen’s shoulder.
She was flattered that Jake wanted to be alone with her. The fuzzy, laid back feeling receded as her excitement and anticipation quickened.
Grumbling, Steve left the apartment.
Jake sat beside her and they silently sipped beer and listened to the music playing on the stereo.
He cleared his throat. “This is a pretty good local band. Rashid’s friend is the bass player. We went to see them last weekend.”
“They sound, uh, good.” Gretchen’s nervousness increased and she began to babble. “I love your solo on ‘We Are All’. How long have you played guitar? Who taught you? I always wanted to play guitar, but my mom made me choose a band instrument so I could be in marching band at school. I played French horn, which is useless. If you’re not in a band or orchestra, you’d never play it; not like a piano or guitar you can enjoy on its own.”
“You voice is your instrument.” Jake’s intense eyes held her prisoner. She couldn’t look away if she wanted to—and she didn’t.
“It’s not the same. I’d still like to learn guitar someday.”
“I’ll teach you if you want.” He took her hand and held it palm up, ran his thumb over her palm and up the length of her index finger, pausing at the tip. He pressed into the pad. “You have long
“Where are you from originally?” Gretchen asked Jake.
“Brooklyn.” He leaned forward to pick up his beer bottle from the floor, and she smelled the scent of cigarette smoke wafting from his clothes.
“You don’t have much of an accent.”
“I lost it. Besides, maybe you’re the one with the accent.”
“Really? What do I sound like to you?” Gretchen asked.
“Midwestern.” Jake sipped his beer. “Tell me about Ohio. What’s it like living on a farm?”
“Everybody assumes I’m a country girl. I’m not. My family lives in town. My dad’s a banker and my mom’s a librarian. I worked at my uncle’s car dealership before I moved to New York. We don’t wear overalls and straw hats and spit tobacco, I swear.”
“What made you decide to leave?”
Steve nudged her arm and she accepted the joint from him, inhaling more easily this time. She sucked in the smoke, which, combined with the drinks she’d had earlier, was already starting to have an effect. Her head felt light and fizzy. She told Jake about the epiphany that had sent her to New York.
He shook his head in disbelief. “You made a decision, you moved and, just like that, you got cast in a major production? Wow!”
“I know. Lucky. That’s what everyone keeps saying.” She laughed. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t stop grinning.
“Not just luck. You’re really talented.” Jake’s eyes looked pale, grass-green instead of gray this close. He had a really nice smile.
Gretchen relaxed, resting her head against the back of the couch.
“Pretty good shit, huh?” Steve’s voice was hoarse.
She rolled her head to look at him. Her eyes took a second to catch up. “Yeah.”
“Want another beer?” Jake rose from the couch and headed toward the kitchen.
Gretchen suddenly realized Rashid and Trinka weren’t in the living room any longer. She hadn’t noticed them leave, but had a good idea where they’d gone. It looked like Trinka was going to bang the drummer like she’d wanted to. The play on words struck her as hilarious and she laughed out loud. Bang the drummer.
“What?” Steve asked, finishing off the butt. It was a wonder he didn’t burn his lips.
“Nothing.” Still giggling, Gretchen shook her head. “Just thought of something silly.”
“Cool. That’s what we’re here for, to relax.” Steve dropped his hand to her shoulder and massaged it.
Jake came back with two bottles and handed one to Gretchen. “Steve, why don’t you go on a beer run?”
“Why don’t you?”
Jake stared coolly at Steve. “Now would be good.”
“Fine.” Steve sighed and let go of Gretchen’s shoulder.
She was flattered that Jake wanted to be alone with her. The fuzzy, laid back feeling receded as her excitement and anticipation quickened.
Grumbling, Steve left the apartment.
Jake sat beside her and they silently sipped beer and listened to the music playing on the stereo.
He cleared his throat. “This is a pretty good local band. Rashid’s friend is the bass player. We went to see them last weekend.”
“They sound, uh, good.” Gretchen’s nervousness increased and she began to babble. “I love your solo on ‘We Are All’. How long have you played guitar? Who taught you? I always wanted to play guitar, but my mom made me choose a band instrument so I could be in marching band at school. I played French horn, which is useless. If you’re not in a band or orchestra, you’d never play it; not like a piano or guitar you can enjoy on its own.”
“You voice is your instrument.” Jake’s intense eyes held her prisoner. She couldn’t look away if she wanted to—and she didn’t.
“It’s not the same. I’d still like to learn guitar someday.”
“I’ll teach you if you want.” He took her hand and held it palm up, ran his thumb over her palm and up the length of her index finger, pausing at the tip. He pressed into the pad. “You have long
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