Quirks & Kinks (16 page)

Looking across the expanse of our apartment, I could see that he did. His thin green tie pointed to his eyes like an arrow and proved that the wardrobe people knew what they were doing.

But I had more on my mind than his looks, and most of it fell on the ugly side of angry.

“He looks like an indecisive, confusing psychopath is what he looks like,” I grumbled to myself as I poured a bag of baby carrots onto a paper plate. Ranch bottle: decimated.

I was still confused about how we’d parted that afternoon, frustrated by the fact that the more I saw him, the less I seemed to understand about him.

He was flirty with me. That much I knew. But every time I tried to turn the corner from flirtation to fornication—or, you know,
something
real—he pulled back, swearing other engagements and promises.

I mean, Jesus. I wasn’t a masochist. Eventually it would be time to stop trying. Smart money said that time was now.

Too bad I was a poor idiot.

“Stupid, irresistible jerk,” I muttered to myself, ripping a couple of paper towels off the roll with far more vigor than necessary.

“What was that?” Ashley asked.

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” she shrugged, glancing at me briefly as I approached before focusing back on the din of the television.

Settling onto the sofa, I let my eyes wander all over Anderson’s presence and tried not to get all mumbly again as I did.

“It’s crazy how busy he is, isn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Anderson,” she clarified. “I was talking to him earlier, and today alone he had to go run, like, ten miles, work a partial shift at El Loco, and then go play some gig at a bar in Santa Monica.”

“A gig?”

“Yeah. Apparently, he plays guitar and sings at this place every Wednesday night.”

He played a
gig.
Every Wednesday night.

“Wait . . . what?” This was the first I was hearing about it.

“He didn’t tell you?”

Ragged breaths racked my airway and threatened me with tears.
Fucking shit.
I was not going to get worked up over some guy. Especially not some guy who I so obviously knew nothing about.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Huh.” She popped her eyebrows. “That’s surprising.”

“Why?” I snapped, losing my tenuous hold on my last thread of control and throwing my arms in the air. “It’s not like we’re together or something. He doesn’t have to tell me everything about his life. Jesus!”

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize I wasn’t angry with her. I was mad at myself for wanting and fantasizing about all of those very things.

“Uh, no,” she muttered looking shellshocked. “I, um, meant it’s surprising because he literally
told
me he was going to tell you about it.”

My chin jerked back into my chest. “Wait . . . what?!”

“Yeah,” she nodded nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that I was slowly losing my shit with a champion poker face. “I talked to him right after we wrapped for the day. He said he was going to talk to you before he left or something.”

“But he didn’t . . .”

Oh.
I’d talked to him after we wrapped alright. And I’d immediately tried to invite him over to watch the show. Which he was, very fucking obviously, too busy to do.

But still. Why wouldn’t he have just told me that?

I’m not sure that I could.

Maybe he just had to leave before he could tell me? Before he could back out of a weekly obligation.

Hmm.

“Maybe we should—”

“Go see the show?” Ashley finished my sentence, mocking my attempt at innocence with the look of a knowing woman.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Yeah. I figured you were going to say that. Good thing I know the name of the bar and the time he’s playing, huh?”

“Well you don’t have to be a gloat-y twaintasaurus about it.”

“Twaintasaurus?”

“Twaint, the mix of twat, taint, and cunt means you’re a ho. The dinosaur part means you’re vicious.”

“So . . . you’re calling me a vicious ho?”

“A gloat-y one.”

“Do you want to go or not?”

Closing my eyes, dropping my head back, and stomping my foot, I complained, “Why do you have to hold so much power over me?”

“Are you talking to me . . . or Anderson?”

My head rolled forward, and my eyes popped open.

“You’re not cute.”

“I disagree,” she teased, smiling and speaking with a song-like lilt. “I’m the cutest of all of the cute people everywhere.”

Okay. I could admit it. She was starting to get cute.

“Let me just put on a bra,” I said instead of adding to the swell of her head.

She wagged her eyebrows and jumped up from her spot on the couch. “Maybe you shouldn’t.”

“Shut up.” The only thing that would come of me not wearing a bra would be accidental strangulation. I was still young, but they were heavy, and when left to their own devices—especially in a scenario that might include dancing—everyone was in danger.

Speed walking down the hall and into my room, I dug through the pile of not-that-dirty clothes on my bed until I found what I was looking for, pulled my shirt up to a comfortable resting place around my neck, and then strapped into the flesh colored, man-made torture device.

While my shirt was up, I reached for the deodorant on the top of my dresser and swiped it around a few times per armpit. I wasn’t sure if I smelled, but freshening up was never a terrible idea.

A lot of women would have primped harder, but I was in a race with my mind, trying to get out of the apartment and on our way before I talked myself out of it.

Pushing my arms back through the sleeves of my bright pink t-shirt, I headed back down the hall and into the living room to find Ashley with the TV already off and my keys in her hand.

“I guess you’re ready?”

“Yep. I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

I scoffed. The urge to argue was alive and well, but with a well placed fist in my throat, I managed to squash it down.

Instead, I prompted, “Let’s go,” walking toward the door with efficiency and speed and snagging my purse on the way.

I hated carrying a purse, but the purse was all important.

It wasn’t money or lip gloss I was worried about.

No.

My purse was the holder of my cigarettes, and with the prospect of a guitar playing, smooth singing Anderson hanging over my head, I had a feeling I was going to need a couple.

Words swept and flowed into a melody as soon as we entered the bar aptly named Hunger Spot, magically managing to sound husky and smooth at the same time. One moved into the next with ease, but the bite of each note assured not one word would slip by without notice.

The lighting was low, appropriate for a late night spot, and the crowd was thick. My only line to Anderson was his voice, and the microphone-amplified volume of it vibrated in perfect timing with the waves of sound from his guitar.

I had apparently entered the zone, and I didn’t mean twilight. No, this was the perfect storm of seduction, and I feared that upon actual sight of him, I might pull a Wicked Witch and turn into a full-blown puddle.

What’s the melting temperature for jeans, a t-shirt, and human flesh anyway? The same for all three?

I fanned myself at the thought.

“Come on,” Ashley called from up ahead, waving me forward with urgency.

Shaking my head, I snapped out of the mental picture my brain had rendered and followed her prompt.

When I stepped forward, the sea of people parted, letting in the light from the tiny stage and illuminating the man of my literal dreams. I thought of his haunted green eyes and easy smile when I slept as much as when I woke, and solving the mystery of his personality had become my priority goal.

His fingers flew expertly along the strings of his guitar, and when the final note hung from his lips, his eyes closed. It didn’t look like concentration. Instead, it looked like he was living in that moment as if it were his last, experiencing every facet of the song and his performance like it mattered to so much more than him.

It was the kind of gut-wrenching connection that moved you. Immersed you in the music and moment in a way that a cynic like me never thought possible.

“Multitalented,” Ashley murmured under her breath, the cadence and timing of it offbeat from Anderson’s by just enough that I noticed it.

She was right. How
did
one person manage to master so many things?

Applause and catcalls broke out around us and made me jump as Anderson stood from his stool behind the mic stand and gave several cool-guy-nods of gratitude.

He looked slightly uncomfortable with the attention, but not enough to avoid it completely. He stayed there on the six by six foot stage and accepted the audience’s praise until they were finished before hopping down with his guitar in one hand and heading for the opposite back corner of the room.

I followed him with my eyes as one step faded into two and the muscles in his back bunched his white button down shirt with the effort.

Stuck in the land of perusal, I was surprised once again when Ashley grabbed my hand and tugged, pulling me from my spot in the middle of the room and guiding me toward the Anderson-occupied corner.

I wanted to thank her for doing what I so obviously couldn’t do myself, but after careful consideration, decided to keep it in my head. She would know by the look on my face, and I wouldn’t have to deal with the uncomfortably sentimental moment that would follow. The murmur of the crowd made it hard to hear anyway.

Right.

“Anderson!” my sister called loudly, bringing his dark-haired head up with a jerk.

“Ashley,” he greeted as we got to him, his eyebrows rising to a height worthy of the mixture of surprised delight and equal panic marring the normally smooth lines of his masculine face.

And that was all just at the sight of her. It didn’t even look like he had noticed the Easie shaped human attached to her arm yet.

“We had to come check you out!” she explained exuberantly, chucking him on the shoulder like a guy pal. “You were great, by the way!”

Stuck back on her first words, he ignored her praise and instead questioned, “We?” as though I was actually invisible.

Had I somehow figured out how to pull that off some time in the last few weeks?

I looked down to check, but my glaringly pink shirt stood out like a neon sign.

Not
invisible.

His eyes walked the line of her arm like a tightrope, skating its length and, at the same time, struggling to keep his emotional balance. His face was a slideshow, changing from one thing to the next as he first noticed my nails, then my arm, and eventually wandered through a zigzag pattern all the way up to my nervous face.

I pasted on a smile and hoped it portrayed some kind of excitement.

In the end, I think it was just a mirror image of his.

“Easie.”

“Anderson.”

“Ashley,” Ashley chimed in cheekily before smiling coyly, shaking her head, and walking away without another word.

“So I guess—”

“Ashley told me you were—”

“Sorry,” we said in unison.

Awkward.

Expelling one deep breath, he chuckled to himself and started over. And I let him. “I meant to tell you about it this afternoon, but well . . . you know.”

“Yeah,” I confirmed, smiling a genuine smile for the first time since we’d arrived. “Is there anything you don’t do? Every time I see you, you’re involved in another hobby.”

His smile faltered slightly, but he caught it before I could really investigate.

What he didn’t do was actually give me an answer.

Sensing the growing need for a change of subject, I moved on. “You were really good. Did you write the song?”

“Nah. It’s just a cover of an old Hunter Holston song.”

“Oh. Then I take it back. I’m absolutely not impressed with you at all.”

The corner of his mouth curved and his hand shot out to squeeze my hip playfully.

“Thanks,” he said through a laugh, confirming that I’d finally broken all of our carefully crafted tension and found a way to span the gap an unexpected evening and secrets had created.

We were back to Easie and Anderson.

“You do this every Wednesday night?”

“I do.”

“And there aren’t swarms of women hanging on your every word? Waiting with bated breath, hoping you’ll sign their heaving boobs?”

“Hah!” he barked, a startled laugh nearly choking him as it surged out of his throat. “No swarms. No hoards.”

Just one at a time then.

Inclining my head, I studied his eyes as they studied me, moving from one feature to the next as itchy fingers stroked at the skin of my hip.

I started to tingle from their constant rubbing, living in the comfort of their silence as we stared at one another.

We still had so much to learn about the other, but to a certain extent, Ashley was right. All of our untapped sexual tension was interfering with our conversation.

“When did you learn to play guitar?” I asked.

“A few years ago,” he answered, leaning into the stool behind him and finally pulling his hand away from me.