Page 33 of Our Elliana

“Brenda the Bombshell?”

“That’s the one,” I confirm. Note: Brenda the Bombshell is at least sixty. She does wear lipstick and keeps her hair a brassy red, though. She’s a jokester and has the patience of fucking Job.

I adore her.

“Thinking about asking her to marry me,” Gramps says.

“You should.”

The man’s been threatening to propose to this lady forever. I wonder what she’d say if he ever goes through with it.

Already, I’m smiling. Speaking to my grandfather always reminds me of what’s important. We BS for a bit longer, and when I hang up, I’m more grounded. Only he and music have that effect on me. I scoop up Zelda and play some Zepplin, Black Sabbath, and AC/DC. Then, as the hour grows later, I switch to some quieter ballads, so I won’t wake up the house.

Sometime after midnight a knock sounds from my door, which is unexpected since everyone else is typically out by now.

I sling it wide, hoisting my manufactured mask of carefree musician back in place, to find Elle standing there. My smirk is instantaneous. Maybe sex with her isn’t off the table after all.

“Hello, there, sweet thing. What can I do for you?” I ask her, wearing nothing whatsoever. She glances down at my package then back up to my face, her pupils a bit larger. Yet her question isn’t anything I’m anticipating.

“I heard you playing. Everything all right?”

“Never better,” I fib. No way in hell am I telling her about going all green-eyed monster over Noah of all people. I just need to remember that this is a gig and nothing more. As long as I have the funds to take care of Gramps, I’m good.

She studies me, her small hands going to the eagle tattoo that expands across my pecks. I figure that’ll be where this ends since she’s traced my tats before, but it doesn’t. She revolves around me as her fingers next skim over to the greyhound on my right bicep, to the massive image of Zelda on my back, then over to my left bicep again where the name of a certain special blonde woman has been imprinted permanently.

“I’ve been curious, if you don’t mind my asking. Did your mother pass away?”

For a second, I’m bewildered by the altered topic. Where the hell did that come from?

Then, my brain connects the dots before my fib becomes apparent.

“No. We were just tight when I was growing up.” There’s an exaggeration. We might’ve been tighter than I’ll ever be with my father, but that’s not much of a benchmark to set.

“Not anymore, though?”

“It’s... our relationship is more problematic than anything.” That one’s more honest, and I sincerely hope Elle quits digging. My family is a sore spot for me other than Gramps. And Rosie... Rosie’s not someone I ever talk about. Some doors, once closed, should stay that way.

“I appreciate how you tidied up after us without me even having to ask.”

While Tristan and I each cleaned up our individual messes—I’m definitely not volunteering to wipe up another man’s spooge—I did go back for her sake and disinfect that table. I may be used to eating just about anywhere, but I can bet Elliana’s not. She strokes over my eagle again. She’s not the first woman to appreciate it. Or man, for that matter.

“Anytime,” I drawl, holding my manufactured smirk firmly in place.

“I do have another favor for you, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Wash my back in the shower?” When the woman removes her robe revealing her nude body underneath, my smirk becomes real.

Maybe I haven’t been first tonight, and maybe I never will be. But I’m not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. Even as Rosie’s image flashes through my mind, causing that old wound to flare up again, I force myself to push it away and deliver what’s been requested of me.

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