Page 32 of Five Summers

“It doesn’t matter. It’s hot that your cum is mixed with mine.” I lean forward, feeling the warmth of her breath and then I kiss her, savoring the gentle touch of her lips. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, enchanting my senses. As I pull back, the scene before me sharpens into clarity.

Fuck. I totally caved and kissed her, breaking my no-kissing rule.Seriously, what the hell was I thinking?

Releasing her hand, I head to the bathroom to tidy myself up. The moment the door clicks shut, I curse myself for mythoughtless action. What in the world is happening? My go-to move is usually to hook up and then disappear. With my palms pressed against the countertop, I raise my head and lock eyes with my reflection in the mirror. Frustrated, I mutter to myself, questioning my actions, “What the fuck are you doing, dipshit? When you go back out there, you're just gonna leave. Like you always do.”

Once I’ve given myself a serious pep talk and cleaned up, I head back out.

Upon my return, I find Poppy still sitting on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest, and her eyes locked on the ground. She remains perfectly still, not even a twitch, as if she has no idea I am standing right next to her. Is she going over in her mind what we just did? Does she regret it?

The mere thought of it makes me feel unsettled as if I don't want her to feel any remorse for what we just did. It was so hot, but I'm glad we did it. Fuck, just thinking about it is making me hard again.Say something asshole before she looks up and sees you checking her out like some creepy stalker. But remember, you need to get the hell out of here before you do some more crazy shit that you will regret.

"I meant to ask you the other day," I add, taking a step closer to her, and resisting the urge to sit down, knowing I won't be staying here for long.

“Hmm...” she mutters, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge the thoughts swirling in her mind.

“I said I meant to ask you the other day,” I say again.

“Yeah, what’s that?” She looks up at me, her face a mask of unreadable emotions.

“You talked about music therapy for kids, but you didn't say what instrument you play.”

Her lips curl into a smile. Her eyes twinkle as she gets up from the couch. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

I feel a magnetic pull as she walks past me, prompting me to disregard my instinct to leave and instead, I follow her down the hall.

I stay silent, my hands buried deep in my pockets, my eyes tracing the curves of her body.

She heads to the third door on the right and holds it open for me to enter. As I enter her bedroom, my eyes land on a keyboard on the left side of the room. Yet, it's the wooden guitar that commands my full attention. Its polished surface catches the light. Its strings shimmer in anticipation, as if silently yearning to be played.

The bedroom walls come alive with vibrant, larger-than-life posters of bands, adding an electric energy to the room. Nirvana, Radiohead, The Cure, The Smashing Pumpkins just to name a few. Each poster fights for your attention. You can feel the rock energy in the air like the music from these legendary bands is still pulsating in the room. Standing in this space, one can’t help but feel a surge of excitement, a connection to the music that transcends time.

As I look to the left, I see a bunch of vinyl records, all neatly stacked on three shelves. Without hesitation, I make a beeline towards them, eager to explore the treasures they hold.

The album covers are super eye-catching with their vibrant colors and glossy finish. As I reach out to grab one, I'm filled with anticipation of the melodies they contain. I’m in awe. This collection of classic records is not only worth a small fortune but also a treasure trove for all musicians. To indulge in the nostalgia of these rock classics, with their melodic tunes and infectious guitar riffs.

“Where did you get all these?” I ask, pulling out a Led Zeppelin album. I get a tingly feeling in my fingers as I run my hand over the album’s jacket.

“They were my dad’s,” Poppy says, standing beside me.

“Do you listen to them?” I ask while flipping through a few more albums.

“Yeah, sometimes. Especially when I'm angry with my mom. I pump up the volume to annoy the shit out of her.”

“What did your dad do to make your mom so mad?” I grab a handful of vinyls and make my way over to the bed. Putting them on the bed next to me, I grab one and flip it over to see the song list on the back.

When I look up, I see Poppy still standing over where I left her.

“My dad was never home. He spent most of his time on the road chasing his dream. Playing at different venues all over the country. Nothing too fancy, just a couple thousand people, you know.” She moves over and sits next to me, watching as I check out another song list on the back of a record. “It was mainly clubs and hotels that had live bands. He was hoping to be discovered. He would have given anything to be the next big thing.” She gazes down at the floor, a smile gracing her lips. “I never saw him perform. My mother would never take me. But I remember when he would come home after a gig.” Poppy turns her head and looks at me. “There was this one day that instead of taking me to school, we hopped on a train and headed to the city. He took me out to lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe. I’d never seen anything like it. He shared stories with me about the various legends immortalized on the walls. And how much he wanted to be like them.”

“So, how come your dad left?”

The room falls silent for a moment, the air heavy with unspoken emotions. She shifts her gaze from me, and I glimpse sorrow flickering in her eyes, casting a shadow over her face.

“My mom is the reason. I think she despised that my father was rarely at home. As he chased his dreams, she shouldered the weight of raising me alone. But that day when he took meto The Hard Rock Cafe, little did I know that would be the last time I’d ever see him. When mom found out I’d skipped school and where my dad had taken me instead, she totally lost it. Even though she sent me to my room, I could still hear the yelling. She told him to leave and never come back. That she was sick to death of always having to do everything herself, while he effortlessly became the fun parent. But the real problem was that he was never a husband to her when he constantly fucked any groupie that looked at him. I was just nine years old and had no clue what a groupie was until I searched it online.”

“So after that, you never saw him again.”

“No,” she shakes her head. I see the tears forming in her eyes. I reach out and intertwine my fingers in hers.

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