Page 6 of Gabriel's Album

I smile and stand up as I watch her tread water in the pool. Her dress is clinging to her, and her long legs are kicking around in the water, making me wonder how they would feel wrapped around my waist. I take off my shirt and drop it on the chair that I’ve been sitting in. I see her watching me as I walk toward the pool and dive in.

“So, do you work out a lot?”

Okay, clearly, she has noticed and appreciated my body.

“Yeah, a bit. I use it as my time to zone out and get away from everything, plus I find the ladies tend to like the muscles.” I wink at her.

“I thought you didn’t like groupies?” She sticks her tongue out at me.

I immediately feel the blood rushing to my crotch. God damn, what I wouldn’t do to have her use that tongue on me.

“Not all women are groupies or even fans,” I tell her, trying my best to keep my focus on the conversation.

“Trust me, after your tour, pretty much everyone will be a groupie, or at the very least a fan. Your album is amazing.”

“You flatter me.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true,” she tells me.

It pleases me more than I think it should to hear that she likes our album. Silence falls between us, and the noises from the party float on the air toward us. I wonder if the other guys will be looking for me, but I don’t really care. I could stay here with her forever and be happy.

“Where do you get the inspiration for your music?” Ariana asks, drawing my attention back to her.

“Where do you get the inspiration for your stories?” I deflect the question back to her.

“Fair call. How soon will you begin working on your new album?”

I mentally sigh as the weight of needing to get another album ready falls on me again. Our record label, Sierra Capitol Music, is already starting to ask us needling questions about it. There is so much pressure to ensure that whatever album we make is as good, if not better, than our first album.

“I’ll probably work on it during the tour, so we’re ready to record by the time the tour ends. Sadly, these days the record labels mostly just care about output. They don’t put any time or effort into acts anymore. If you can’t produce sales, you’re fucked.”

“That must be a lot of pressure. Do you write all the songs yourself?”

I enjoy her interest. It seems as though she’s genuinely interested, and I’m flattered by that. Although, it probably has more to do with the fact that I’m so utterly attracted to her that I think that.

“I write most of the lyrics, sometimes the music as well, but a lot of the time we write the songs together. I excel at lyrics, if I do say so myself. I want my songs to mean something to the person listening to them, as well as to myself. I don’t even care if they get the same meaning out of it that I do, just that it means something. Does that make sense?”

I surprise myself by telling her this. It’s a lot more than I’d usually say to anyone, but I find myself wanting to share everything with her. I want her to know my songwriting process, and a part of me wants to impress her too.

“It sure does,” she smiles at me. “I often wonder if what I think the song means is the same as what it means to the artist.”

“You’ll never know,” I wink at her again, “Unless you can catch them to ask!”

With that, I swim toward the deep end of the pool, hoping that she’ll follow me, and am pleased when she does. Once I reach the end, I turn and watch her swimming toward me. She’s making a serious effort to try and catch me, and I appreciate her playing this game.

That’s why, as soon as she almost reaches me, I push off quickly and swim toward the shallow end. She’s obviously trying hard to catch me, so as I near the end, I slow down, and she’s able to grab my foot.

“I got you!” she cries out with glee.

I stop completely, and she loses her grip on my foot but keeps moving forward, and I’m thrilled when she ends up in my arms.

“Who’s got who?” I ask while smiling in satisfaction.

We’re both panting with exertion as I hold her. I desperately want to hear her panting for another reason, preferably while moaning my name. I can feel my erection growing, and I’m grateful that it isn’t pressed against her. I don’t want to scare her away.

“I should probably get back,” Ariana says in a throaty voice. “It’s getting late, and my aunt might be wondering where I went.”

Dammit. I have scared her off after all.

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