Page 69 of All Twerk, No Play

“With or Without You.”

“Desire.” His fingers curled around the strand of hair he’d been toying with, giving it the gentlest tug.

The waitress set down my cocktail, a welcome respite. I lifted the glass, praying the cool whiskey would sear through the heat simmering under my skin. When I lowered it, his gaze was fixed on my lips, still damp with liquor, his pupils dark and heavy-lidded.

“Desire,” I murmured.

His lips quirked, voice like silk. “I already said that one.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “Um… Beautiful Day.”

His arm slipped down my bicep, drawing me closer, his scent clean, minty, and unmistakablyhim. His mouth ghosted near my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

“All I Want Is—”

“Is that Cruz I see?” The singer’s voice echoed through the speakers as the guitarist tuned between songs. Nope, still flat.

He leaned back in his chair, concealing his frustrated sigh with a cocky smirk. “Definitely not me, Stacy.”

The bassist—was that my neighbor Kevin Rodriguez?—said into his mic, “Is he on a date? I didn’t think you dated, man.”

Eric’s boyish grin twinkled. “She’s making me work for it.”

“First date?”

“Third,” he said in an assured tone. While people whooped at the implication, I examined my cuticles.

“She doesn’t seem that impressed,” Stacy said.

“I’m more impressive behind closed doors.”

“Come up and impress her, Cruz. She’ll take you home if she sees you play.”

Ugh, nobody in this restaurant wanted to hear the band’s annoying banter.

“He won’t have a problem with that,” I hollered to the stage. He was already so close that it was easy to take his chin in my fingers and brush my lips against his. A pained groan rumbled in his throat. I nudged him in the ribs. “Go on, shut them up.”

The crowd applauded his reluctant agreement as he strode towards the stage and took the guitar.

As he conferred with the band, I marveled at the guitar strap over his broad shoulders, painted fingernails on the frets, torn jeans slung low on his hips and a lock of long hair falling into his face. I shifted in my chair, uncomfortably aroused as the drummer counted them in.

Holy shit, he was superb. His hand moved effortlessly over the frets. Over his talented plucking, Stacy’s melodic voice sang about climbing mountains and scaling city walls, but still not finding what she was looking for.

Her voice had an ethereal quality like Sara Bareilles, the style Beverly had paid vocal teachers for me to replicate. ‘Can’t she sound less like a pack-a-day smoker?’

As it turns out I couldn’t, so I stopped singing in public. When I was home from boarding school, I holed up in my room or the music conservatory. I embraced the raspier voices of Fiona Apple, Tori Amos, Melissa Etheridge and Ani DiFranco, listening through headphones so Beverly would stop reporting to Dad that my music was turning me into a lesbian.

But my musical tastes were the outlier. Most people preferred sweet voices like Stacy’s.

Eric took the lead vocals, singing about kissing honeyed lips. Good freaking god, he was hypnotic. Compared to Stacy’s breathiness, Eric’s voice was rich and complex. His elegant fingers plucked the strings, not missing a beat as his eyelids closed. The words rose out of him, allowing his soul to shine. He didn’t hold back, his riveting voice capturing the longing and frustration of chasing but never catching. As the song ended, they held a sustained chord beyond his final strum as the audience applauded and his band stepped off the small stage.

“I obviously hadn’t planned to play tonight,” he confessed to the audience into the microphone, strumming over an E chord. “But as long as I’m here, an artist has been haunting me. I can’t get her voice out of my head. Can I play a solo number for you?”

Then Eric’s eyes locked on mine, like a tractor beam.

"I Want to Come Over," Melissa Etheridge

Victoria

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