Page 71 of The Drummer

“Come here,” I say, putting the guitar to the side. “Bring that throw pillow.” She squints in suspicion. “Just do it,” I encourage, motioning toward me.

She reluctantly grabs the pillow and takes a tentative step. When I reach for the pillow, she clamps it to her chest.

I give her an accusatory look. “You’re the one who uses these as projectiles, not me.”

Her stern face cracks with another laugh. This time when I pull, she comes with it.

Of course I have to steal another kiss.

She freezes when our lips meet, but quickly relaxes into the kiss and straddles me.

She breaks apart to speak, still just a breath away.

“I’m serious,” she whispers against my lips. “I have the biggest crush on you.”

My grin is cut off by another kiss, this one urgent and messy.

Her hands slide into my hair, gripping hard as our mouths wrestle and explore. She slides against me in a slow steady pulse I feel in my bloodstream.

This wasn’t even close to my plan for that pillow, but I’ll take it.

I’m on fire when she finally pulls back. Her eyes are shining, and a mischievous smirk that looks eerily similar to her evil villain face returns.

“That’s what I think of the chorus,” she says smugly.

She leans in for another quick peck before climbing off my lap.

“Now, where were we?” she says tapping her chin. “Oh, right. The turn bar or whatever.”

I’m still frozen in stunned silence as she retrieves the pillow and holds it out to me.

I exhale another laugh, taking the pillow.

“Sit.” I point at the coffee table in front of me.

Her look of suspicion might be more justified this time, but she slowly lowers herself to the edge.

“Balance that pillow on your lap. Yeah, just like that.”

I jump up from the couch and jog to the kitchen. Withsloppy urgency, I comb through the drawers like the world’s worst cat burglar. I eventually find two wooden spoons and return to my now very confused co-writer.

I drop back to the couch in front of her and twirl the spoons in my hands like drumsticks. With a tap on the cushions to my left and right, I test my impromptu kit.

“Toms,” I explain. I tap the pillow on her lap. “Snare.”

Her eyes widen, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to get attacked by my snare drum.

“You did not just turn me into a drum set!” she cries.

“Of course not. You’re just the snare. That coffee table is too low to pull it off.”

She laughs, jaw hanging open in mock offense. “Fine, but I better get some kind of album credit for this.”

“Absolutely. First ever credited ‘pillow drum holder.’ Hey, that means you’d probably be a lock for the Grammy in that category.”

Andthere it is.

The pillow comes flying at my face.

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