Page 7 of A Country Kind Of Love
“You like tequila, right?”Jesse asks.
“Erm, sure.”
He reaches the kitchen in three strides; he’s pre-prepared two pink drinks in old fashioned glasses. The glass has a white substance around the rim, she can almost hear her dad and her brothers’ joint disapproval of the situation.
“It’s a Paloma.” Jesse grins. She has no idea what that is.
He hands her a drink. It looks extremely out of place in his tattooed, ring clad hand.
“Thank you. What’s in it?” She swills the liquid around.
“Tequila, grapefruit, lime, syrup, and soda. I know it’s a little early in the day, so I held back on the tequila.”
Peyton takes a sip; the sour taste makes her nose wrinkle. She hides the discomfort by turning towards theliving area.
“I love what you’ve done with the place.” She cringes. She hates sour drinks, but he is oddly hospitable, so it would’ve been rudeto decline.
“Thanks. The apartment is from 1949. The sofa is from sometime around that era as well.” He’s got jokes. It looks like it has done its share of frat house rounds, been in the garden at parties, and homed several of Jesse’s friends.
“It’s... gotcharacter.”
He laughs. “Something like that. This is the creativity pod.”
“The what?” All Peyton can see is an egg-shaped chair on top of a shabby old rug.
“The chair, it’s where I get my inspiration for new music and stuff. It works; trust me.”
The curvy leather egg chair has silver feet, a leopard print cushion, and a large rip down the side. It’s unique. Peyton keeps her face neutral.
“The staircase over there leads up to my room. If you would like to follow me down the hall.”
The black staircase, potentially an eye sore, is lit up with fairy lights and a large sign that reads,Stay Wild.Appropriate.
The walls are exposed brick; Peyton loves that. There are shelves filled with a mixture of skulls, plants, music awards, and candles. There isn’t much order to anything, but that’s what makes it sodistinctive.
“Is that a Grammy?” Peyton spots the gold gramophone on the second shelf.
“eBay, fifty bucks.”Jesse grins.
“Cool.” The word cool has left her mouth twice now, and she’s only been there five minutes. She shakes her head, a little nervous still, she is in hindsight being taken on an MTV cribs style tour of an apartment with a shirtless tattooed guy. What other words is she supposed to use.
“Do you play?” Peyton nods towards the guitars lined up on the opposite wall.
“Yes, I’m in a band,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Cool.” There she goes again. “I mean... great.” Jesus, pull yourself together.
“I assumeyou do too?”
“Why would you assume?”Peyton asks.
“People are only in Nashville for two reasons. They were born here, or they want to make it asa musician.”
“So, you want to be a musician?” Peyton counters.
Jesse smiles. “I wasn’t born here, I moved from Indiana when I was eighteen, and I don’t want to be a professional musician. I just play for fun. What can I say? I’m a walking contradiction.”
You don’t have a Taylor 12-Fret V-Class guitar if you’re just playing for fun, Peyton thinks. It’s an expensive, professional guitar with a price tag upwards of four thousand dollars. There’s more to Jesse than he lets on, but for a first encounter she doesn’twant to pry.
