Page 11 of Cherry Beats

Uch. I wanted to be Blossom.

I wanted it so badly that I stood there, pouting and staring at the door for another five minutes. It felt good to pout shamelessly knowing nobody could see me. A permanent ache resided in the very pit of my stomach, forcing me to press my hands into it and lean forward.

“Get over it, Tess. For fuck’s sake. He’s Presley West. A guy like him isn’t interested in being with a girl like you. Bartending Tess Lisbon, with her ridiculous, low-income family, and her wildly underachieving, under-fulfilling life. You have a lazy-as-hell father and a mother who makes you want to scratch your own ears off. There’s nothing good about your world. You sweep floors and break too many glasses for a living. You haven’t bought a new piece of underwear in at least three years. You wear way too much black. You’re a pining, rotten mess. Do not let his charm make you think it’s his desire. Do not let him make you think his seductive smile is offering you affection. When he’s a famous drummer and married to a Victoria’s Secret model, you can stalk his Instagram feed freely and pathetically, but when he’s in front of you, you must… get… a…grip.”

I could hear every word I said out loud to myself, don’t worry. I knew what an idiot looked like, too. Look up the definition of it, and there my mugshot would sit proudly, cheesy-grinning, face pushed up to the lens, with a crazy wave of my hand on the side.I’m the girl your ex-girlfriends warned you about. The one you think is funny and cute, but who secretly presses her hands between her thighs in bed on a night and gets off to the fantasy of our wedding day.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I stood tall, shook out my arms and fingertips, and I got to work stacking all the chairs on top of the tables. The repetition of it gave me something to do that didn’t involve imagining what Presley’s wavy hair felt like to hold onto while I rode his face.

Screw my so-calledlife—the one my imagination was conjuring up was SO much better.

The music poured out of the speakers in the bar, my gratitude throbbing from the sound of it. Once the majority of our usual customers left, I sometimes liked to listen to some old school rock ballads. Not the cool ones that everyone pretended to love, and definitely not the bands those basic chicks wore across their chests day in, day out, even though they really didn’t have a Scooby Doo clue what one of AC/DC’s or The Rolling Stones’ songs actually sounded like.

I meant the cheese-fest tunes most people pretended to hate: Whitesnake, Aerosmith, Journey, Meatloaf, Bryan Adams, Bon fucking Jovi.

Lord, I loved Bryan Adams and Bon fucking Jovi.

The first few guitar chords ofBed of Rosesrang out right on cue, and it was game on. I didn’t care that the bar was dimly lit and early morning passers-by would be able to see me. I didn’t give a shit that I’d regret it in the morning, or that Bourbon could be recording this on the CCTV he’d had installed last year after a huge fight broke out between two rough women. Rock star had just left me cold, and I may have been slightly buzzing from the cheeky shot of tequila I’d slipped myself once the boss had disappeared.

One shot was all it took for me to let Bon Jovi take over the steering wheel of my soul.

I grabbed hold of the back of the wooden chair, closed my eyes, let my head fall back and began to sway. It was a private, seductive slow dance to myself and the wanting body I was living in. Bon Jovi sang to me, and I sang right back. I told the universe I wanted to lay Presley down on a bed of roses, and then the heavy drum beat kicked in, and I turned, spinning my feet smoothly on the waxed, wooden floor, letting my head roll full circle as I whipped my hair around like I was working at a damn strip club. But then the slow verse kicked in, and Bon Jovi peeled away a layer of my heart by admitting to the world that he was lonely.

Me, too, Bon Bon. Me, too.

When the beat kicked in again, angry and loud, furious with the injustice of everything not being a perfect fantasy, I let myself roll with it. I swayed, and I thrashed my hair around like my whole life and future happiness depended on it. When Bon Jovi cried and screamed, so did I, bending over and pushing my fists into my stomach to give it my all.

It’s always easier to give your all when you think nobody is watching, until you finish what you’re doing, push your hair away from your smiling, sweaty face, and you look up to see you have an audience.

A live audience.

Of one.

Presley was standing inside the bar like he owned it. The door very firmly shut behind him. His leather jacket was wet from the rain. His hair, too. His legs were parted, and his arms hung limply down by his thighs—but those eyes of his were dark and heated. His mouth was open slightly as he stared at me, completely silent and unmoving while Bon Jovi drifted away and the sounds of INXS’sI Need You Tonighttook over.

I believe this was called irony.

One of us had to move, and I was the one allergic to awkward silences.

I need you tonight.

“Yeah, you weren’t meant to be here to see that,” I admitted hoarsely.

Presley continued to stare at me.

“Nobodywas meant to see…that.”The words came out slow and staggered, perfect confirmation that not even my voice was my friend. My heart, however, was dancing around like a fucking frog in a box.

Presley swallowed, rubbed his lips together, and then impaled his bottom lip with his teeth.

Holy mother of standing orgasm.

This was torture.

“Okay, so I’m just going to go over there,” I thumbed towards the bar, “and let you stay there for a while to get over the trauma of what you’ve just seen. I have bleach in the back if you need it for your eyes, although I’ve heard that stings a lot and healthcare isn’t what it used to be, so you could be trapped in A&E for a while.”

Presley’s mouth twitched on one side.

“Not that I should be criticising the good old British NHS. That’s not what I’m about.” I spun around carefully to grip the back of the chair, and then I lifted it and turned it upside down before dropping it on top of the table. “My Auntie Catherine had her appendix rushed out only last week by those nurses and doctors. If she hadn’t been admitted as quickly as she was, it could have burst. She could have died.” I dusted my hands off. “Died! So, yeah. Use the bleach if you need it. They’ll probably save you anyway—”

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