Page 42 of Cherry Beats

“It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen in my life.”

I closed my eyes and groaned a loud, feral, painful groan that felt like it started at the very tips of my toes. Cute? How could he think it was cute? Falling in front of a stadium filled with my peers was the most mortifying moment of my high school life.

“You don’t know this, but I heard Mrs Morgan begging you to race outside the girls changing rooms, just before you agreed to do it. I heard how much you didn’t want to run, but you did it anyway because that old crow made you feel like you’d be letting her team down if you didn’t. I almost stepped in and told her to lay off you, but—” Presley chuckled. “When you took to that race, you were so determined to stay close to the others, but your legs wouldn’t carry you. You pushed too hard. I could see it coming. When you finally tanked it, fell, and ended up performing a powerful, yet somewhat painful-looking forward roll over the finish line, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

“Make it stop,” I cried. “Why? Why would you bring that up, arsehole?”

“Because it was the first time someone held my interest like that. You were so… feisty.”

I scowled and blinked at him.

“I watched you get up and brush yourself off like it hadn’t even bothered you. I watched you push Lyndsey Gough off you when she tried to make fun and rattle your cage. I saw you point a finger in Luke McDermott’s face and warn him not to say a fucking word. You had balls when all the other girls were too scared to stand out. I liked that about you. You had fire. I watched you walk over to the teacher at the little race station, and I was fucking fascinated with you when you told her what position you’d come in, even though she obviously knew. Everyone knew. You weren’t exactly subtle in your disappointment. But, man, I couldn’t take my eyes off you as you stomped across the race track, blood racing down your knees and elbows, and I thought to myself: that girl is fucking fantastic.”

“You’re such a weirdo, rock star.” I wrinkled my nose.

He laughed, throwing his head back, his hair going with it. I wanted to grab that hair and hold it tight. I wanted to turn around, straddle him, grab him, and kiss him because I’d never been more flattered, knowing that while I’d been pining for him, he’d also been paying attention to me.

Spinning around on my knees, I straddled his waist and wrapped my arms around his neck. “Seriously. You need help,” I told him through a shy smile.

“Yeah?” His arms circled my waist. “You think you can hook me up with some therapy?”

“Either that or I can show you some more forward rolls if you like?”

“Naked gymnastics. I like it.”

“Heavy on the naked. Not so much on the gymnastics.” I pressed myself against him, leaving nothing between us.

“You want to go again?” His eyes turned heated.

“You said we had one night, right? In the words of my beloved Bryan Adams, let’s make it a night to remember.”

“Oh, Christ. Say it isn’t so. Bryan Adams is another love of yours?”

“Wash your mouth out. If you don’t like him, I’m sorry, I can’t like you. He’s one of my main loves. He may be even more desirable than you.”

“You did not just say that to me.”

“I can’t be convinced otherwise.” I batted my eyes and looked up at the ceiling again, and with one growl of acceptance, Presley took on my challenge by lifting me in his arms, walking me around his apartment with my legs firmly around his waist, and he slammed me up against the first wall he could find.

“I hope you don’t mind missing out on sleep,” he whispered against my mouth. “I’m about to work some Bryan magic on you.”

His tongue trailed the length of my neck, and I let my head fall back against the wall with a thud, gasping with ecstasy when he pushed inside me. He was everywhere—on my skin, in my mind, in my veins, in every song I’d ever sung.

* * *

The fire flickered away in the background, the two of us facing each other, cross-legged with smiles on our faces and question after question falling freely from our lips for hours on end.

“Vincent Van Gogh once said that art is to console those who are broken,” Presley said, only pausing to take a quick drink of his third whiskey and Coke on ice before he placed it down on the floor and leaned back on his elbows. “I think there’s a lot of truth to that. Music, literature, paintings, sculptures… they’re all escapes. They’re all ways to express our truths. To let them bleed out when conversation just isn’t cutting it.”

“And expressing means healing.” I nodded. “I get that.” The blanket in my lap was only covering the lower half of me, while Presley’s blanket covered the lower half of him. Our upper bodies were exposed, lit only by firelight, and I didn’t miss the way Presley’s eyes kept drifting down to my breasts. It empowered me. I’d never felt so admired before. “But don’t you think that everyone is a little broken these days?”

His eyes rose to mine, holding my gaze. “That’s because the world is. Everyone’s got issues.”

“Do you?”

“Sure, I have my issues as much as the next guy.”

“What’s your worst?”

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