Page 45 of Cherry Beats

“Foot fetishes not your thing?” I challenged, lifting a leg and wiggling my toes in front of him.

Presley quickly grabbed me by the ankle and yanked me towards him. I squealed like a typical girl, laughter pouring free as he tugged me closer and closer until I was sitting in his lap again, only this time on top of his blanket.

“Your feet are only good for one thing, Cherry: bringing you closer to me.”

“You should write songs for a living.”

“I plan on it.”Presley looked at me, and the stare-off lasted a long time. At least it seemed that way.Dropping my phone to the floor beside us, he hit play on a song, and my Bryan Adams and his lust-crazy lyrics filled the air.

“See. I knew I’d make you come around to my way of thinking sooner or later,” I teased.

“I only like him because you love him.”

Do I Have to Say the Wordstook over as I wrapped my arms around Presley’s neck and mouthed the lyrics with my eyes closed. I began to sway in his grip, and his fingers dug into the flesh of my arse as I moved, squeezing me tight. I told him I didn’t want to let him go. That I was standing in his way. Then I asked him if I really had to say the words. I silently mouthed and swayed to the whole damn song, because it was Bryan and he was my god, and that’s what you did when you worshipped someone. You sang with them. For them. About them. Because of them.

“You have this ridiculous ability to make me fall in love with things I should hate,” Presley said, staring at my swollen lips.

With nothing but a shy smile back at him, I was laid back on the floor and kissed from head to toe, while the fire blazed behind me and Presley’s tongue created a flame between my legs. All while Bryan sangThought I’d Died and Gone to Heavenin the background.

Oh, Bryan.

Oh, Presley.

* * *

The hours flew by like they were seconds as we talked about our biggest influences and inspirations. Presley’s passion for anything musical made me tingle more than his tongue did.

“Who’s your favourite drummer of all time?” I asked, keen to know every little thing about him.

“Big John Bonham.”

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

“That’s because it’s an easy fucking question. I’d choose him every time.”

“Tell me why.” I smiled.

“Aside from the fact that he’s a legend that needs no explanation? He was by far the heaviest player—bass drum like a cannon going off. He kept things simple, playing the songs rather than being on top or over them. There’s nothing worse than a manic, crazy drummer ruining a song with overfills and double bass drum madness. Power, precision, and quality. That’s what you need. Bonham could play fat beats that made your hair stand on end, yet keep them simple, too. Anyone who has ever listened to Moby Dick on 69’s Led Zep II knows for damn sure his solo is second to none. The only other man to get close to him is Grohl. He plays similar, but even Grohl knows that no one will ever be Bonham.”

My smile slowly morphed into a cheek-shattering grin, and when Presley looked up, his face came alight with happiness, too.

He went on to say how he loved Nikki Sixx from the Crüe for his work ethic alone, and how he thought Sixx A.M. were severely underrated. He made me listen to the trackPermission, which I’d never listened to before, but suddenly became my new favourite song. He talked about what he wanted to achieve in his future with just a pair of drumsticks in his hand. He loved a rebel, hence why he could sit back and listen to Mötley Crüe forever, even though he wasn’t all that keen on Tommy Lee as a person but respected his drum skills and showmanship. Metallica was a no brainer, and Led Zeppelin were obviously his Jesus. Presley dropped them into conversation whenever he could. Dave Grohl was every man’s secret crush… so he told me. There was no denying that he’d been brought up with Elvis since the day he was born, and he secretly loved the fact that music had been a part of his world before he even knew how to speak his first word.

I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

This wasn’t the guy I’d admired from afar at school. This version—the naked one who kept running a hand through his golden locks while smiling a secret smile just for me—was so much better than anything my dreams could have conjured.

I’d always assumed he was the brooding type. Someone who would listen to me ramble on with nothing more than a sparkle in his eyes and a smirk on his face, but sitting there in his apartment, I saw a side of him I hadn’t expected. He opened up, splitting his chest in two and letting all the musical notes pour out for me to see. His face was filled with passion, his voice full of knowledge, and the way he air-drummed to a tune when it played on my phone had my smile aching with happiness.

I was witnessing a star before he’d even been taught how to shine.

“You’re so easy to talk to,” he said at one point, stopping halfway through his declaration of love for James Dean because that’s who his father had always reminded him of. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked this much before. Especially not with a girl I’ve just screwed.”

“It’s the bartender in me. Part of the job description is being a good listener, and being able to pull out your punters deepest, darkest secrets.”

“You deserve a raise.”

“I’ll tell my boss.”

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