Page 83 of Cherry Beats

I studied his handsome face, from the perfect eyebrows, the strength of his jaw, the chiselled cheekbones, to the valley of his top lip that I wanted to rest my finger in.

“Do you want to know something?” I asked, turning to face him fully so we were only a few inches apart, resting my head on the seat the same way he had done. “Bryan Adams’ first music contract was handed over in 1978, and it was worth one dollar to him.”

Presley’s nostrils flared, his lip twitching.

“They didn’t want him to make any money—like they didn’t actually believe in him or some crazy shit. But they had to make it legal. In order to do that, the contract had to have some monetary value placed on it. They literally stuck a dollar on it, and that was it. Bryan was officially a signed artist.”

Presley’s eyes sparkled with amusement as my enthusiasm grew.

“And did you also know that Summer of ‘69 isn’t actually about the summer of 1969?”

“No?”

“Nope. It’s about a full summer of Bryan and this chick getting into the sixty-nine position and having at it like two topsy-turvy bunny rabbits, never stopping or coming up for air.”

“No way.” Presley frowned, his grin growing bigger.

“I swear to you. Listen to the end of the song. Some people think it says ‘me and my baby in ‘69’ but it doesn’t, not quite. It says ‘me and my baby ina‘69.”

“Sounds like a damn good way to spend a summer.”

“Right?” I chuckled. “The song was originally meant to be called Best Days of My Life, but then they thought the ‘69 thing was catchier, so it all got shook up and—”

“Why do you love him so much?” Presley interrupted me, his face turning thoughtful again. “I want to know. I want to know what makes you love someone like that, so fully.”

I smiled softly, wishing he knew how Bryan Adams didn’t even come close to the way I felt about him.

“It’s a shit story really,” I warned.

“Tell me.”

“My mum used to work in a working men’s club. She was a barmaid for years. I think she did it for the attention more than anything. She loved the way the men flirted with her whenever she pulled a pint and the fact that she could get away with wearing low cut tops and short-short skirts without having to give an excuse for it. Dad was always there with her. He said he was there to socialise with his friends, but I knew he was secretly waiting for the day when some stud would walk up to the bar and turn Mum’s head. That was less likely to happen if he was keeping his eye on her.”

“He doesn’t trust her?”

I shrugged a shoulder. “Mum’s beautiful. Really beautiful. Like… her eyes alone could sell snow to the Eskimos. She’s got this sparkle about her that you can’t fake or buy. She’s got this natural charm when she has an audience, even if that audience is made up of one. Most people fall for it—flock to it. Dad isn’t as much of an extrovert as her; not naturally, anyway. I think he’s always felt like he was punching above his weight, so he spent his whole life adoring her, making sure she felt special every day in case someone else came along and tried to give her something he’d never bothered to give.”

“Waiting for something to go wrong? That doesn’t sound like a good way to live,” Presley muttered. “She wouldn’t be with him if she didn’t want to be.”

“Maybe not. But some people just aren’t born with the same confidence as others, Presley. He loves her—he’s just lost himself in the process. He’s become a slave to her because he doesn’t think he deserves her.”

“Sounds tragic.”

I bounced both brows. “You make your own decisions in life. No one else, right?”

“And what does this have to do with Bryan Adams?”

“Well…” I sighed. “My parents were always so busy drowning in each other that me and my brother were left on the outskirts. We never really got a look in or a lot of attention. Not until there was music playing. It was always on in the house, in the club, in the car. It was the only time we felt like a family, all singing along together, forgetting our issues and just letting the music speak for us. Funny how instruments and lyrics can do that—cut through the tension and bring people closer. I remember the first time I saw Mum and Dad dancing at the club one night, right after she’d finished work. Freddie and I were always there—we were raised by two parents and half a community of men who smoked, and women who’d been around the block a bit. But that night, I think it was Mum and Dad’s anniversary, the DJ played Bryan AdamsEverything I Do, I Do It for You. They both got up and danced to it, and I swear to you, I’ve never seen two people looking more in love. Ever. Dad looked relaxed, and Mum looked adored and happy. They were on that dance floor, and nobody else existed to them. Not me. Not Freddie. None of the customers. There wasn’t a life outside of their bubble and Bryan Adams’ voice. There was a woman sitting next to me that night, watching them. I don’t even remember her name. But she leaned in, and she sort of sighed wistfully and said, ‘You can always count on Bryan to say the things the rest of us can’t. That’s true talent.’”

Presley blinked and waited for me to go on, invested in my story, my life, in who I was.

“That night, I went home and played every track I could find of his over and over again. I didn’t just listen to the music. I listened to the words. The actual words. And that woman was right. He tells stories with his songs, and even the fast ones just break me wide open sometimes. It was then that I realised music could give me everything I’d ever needed. Every time I felt something I didn’t understand, I’d go through track after track of his and search for what I was feeling. On the rare occasion I couldn’t find it, I’d move on to Bon fucking Jovi…” I grinned. “And if that didn’t cut it, I’d go through every song from the eighties, nineties, and noughties, I could find.”

Presley exhaled slowly, pressing his cheek harder against the backseat. “Do you have any idea at all how special you are?”

My shy smile grew bigger. “Want me to talk about Bon Jovi now?”

He laughed lazily, bringing a hand to my waist and tugging me impossibly closer, considering the seatbelts that were holding us both in place. His eyes searched mine again, looking for something he was struggling to find. His lips parted, and he leaned closer. I braced myself for another of his intoxicating kisses, but it never came. The door behind him was flung open, and Rhett Ryan’s head poked through as he held onto the car.

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