WEDNESDAY: With Lots of Cream (Hookup Café Book 3) Page 3

  “It looks good on you.” I messed it up a bit with my hands.

  “You know… you’re not getting off the hook.” Apparently, he realized that I had changed the subject. “You sang incredibly on stage in front of a crowd you can’t fade into the background anymore…” His words trailed off as if he was thinking out some master plan in his head. He looked so cute rubbing his stubbly chin with his hand as his elbows rested on either side of my head. I was surprised the closeness wasn’t bothering me. “I have a great idea for stage fright to get you in front—not back—of an audience… an adult living facility. They love to see young faces and they love music. Maybe not all music, but something tells me you know oldies but goodies.”

  “I do know some. Not all rock and roll. I have a bit of a hankerin’ for Country… mainly new Country…” He probably knew that by my choice of song to sing for slot stealing. “I also learned some old romantic songs from my grandparents, aunts and uncles…”

  “What? Do you come from a family of musicians?”

  “You could say that. Our family gatherings include a lot of instruments and a lot of singing.” As far as I knew, my family was singing in the womb. I couldn’t think of anyone on both sides of my family that didn’t sing or play some instrument. That was all that I was telling.

  “Okay, then it’s settled. I’m getting you on a local home’s schedule.” He looked so proud of himself with his announcement—it didn’t sound like a suggestion. “Now, I have another type of performance to discuss with you…” His mouth silenced any rebuttal I might have had and he perfectly played me like an instrument until I had to go home to get ready for work.

  Back to the scene of our musical connection, Cafélicious was unusually quiet. I imagine everyone off doing their summer thing; hitting the beach; sailing on boats out of the harbor; kids squealing watching fish jump out of the water, and touching starfish at a nearby amusement park. Seeing Pansie, I refocused on work, anticipating words from her about my outburst on stage.

  Praise was what I got. “You are amazing! I can’t believe how good you were. You are always humming and singing around tables, but that… that was…”

  Saylor cut her off, finishing her sentence in unison with Marzi, “Fucking fantastic!”

  I just smiled and shook my head. Although that didn’t work, they refused to let me ignore them and they made comments throughout the afternoon, the evening, and all the next day until Nate showed up early afternoon. I was happy to escape from their words: “You have to sing regularly at open mic night.” And to customers, “You should’ve seen our little Evie here singing the other night, you missed out on her performance, you have to see her next time, she was so great!” I don’t know about great… crazy for sure… and doing it again, I wasn’t certain about that.

  Saved by Nate showing up at the end of my shift, or so I thought, he had his own set of plans for me. It appeared that there was no such luck of him forgetting about his scheme to work on my stage fright.

  “You can’t disappoint the older generation. They’re looking forward to hearing you before their early bird dinner. We have been invited to join them, but I declined on your behalf.”

  I was thankful for that part. I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay and hear what they thought of my performance.

  They accepted Nate’s excuse that we had more entertaining to do. And then he informed me that I needed to entertain him and he proposed takeout food be eaten in his bed. Smiling, I wasn’t opposed and reminded him that he needed to put his naughty thoughts on hold until after I pleasured the older generation first.

  Arriving at the facility with Nate along to keep me from bolting or not even showing, not that I would do that to a waiting audience. A big waiting crowd. I had pictured a small gathering. That was not the case. The room was huge and packed, every seat filled amidst a sea of walkers and wheelchairs. The jitters started before they even saw me and I reached my hand into my travel bag I used for my music props; tambourine, harmonica, etcetera, and my trusty wig and beanie—in fact, I had a few in different colors.

  “You don’t need that. You’re going to be great!”

  “And you’ll be where?” I looked up at him with sad eyes I hoped would get me sympathy.

  “Don’t give me that look.” He laughed softly, so sexy. “I will be your roadie off to the side if you need me.”

  Moving to the front as instructed by the home director, I saw the slightly raised area complete with a solo chair for me. Introduced, I stepped up and said hello to my captive audience. Several said hello back and some waved—most greeted me with smiles and some made comments about me being young and pretty. Nerves waning a bit, I needed to break my tension.

  “So my friend, Nate, told me all about you wonderful people…”

  “Oh, I hope not too much dirt,” someone shouted out and I laughed.

  “I heard you like music…” They clapped, nodded, and shouted out different music they liked and didn’t. “Well… I was wondering what you thought about my look… and if this…” I put on my long turquoise wig and a bright pink beanie. “Is this a better look?”

  The crowd went wild. Discussions and comments and requests to wear my beanie arose. Probably not the right question, but it had me less nervous about my singing. And once I got the residents settled thanks to Nate handing me my bag and suggesting that I distribute some of my beanies and get started before some of them started falling asleep. So with eight different people wearing my beanies, I pulled out my guitar and began to strum, it was actually fun. Some requests that I received had me laughing:

  “Do you know any Taylor Swift?”

  “Do you know Willie Nelson? About the girls I’ve loved before.”

  “Do you know Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?”

  “Do you know Norwegian Wood or any Beatles?”

  I had most of those covered. I knew some old Taylor Swift songs from her more Country phase. On the Road Again by Willie. The Twinkle song was a given from my beginning guitar lessons. The Beatles, I knew a couple on my guitar but not the ones they wanted to hear. Thankfully, Nate had my back as he said he would and joined me, playing my guitar—I sang along with him.

  I have to admit that it was quite fun sitting in front of a room full of older people and I even promised to come back another time. I also promised that I would have enough brightly colored beanies for everyone to keep, leaving behind the ones I had passed out to a few residents to wear. I didn’t have the heart to ask for them back—besides they looked adorable with them covering their heads.

  “That went very well. They loved your… your beanies.” Nate lifted me up laughing and swung me around after the room cleared. “They loved you,” he said, lowering me and placing a chaste kiss on my lips that wanted so much more. I swear I must’ve muttered something out loud to that effect since his next words nearly matched my thoughts. “I need you all to myself now, I shared you enough—mine now!”

  I liked the word mine and the additional quick kiss he gave me before picking up my guitar case with one hand and grabbing my hand with the other to walk out. Then as he had promised, we went back to his loft and ordered a smorgasbord of food delivered by a car service from various downtown restaurants. With bags of goodies, we didn’t quite make it to the bed, but instead sat on big floor cushions at a coffee table in a sitting area of the loft. Opening everything, we ate somethings from our own forks and some fed by each other while drinking margaritas from cute mini bottles with different color striped paper straws—reminding me of pixie sticks. Maybe not a smart thing as the alcohol seemed to promote a buzz quicker than simply sipping them. Either way, we laughed and ate until we were overly full and grabbing our stomachs, screaming no more.

  That was the light and airy and fun part of the night before it turned to a serious discussion about our relationship being casual and going nowhere as he was leaving the area at the end of the summer. Just what I had thought about him in the first place. Summer fling… summer lovin’… l
ike in Grease with Sandy and Danny, I thought in my head listening to his words. And then I couldn’t get the damn song out of my head until he introduced me to a new repertoire of music to match with his fucking amazing moves… his amazing fuck moves. The rhythm for the night was old jazz and I had to ask who the hell the loft belonged to, I knew he was leasing it while the tenant was off traveling. But I never got an answer, he just shut me up with his hands and mouth and huge cock. Not complaining, I went with the dynamic flow that followed that night and for days after—never the same musical sounds, always our same moans and groans of incredible pleasure.

  Chapter Five…

  Marzi burst in through the front door of the café with an announcement before settling herself at an empty table. “Oh my God, I just met my mother’s boyfriend in her new loft… well, new to me loft. Saylor, you would love it.” I watched Saylor shake her head with a sigh. Not sure what that meant. “He’s young and from one of her reality shows.”

  “People! Listen up you have got to read the gossip rags! Marzi, sorry hun, but that’s old news.” The Gossip Gal, otherwise known as Vivienne had spoken. She was always up on the latest and why I steered clear of her with my personal information.

  “Wow! Things have really changed for you Marzi,” Saylor said walking over and handing her a plate of orgasm cookies. They were one of Marzi’s baking sensations, only we didn’t publicize the big O part of the name in the bakery case.

  “Yes, our Marzi here has been gracing the pages of a few la la magazines.” I watched Vivienne pull her tablet from her oversized Singer Summerfield purse as she spoke.

  I knew that handbag line because I secretly have a thing for online fashion magazines and have a zillion photos pinned on my Pinterest account.

  As Vixen watched Vivienne pulling up sites, she told us about her own internet experience. “I saw my ex on a naughty site. He and his big boobed play toy post themselves having sex for money. My lawyer is having a field day with the videos. There are other celebs on their too,” Vixen announced, shaking her head.

  Poor Vixen was having to battle for her child from her ex, but the porn-site could be good news for her since her ex and his new wife were trying to say that Vixen was an unfit mother. I guess watching porn had more benefits than just pleasure.

  Of course Gossip Gal had something to say about that. “Some celebrities are celebrities because of sex tapes.”

  “Shouldn’t you be reading beauty… hair and makeup magazines… maybe even fashion?” Pansie asked walking over with a cup of coffee.

  “Of course not! People come into the salon saying they want so-an-so’s la la haircut. They want to look like celebrities. Wear what they wear. Eat and vacation where they do. Weigh what they weigh. It’s all there in the gossip rags. I have to keep up!” Vivienne had a point there.

  I could only imagine her getting wind about my parents. She undoubtedly knew about their semi-private island in the Bahamas and how they were photographed nude via a long-range lens from a supposed vacationing yacht cruising by. If I had to hear about my father’s junk again I would scream. It was bad enough to have your mother call you and tell you to steer clear of the internet because your father’s huge packet was everywhere.

  Again, Vivienne tried to sway everyone to the ways of gossip. “Drop the interior design mags, Saylor. Marzi, there is more to life than baking. And Pansie, if you are going to read gourmet food mags get a tablet instead of caring that canvas bag full of them—everything is a swipe away. Vixen and Evie, what do you girls read? Please tell me one of you likes a little gossip.” She sat waiting, stealing one of the cookies Saylor had delivered.

  Vixen confessed to only reading steamy romance novels while I just shook my head.

  Vivienne seemed disappointed in me. “Not even music, entertainment ones like Variety or Rolling Stone?” Again, I shook my head, silently saying to myself, but my parents have been on the cover of Rolling Stone—a few times.

  Always on the road on a bus or plane, I was homeschooled by my parents until I needed to be taught subjects outside of their level of expertise. Then I shared a tutor-of-sorts with a few other kids that traveled with us. But before that time, is when I got my first taste of fashion magazines. They were everywhere my mother went; on our tour bus, on private planes, in dressing rooms—my mother could be seen flipping through them on her down time. I remember opening up one of the magazines when I was first starting to get the hang of reading. I was fascinated that I knew so many of the words and the ones I didn’t I sounded them out. My mother was blown away by my reading skills and immediately shouted for her crew to come listen to me read.

  Listening to the great Raine Winter’s request, they all flocked and my eloquent reading turned to sputters and stammers. My first taste of stage fright; my mother mentioned that everyone got it, but you just moved through it. I never have gotten over that moment and thankfully I was never put on the spot again. She just delighted in my reading fashion articles to her and I loved reading them. The other thing that the magazines inspired was what I labeled as my Fashion Rhymes and I wrote them in my school notebooks along with my studies.

  Kelly green shoes oh so fine

  Kelly green shoes all mine

  Hated by some

  Kelly green shoes fit like a glove

  All mine to love

  My love of writing never faltered and apparently my mother noticed it too. When I turned thirteen my mother gave me a bright pink vinyl book along with a chain with two keys on it. Every teenage girl should have a locking diary. Funny that the book had a strap that fastened it close with the lock—scissor cutting the strap could easy allow anyone to gain access. I guess it was a trust thing. If it was locked no one was to open it unless they had the key. And so began my quest into journal writing. I wrote little poems along with what I did during the day at first. Then as I began to notice other teen boys that were traveling with us, my entries changed. Adding my thoughts first and then words flow into poems, only these were a bit different.

  Flow of the fabric on her hand

  The sway of her hips in suede

  She saw him watch

  She moved again

  Oh it felt so good

  Wanting him, loving him

  Mine all mine

  He would never be hers

  Wanting her, loving her

  His all his

  She would never be his

  Another set of sentences followed and then back to the same set of words. I did that about three times in my poem and realized that I had written a song with a repeating chorus. That became my passion along with fashion. My songs always had something to do with fashion. I even went back and expanded my Ugly Kelly Green Shoes poem into a song, using the original words for the chorus.

  I had thought about trying one of them on an open mic since I had managed to sing on two more Wednesday night events—only one song each night, always a popular new Country tune. Once with Nate and once alone. I still found it difficult even after we returned to the elder home for one more practice round before taking to the café’s stage. The night before had been my first time going solo, and I was thankful for Marzi bursting through the door, taking away the possibility of someone commenting about my performance. It wasn’t that I thought I had been bad or sang off-key, it was just that I still wasn’t comfortable and in the back of my head I was worried that someone would recognize me. I want to continue my quiet lifestyle, out of the limelight.

  Caught up in my thoughts, I didn’t notice that a flower delivery had been made from a local shop called La Belle Bloom Floral Studio. For me from Nate, a bouquet of bright pink, orange and yellow gerbera daisies greeted me with a card that invited me to come out to a concert with him. “Meet me! Let’s celebrate your triumph,” was all the card said along with an address, the time the show began, and the name to give at the will call booth so that they would give me a backstage pass. No details about who was playing, just be there.

  Running late, I t
ried to text Nate, but he never responded, so I got to the theatre as quickly as I could. With my backstage pass from will call, I made my way to a holding area where there was booze and food set out for guests and performers. Along with the refreshment spread, girls scantily clad to semi-nude draped themselves all over band members. Not a surprising sight to me, at all. I remembered my first time seeing that and my mother’s hands coming over my eyes before lifting me and storming out. I knew that it came with the territory, but I didn’t expect Nate to be in the middle of the shit-show. Maybe he thought I wasn’t going to show because he looked a bit surprised to see me standing just mere steps away, staring at him.

  Finally coming to my senses, I turned to walk right back out the way I entered the room and felt a hand grasp my forearm. “Hey, it’s not exactly what it looked like… I was…” I cut him off, I really didn’t want to hear his excuse, if he had one. He could’ve just been going to tell me that it’s no big deal—we’re not committed to each other.

  “…Listen, I know we said this would just be fun but I thought that meant between us, the two of us. Not you and me and you and whoever throws themselves at you. Fun for you, not fun for me and I’m not willing to be a part of a threesome or foursome or orgy. So, have your fun. But you cannot have me. No hard feelings, continue your night and stay in Cali. Peace out, as I heard you say earlier.”

  “Evie… Evie…” I heard as I walked away to a back door that was being guarded by a monster of a guy with massive arms, that let me out to an alleyway where another equally big man watched me walk safely to the sidewalk.

  I am not sure when the waterworks started but they didn’t stop. I didn’t need him. I did want him and I was fine knowing it was going to end. It seemed that we weren’t in sync with the status of our relationship. Mine might have meant I was his, but apparently it didn’t mean that he was mine as well. Yet, somehow, I hadn’t thought of Nate as being the kind of guy that was into the groupie scene. But who was I kidding, I had seen it a million times—pussy thrown into the face of musicians and even roadies. Not many men turned it down. So why would he given the opportunity? Except that I was giving him plenty of me; denying none of his desires—I said no to nothing. I was adventurous in between the sheets, in the shower, on the floor, up against the wall, fridge… anywhere.