Chapter 13 - Truman
Fucking asshole.
Rose didn’t talk about Jack very often, but the few times she did, all I heard were reasons to hate the mother fucker and wonder what she ever saw in him. I couldn’t believe the jerk could be so selfish as to convince her to give up on something so important to her — something she had such talent for — because of his own pathetic insecurities. I was also astounded that she would do it. That wasn’t the Rose I knew. She was stubborn and headstrong and tended to do the opposite of what she was told, just on principle.
All I could do was keep my mouth shut and try to put my feelings about it aside, at least for the night. Maybe someday I’d feel comfortable enough to give her my opinion, but at this point in our relationship, it wasn’t my place to do so. Hell, it wasn’t even my business.
The Cinema Bar was a small place, with a bar to the left as we walked in, and only a few tall tables to the right. There was a tiny dance floor in front of an equally tiny stage. It had a patio outside, in the back, but inside it was almost claustrophobic when it was packed with people, as it was on this night. After squeezing through several of them, we found one empty bar stool and I offered it to Rose. I stood close beside, nearly behind her, one hand on the bar. It was an almost possessive stance, but I needed to be close to her. I had to be able to hold a conversation with her and also speak to the bartender, after all. The fact that the close quarters gave me ample opportunity to take in that lovely scent of hers was just a bonus.
I bent to speak into her ear, as the band started their set. “Okay, I have to ask you—what kind of perfume do you wear?”
Rose looked startled by my question. “Um . . . I don’t.” I gaped at her, and she smiled. “I don’t wear perfume.”
“Really?”
“Really. I just never found one I like. Not on me anyway. I’ll smell something on someone else that I really like, but when I try it on myself it won’t smell right.” She shrugged. “I must have some funky body chemistry or something.”
“Well, you–” I was taken aback now that I knew it was just her I loved the smell of. Thank God for funky body chemistry. I considered that might be the name of my next band. “You always smell so good. How does that happen?”
I think she blushed, but the heat in the bar might have been responsible for the color in her cheeks. Plus, I practically stood on top of her and when she spoke, she had to lean even farther into me to be heard over the music. She might have just needed fresh air. “Um . . . shampoo?”
I buried my nose in the dark hair that spilled over her shoulders and inhaled deeply. I was stupid to do it, because being so close to Rose was something close to hell for me. It took every ounce of my limited self-control not to bury my lips in her neck and leave a trail of kisses up to her ear.
I smiled down at her when I pulled back. “Well, that is where the jasmine comes from anyway.”
There was no mistake about her blush, then. I tried to take a step back so that I wouldn’t make her feel quite so uncomfortable, but someone stood right up against me as he tried to get the bartender’s attention. I was unable to budge.
“What can I get you to drink?” I asked her as I looked up at the array of beer bottles over the bar. “They have Guinness.”
“I’m too full for Guinness tonight.” She shook her head, a hand on her stomach. “Too much turkey burger.”
I noticed as she brought her hand back up, she inadvertently lifted the bottom of the vest she wore, just enough to show the briefest glimpse of the ivory skin of her stomach, beneath.
I couldn’t help myself. My eyes devoured her while she browsed through the beer bottles above the bar. She wore black cowboy boots and a short skirt—not exactly a mini skirt, but it settled at about the middle of her thigh as she sat with her legs crossed. It was a black, grey and red tartan and her soft, ivory skin glowed beneath it. I longed to nibble at her adorable, dimpled knees. She topped her skirt with a simple, knitted, sleeveless black vest that buttoned up the front and showed only the smallest glimpse of the cleavage I knew she held beneath it. The silky skin of her well-toned arm called for me to touch my fingers to it.
I caught her eye in the mirror behind the bar and it was obvious I had been discovered, staring at her. Her eyes narrowed slightly. After she eyed me in the mirror for untold moments, during which I was sure my face turned beet red, she turned to face me, her lips pursed. I braced myself for whatever comment she was about to throw at me for being a pig.
“Do you ever drink anything besides beer?”
If I was taken aback and embarrassed to have been caught essentially drooling over the woman, her question threw me completely off guard. I ran a hand through my hair as I attempted to regain control of my faculties. “Um . . . what did you have in mind?”
“Have a shot with me.” She smiled.
“A shot of what, exactly?”
She shrugged. “Well, you can have what you want, but I’m gonna have a shot of Jack Daniels.”
It was undeniable that I could use a shot after what had just happened and it was still a few hours before I’d have to get behind the wheel again, so I smiled and shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”
I called the bartender over and ordered our shots, plus a Guinness for me. “And a Stella,” Rose piped in. After our drinks were paid for, we raised our shots in a toast.
“Here’s to swimmin’ with bowlegged women,” she said with a smile, and we threw them down.
She didn’t even grimace. My girl was a drinker, apparently.
“Ah . . . Jaws,” I said. I referred to her toast, but the chance to grasp at a diversionary topic of conversation was a welcome one. “Great movie.”
“It scared the shit out of me,” she responded. “I still can’t swim in the ocean.”
The band was good and played a mixture of original tunes and covers. They weren’t the best musicians I’d ever heard, but they were a lot of fun, and the crowd was really in to them. The tiny dance floor in front of them was packed with moving bodies.
Over the next half hour or so, we each had another shot. Her second toast was “Here’s to looking up your old address,” which for some reason made me laugh. As was our usual pattern, we talked a lot and laughed a lot.
People crowded around us, and it got hot in there quickly, so I removed the leather jacket I’d been wearing. Rose took it from me and hung it on a little hook underneath the bar, over her purse, which was also there. When she turned back to say something to me, she stopped, her mouth partially open.
I had noticed women look at me the way she did then—but never Rose. Maybe it was the two shots of Jack she’d had, but whatever the motive, I liked it. Her eyes skimmed my chest. I wore a simple, dark blue, cotton T-shirt over my jeans and I didn’t see what the big deal was, but the look in her eye told me she appreciated what she saw. When her eyes finally reached mine, she blushed a little, smiled, and looked away quickly. I smiled along with her and tried to be casual about the whole thing, but my temples were pounding, and I was breathing a little harder than usual. Then I noticed that she was, too, which just made the whole thing a hell of a lot worse. Or better. I wasn’t sure which.
I asked the bartender for a glass of water.
The band started to play Hank Junior’s “Whiskey Bent and Hell Bound” and we had another shot of Jack Daniels because, well, that’s what you do when the band plays that song. I had a nice buzz going by then so I figured she must be well on her way to tipsy at the very least.
I bent to speak into her ear and was again assaulted by that jasmine and spice scent. I took a bit longer at her ear than was needed and I put a hand on the back of her bar stool. “I need to go use the restroom. You okay here?” She looked at me with a smile, and nodded as she bounced in her seat to the song being played.
Once in the bathroom and having taken care of business, I splashed cold water on my face. I needed to get a grip. Sure, she seemed a bit more open to . . . well, to me than usual, but we were also drinking a lot so that couldn’t really be trusted. I knew the situation. There were still too many wrinkles in the fabric; too many obstacles we needed to overcome before I could even consider considering what I was about to consider.
I grasped the sink and dropped my head to my chest, thinking that perhaps going out that night had not been the best of ideas, all things considered. Were it any other woman sitting at the bar, there would be no doubt where the night was headed.
Then again, I reminded myself, if Rose were any other woman, we’d have had sex weeks ago and she’d likely be gone by now. Sure, I wasn’t used to being the nice guy, but I wanted to be him. I just wasn’t sure I was up for it.
I made up my mind that I’d have no more shots, so that I could maintain at least some semblance of control. I looked at myself in the mirror and squared my shoulders. I could do this, I decided, and I walked out of the men’s room.
I completely changed my mind when I went back out to the bar. Rose no longer sat at it. She was dancing with two other women—friendly, middle-aged women who had been sitting next to us. We’d briefly chatted with them, earlier.
“Jesus,” I said as I watched her. Her back was to me, and I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell she was having fun. Her hips moved in perfect time with the music and as I watched her sexy ass moving in a semicircular motion, I couldn’t help but think entirely inappropriate thoughts. She lifted her hands above her head and as she did so, her vest lifted with her, and showed just a sliver of the skin on her lower back—just enough to drive me ape shit crazy. I reached for the glass of water I’d left sitting on the bar and noticed we had two new shots sitting there, waiting for us.
I remembered the vow I’d made in the restroom. “Fuck it,” I said and I downed one. Christ, I was only human.
I had no idea what song was playing. I didn’t care. I moved toward the dance floor. One of the friendly women noticed me and I put a finger over my lips, so she wouldn’t say anything to Rose. She smiled and turned her back, dancing off to the side a bit, to give me room. I danced behind Rose, so close, I could feel her body heat. She put her hands up to her thick hair and as she raised it off of her shoulders and let it fall, its strands rained down over my chest. Her scent intoxicated me as I inhaled deeply.
I inched closer still, and matched the movement of my body to hers. Finally, I put my hands on each of her hips. I felt her jump a little, but she continued to dance. She didn’t look back at me, but she turned her head slightly, so I could hear what she said.
“You’d better be the guy I walked in here with.”
I bent forward and put my lips to her ear. “I’d better be the guy you walk out of here with.”
I felt her tense a little, but only for a split second before she let herself go. The band started to play a Merle Haggard song and because I knew of her fondness for Ol’ Hag, I continued to dance with her, her back to me. The song was slower and sultrier than the last one and her body almost melted into mine as we moved perfectly together. I followed her every movement until, at some point, I took control of our direction, and she followed me. She was hot from the dance and the lack of fresh air in the bar. The feel of her body molded into mine certainly made me so. I knew I should pull away, but of course I didn’t. If she noticed, she didn’t let on.
Feeling bolder — I blame the extra shot of whiskey — I moved my hand to caress her right arm and I let my lips brush her shoulder. As I knew it would be, the skin there was silky smooth. She didn’t pull away, as I was afraid she would. Instead, she put her own hand on top of mine and turned her head to look up at me. She caught my eye from the corner of hers and smiled.
I thought I was going to explode in my pants.
The band started another song, a legitimately slow one this time. I felt sure she would want to sit down, but instead she grasped the hand I had on her arm and twirled out and away from me, holding it. Then she moved back toward me and placed my hand on her lower back before putting both of her hands on my shoulders. She expected me to continue to dance with her, slowly.
Being the fool that I am, I did.
As our bodies pressed together, she gasped and her eyes sparkled up at mine. I supposed by that time it would have been difficult not to feel I was getting turned on, since we were pressed up against one another.
But she didn’t move away.
“You can dance,” she said.
I smiled. If she was going to ignore the raging hard-on between us, I would try my best to do so, as well. “I’ve been known to, yes.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
“Well, I’m full of something anyway.”
I moved my left hand up her side and over her arm, under the pretense of taking her hand in mine. Really, I just wanted to touch her skin. I held her hand over my heart, and she closed her eyes and leaned her head against my chest. Her lips held a small smile and I wanted, badly, to raise her chin and kiss them. Instead, I held her to me, and we moved with the music.
She looked up at me as the song ended and, though she moved away, slightly, she kept her hand on my shoulder and played with a few strands of the hair at the back of my neck. And that was it. Holding her in my arms, our bodies pressed together so closely we shared the same body heat, her delicious scent engulfing my senses, her fucking sensual lips smiling softly up at me as her fingertips tickled the back of my neck—it was all too much, and I bent toward her for a kiss.
It was not to be, however. She abruptly looked down, smiling, and left my arms. I was certain I felt actual pain when as she walked toward her seat at the bar. I followed behind her, mentally kicking myself for taking things too far.
The band decided to take a break and, as a result, the crowd thinned, leaving us room to breathe. She took a look at the glasses in front of her and raised an eyebrow as she looked up at me. “Tell me you drank that shot and it wasn’t stolen.”
I took a deep breath and smiled. “I drank it. No worries.”
“Ah . . . you needed an extra drink in order to dance with me?”
She had no idea how true that was. My response was merely to smile and watch her down her shot.
We were quiet for perhaps the first time that night. I found it odd that, now that I didn’t have to yell in her ear, I had no idea what to say. Her silence made me afraid I’d upset her with my attempted kiss and my rather . . . friendly dance. Yes, she danced with me, but as I could now tell for sure, she was drunk.
I reminded myself that this wasn’t just some girl, and she was still on the fragile side. I needed to be careful and make sure I didn’t ask her to do anything she would regret when she sobered up.
I wanted to be a lot of things to Rose, but a regret was not one of them.
As she sat at the bar, she smiled up at me where I stood beside her. Finally, she spoke. “Thank you,” she said and I raised my eyebrows in question. “I’ve had so much fun tonight. And . . . well, I haven’t danced like that in a long time.”
I didn’t even know what to say. For her to thank me made very little sense. I put my hand at the back of her neck and pulled her toward me, placing a soft kiss on the top of her head. “You dance all the time. I’ve seen you, remember?”
“Well, not like that.” She grinned and blushed again as she took a drink from the water glass in front of her. “Jack didn’t dance.”
“Not at all?”
“Nope.” She shook her head. “I mean, I know most guys don’t really like to dance. But he wouldn’t even dance slow with me.”
“Well, that’s just nuts,” I said. Now that I’d held her in my arms, I’d dance with her as often as possible.
“I know, right? And I love to dance.” She was pouting. It was fucking adorable.
“Yes, I know.” I grinned.
She drained the last of the beer she’d been drinking and shuddered. “Ugh. That beer’s been sitting there too long.” While she was drinking shots, she’d only had the one beer in front of her all night.
“Do you want another one?”
“Actually, do you want to stick around or would you rather leave?”
My heart sank. I must have made her uncomfortable if she wanted to leave at — I looked at my watch — 11:45.
She looked up into my eyes, hers wide. “It’s just, I know you probably have to work tomorrow.”
I smiled. I did have to work, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t stay out with Rose until dawn if I could. “You wanna leave?”
“Well, why don’t we head toward home anyway?” She shrugged. “If we decide we want to stay out, we can go to the friggin’ Reno Room or something.”
I grinned. The Reno Room was a dive bar literally around the corner from her apartment. Its claim to fame was that Charles Bukowski had once been a regular there. Considering how many bars Bukowski patronized in the area, though, I thought that to be an uneventful claim. It was like the West Coast equivalent to “George Washington Slept Here.”
I did my best not to look at her legs as she got into my car; not to look at any part of her. When I slipped into the driver’s side, I noticed Rose was looking through my CDs.
“Hey, can we listen to Lucinda Williams?” she asked, a bright smile on her face.
“Of course,” I said, and loaded the CD in the player.
As we got on the freeway, she chuckled. “Hey, this could be our song.”
I listened as the strains of “Right in Time” drifted through the speakers. Rose sang along with the chorus — the part about moving together, “right in time” — and if a heart really could melt, mine would have been all over the inside of my shirt.
She giggled, and brought me back to earth in the process. She really was a lot more drunk than I had initially thought. “Of course, the rest of the song seems to be about masturbation, so . . . maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”
She laughed. I had no choice but to laugh along.
~*~
“You wanna come in?”
She must have read something dubious in my eyes, because she quickly clarified. “I mean, we could just listen to some music or something. I have good beer,” she said, an enticing grin at her lips.
“You always have good beer,” I pointed out.
“I know my audience.” Her smile faltered in the face of my hesitation. “I’m sorry. I guess it’s late for you. You do have to work tomorrow.”
I planted my hands on either side of her door jam and leaned into the room. “Actually, I don’t have to work until 10:00. We open late on Sundays.”
Her face brightened. “Oh. Well, then, see? Come in for a while. Keep me company.”
I followed her in, of course, and closed the door behind me. I told myself I should leave. She was drunk and I was . . . well, I was me. I watched as she dropped her purse on the chair in the corner and turned on a small lamp, only lightly illuminating the room. She moved toward the kitchen.
“Beer or something else?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Um . . . beer, I guess.” I ran a hand through my hair.
She turned around in the kitchen, so she was facing me. “No need to argue with the classics, I say.” She spun around toward the refrigerator. “Why don’t you pick out something to listen to?”
She had bent over, looking in the fridge, her ass up in the air. “Shit,” I muttered, under my breath.
“What?”
“Um . . . I said, ‘sure.’”
Her stereo sat beside a shelf full of CDs and vinyl records. She came up behind me and handed me a Pilsner Urquell as I pulled out the first album that caught my eye. I smiled at her beverage choice and handed it to her—Van Morrison’s Moondance. She smiled up at me as she took it out of my hand.
“Ah . . . As I said: why argue with the classics?”
She again bent over, this time to drop the record on the player. I took a drink of the cold beer and tried not to stare at her ass. Really, I tried. But Jesus Christ, what was I, made of stone?
She straightened and caught me looking at her again. This time she didn’t even try to pretend she hadn’t, and she wagged a finger at me as the opening strains of “And it Stoned Me” started to play.
“You’re a bad, bad boy, Mr. Kennedy.”
“I can’t even pretend to argue with that assessment.”
She moved to the small sofa and motioned for me to sit next to her. As I sat down and watched, she kicked off her boots, setting them on the floor to the side of the couch. She turned sideways in her seat and put her legs up. Her feet were toward me and she wiggled her toes until they were under my leg, and I was basically sitting on them. I looked up from her feet, amused.
“Um . . .” I raised my eyebrows at her, but she simply looked at me with a goofy smile on her face, making me chuckle.
“I guess I should have asked—do you even like Pilsner Urquell? Have you had it?”
I looked at the beer in my hand. I couldn’t remember having tasted it, even though I’d had a few sips since she’d handed it to me. I shrugged and took another drink. “Yeah, it’s cool.”
“Good. I thought I had a few options, but I couldn’t find them in there.” She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of her kitchen. Damn, she was cute when inebriated. She closed her eyes. “I love that song,” she said as it ended.
“Yeah, me too.” I nodded. “Rose? May I ask you a favor?”
She opened her eyes and grinned. “Ooh . . . sounds serious.”
“Not really, but . . . I’d like to call you by your first name. May I call you Sinead?”
“Well, sure.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She smiled.
I nodded and took another drink of my beer. “Cool.”
“You’d make my daddy happy.” I smiled at the way she called him her “daddy.” It was sweet, as was the look on her face when she said it.
“Sinead.” I looked at her meaningfully and she raised her bottle so I could lightly tap it with mine. “What were you like, growing up?”
She grimaced. “Oh! I was a holy terror.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“I was a tomboy for a long time. I liked sports.”
“What sports?”
“I played softball, basketball, field hockey—those field hockey chicks are crazy by the way. They get vicious with those sticks.”
I laughed.
“I liked to play with the boys, too, though.”
“Uh-huh.” I winked at her and took a sip from my beer.
She pulled her foot out from under me to kick me lightly on the thigh. “Not like that, poop-head.”
“Poop-head? Nice.” I chuckled and shook my head.
“Anyway, I mean, I played football and kickball with them—in the street and the vacant lot and stuff.”
“Tackle?”
“Well, sure.” She shrugged. “It ain’t football if it ain’t tackle. But, you know, I was a kid, it was no big deal. Once I started growing the girls,” she wagged her index finger in front of her, between her breasts. I took another drink and tried not to look at them. “I stopped playing football. I found I was being tackled a lot.”
“Uh, yeah, I’ll bet.” We laughed. The vision of her as a kid with scabby knees, getting dirty with the boys, endeared her to me even more.
The recent movement of her leg had made her skirt ride up on her thigh. That, combined with the way she was positioned, gave me a view almost all the way up to her panties. I quickly turned my head, and she continued her story, oblivious.
“Once I discovered boys and rock and roll, it was all downhill from there. I thought my parents were going to send me away to a convent after a while.” She smiled at the memory, so it must not have been that bad.
“Which came first? Boys or rock and roll?”
“Oh, please.” She waved her beer in the air. “No contest. Rock and roll. I have my priorities, you know. Of course, after the rock and roll came the rock and roll boys.” She winked at me.
She sat up straight, all of a sudden, and gasped. “Oh my God!”
I almost choked on a swig of beer. “What’s wrong?”
“I love this song.” She put her hand on her heart, dramatically, and closed her eyes.
“Into the Mystic” had just started playing. I grinned at her dramatics and nodded. “Yes, it’s a great song.”
She put her beer on the side table and jumped up, holding her hand out to me. “Dance with me?”
I looked up at her. She was beautiful in the soft light of the room and so happy and excited . . . and quite inebriated. I hesitated, not knowing if I could trust myself.
“Please?” she asked again. As if I could say no to her, really.
I stood and removed my jacket, leaving it on the sofa before I wrapped my hands around her waist. At first, she held hers lightly on my upper arms. She closed her eyes and I could see her lips moving as she sang the song under her breath, so softly I couldn’t hear. At one point, she let go of my arms and her hands moved into the air, bringing much of her hair with them.
There was no way I could be expected to maintain a “friendly” distance from her, was there?
When the song reached its chorus, she turned in my arms, her back against me. Her tiny fingers interlaced with mine and she wrapped my arms around her.
Holy. Fuck.
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted her. I wanted her badly. But I didn’t want to take advantage of her when she was . . . not quite herself. Then again, who was I to presume she wasn’t herself? Maybe she wanted this as much as I did, and the alcohol was just her way of letting go and taking it. A myriad of thoughts, a thousand different feelings rushed through me in debate over a matter of spilt seconds.
She made the decision for me when she started to move—seriously move, shimmying against me in a most provocative manner. Holding our hands out, entwined, she moved down my body like I was a fucking stripper pole. And that was it. Whatever ounce of self-control I might have had up to that point vanished and I was lost. As she moved back up my body, I pulled one of my hands from hers and moved it to her hair, brushing it to the side while my other hand gripped her waist tight against me. My lips found her neck and I kissed her there, making circles on her salty skin with my tongue. I heard a small gasp and then her hand moved behind me to my hair. She gripped it in her fist.
ShitFuckShitFuckShitFuck!
I turned her around and for just a moment I paused. I looked into her eyes, and silently asked permission. She gave another small gasp in surprise and then burst into a wide smile and gripped my hair, pulling me toward her.
She kissed me. She fucking kissed me.
So many music clips I want to share…but I will keep it to these two.
Right in Time by Lucinda Williams:
Into the Mystic by Van Morrison: