Jesse's Girl
Page 57
“I thought about you too,” I say. “My sister will not stop playing ‘Ain’t No City Boy’ on repeat. I can’t stand that song.”
He laughs, and my body aches for him to take me in his arms, but I can’t get the Us Weekly photo out of my head. Every time I think about it, I wince.
“You okay, My?”
“I’m all right,” I reply. “You?”
“I’d feel better if you’d kiss me already.”
He edges closer and rubs my cheek with a thumb. Then we’re kissing like crazy. His lips become my lips. They’re warm and soft—slow, but hungry. And his hands—rough and calloused from playing guitar all the time—feel nice against my neck.
“You’ve got spaghetti breath,” I tell him, burying my fingers in his wavy brown hair.
“You too.”
One hand drifts downward as he rubs my stomach through my dress. The piano music crescendos. I keep kissing him, but his hand is making me tremble all over. I don’t want to mess this up, but I don’t want to go any further, at least not without knowing what we are to each other. Last time we were together, he didn’t want anything physical, and now he’s all over me. And that’s confusing. I suck in a deep breath, my body tensing all over.
“It’s okay,” Jesse mutters, biting my earlobe. “Relax.”
“I saw the magazine,” I blurt. “Us Weekly. There’s a picture of you with Natalia Naylor.”
“Who?” he mouths, scrunching his eyebrows together.
Great. He can’t even remember his conquests. What am I even doing here?
“The model? You were walking down the street with her. She was holding your arm. Wearing a tight jean skirt and white halter top…”
Suddenly his eyes light up. “Oh! Nat. I haven’t seen her since we worked together on a Levi’s campaign last year. Us Weekly printed a picture of us together?”
I nod.
He goes on, “They’re probably just trying to get some gossip going. They know I’m interested in you, and since neither of us is talking to the press about it, they’re trying to bait us.”
“Oh. So you’re not seeing Natalia?”
“No. I’m sure my publicists would love that, but I’ve never been into her. I’m glad you asked me about the picture.”
“I’m glad you’re not dating a supermodel.”
“Me too. Because then how could I go on dates with a mean, sexy punk girl?”
We kiss, and he clutches my dress with both fists as the pianist begins playing a new song.
“I love kissing you.” He leans into me as he peppers me with kisses that make my whole, and I mean whole, body buzz. But the guy’s about to go on a six-week tour. That’s a long time, and we haven’t even talked about what’s happening here.
I gently push a hand to his chest to stop him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Can we get dessert?” He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I leave his arms and open the dessert menu, pretending to read it.
After dinner, Jesse insists on paying the bill, and even though it wasn’t expensive, he leaves a fifty-dollar tip. A few photographers take pictures of us as we walk over to Gibson. Turns out Jesse actually had the store shut down this time, because he wants to play his new song, “Waiting for Christmas,” for me, and he’s been thinking about buying that archtop Citation, the one that’s worth more than my house. A guitar of the gods.
“I want a special guitar for my last tour,” Jesse explains with a wobbly voice.
Max greets us warmly, paying just as much attention to me as to Jesse.
“I’ve already got her set up for you,” Max says, ushering me over to the Les Paul section. “I knew you’d come play this guitar again.”
“Thank you,” I say as I throw the strap over my shoulder, running my fingers up and down the neck. My hips swaying to the beat, I begin to pluck out “Eye of the Tiger,” an eighties song that has one of my favorite guitar riffs. I pretend I’m playing this guitar in front of thousands of fans. Fans who’ve bought my single from iTunes.
Max’s face grows brighter than the first time I played here.
“Hey, hey,” Jesse calls out, cradling the new Citation. “What about me?”
I wave a hand at him. “Would you hold your horses?”
Then Jesse starts playing his new song. He closes his eyes, plucking out a beautiful melody. He sings,
He laughs, and my body aches for him to take me in his arms, but I can’t get the Us Weekly photo out of my head. Every time I think about it, I wince.
“You okay, My?”
“I’m all right,” I reply. “You?”
“I’d feel better if you’d kiss me already.”
He edges closer and rubs my cheek with a thumb. Then we’re kissing like crazy. His lips become my lips. They’re warm and soft—slow, but hungry. And his hands—rough and calloused from playing guitar all the time—feel nice against my neck.
“You’ve got spaghetti breath,” I tell him, burying my fingers in his wavy brown hair.
“You too.”
One hand drifts downward as he rubs my stomach through my dress. The piano music crescendos. I keep kissing him, but his hand is making me tremble all over. I don’t want to mess this up, but I don’t want to go any further, at least not without knowing what we are to each other. Last time we were together, he didn’t want anything physical, and now he’s all over me. And that’s confusing. I suck in a deep breath, my body tensing all over.
“It’s okay,” Jesse mutters, biting my earlobe. “Relax.”
“I saw the magazine,” I blurt. “Us Weekly. There’s a picture of you with Natalia Naylor.”
“Who?” he mouths, scrunching his eyebrows together.
Great. He can’t even remember his conquests. What am I even doing here?
“The model? You were walking down the street with her. She was holding your arm. Wearing a tight jean skirt and white halter top…”
Suddenly his eyes light up. “Oh! Nat. I haven’t seen her since we worked together on a Levi’s campaign last year. Us Weekly printed a picture of us together?”
I nod.
He goes on, “They’re probably just trying to get some gossip going. They know I’m interested in you, and since neither of us is talking to the press about it, they’re trying to bait us.”
“Oh. So you’re not seeing Natalia?”
“No. I’m sure my publicists would love that, but I’ve never been into her. I’m glad you asked me about the picture.”
“I’m glad you’re not dating a supermodel.”
“Me too. Because then how could I go on dates with a mean, sexy punk girl?”
We kiss, and he clutches my dress with both fists as the pianist begins playing a new song.
“I love kissing you.” He leans into me as he peppers me with kisses that make my whole, and I mean whole, body buzz. But the guy’s about to go on a six-week tour. That’s a long time, and we haven’t even talked about what’s happening here.
I gently push a hand to his chest to stop him.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Can we get dessert?” He smiles at that, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
I leave his arms and open the dessert menu, pretending to read it.
After dinner, Jesse insists on paying the bill, and even though it wasn’t expensive, he leaves a fifty-dollar tip. A few photographers take pictures of us as we walk over to Gibson. Turns out Jesse actually had the store shut down this time, because he wants to play his new song, “Waiting for Christmas,” for me, and he’s been thinking about buying that archtop Citation, the one that’s worth more than my house. A guitar of the gods.
“I want a special guitar for my last tour,” Jesse explains with a wobbly voice.
Max greets us warmly, paying just as much attention to me as to Jesse.
“I’ve already got her set up for you,” Max says, ushering me over to the Les Paul section. “I knew you’d come play this guitar again.”
“Thank you,” I say as I throw the strap over my shoulder, running my fingers up and down the neck. My hips swaying to the beat, I begin to pluck out “Eye of the Tiger,” an eighties song that has one of my favorite guitar riffs. I pretend I’m playing this guitar in front of thousands of fans. Fans who’ve bought my single from iTunes.
Max’s face grows brighter than the first time I played here.
“Hey, hey,” Jesse calls out, cradling the new Citation. “What about me?”
I wave a hand at him. “Would you hold your horses?”
Then Jesse starts playing his new song. He closes his eyes, plucking out a beautiful melody. He sings,
