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He was sorry he’d missed a morning exchange with Claire, but he’d better head to the neighborhood dive Erik owned. The place didn’t open until later, but he liked the old-smoke-and-stale-beer smell of it. Atmosphere meant a lot in music. And life.
Trip had spent most of the years since high school in the West. He liked the open feeling, the sense of limitless possibilities. Long straight stretches of highway, winding mountain roads. And all the climates he could want, from baking Sonoran desert to high, cool Rockies.
In the smoky dimness of Chez Oui, while he waited for Erik to finish up with the beer delivery guy, Trip found himself thinking about the woman again. Claire. She had pretty eyes. Mink dark with flecks of milk chocolate. Smart eyes. And an expression both vulnerable and sturdy.
That was a lot to notice in a few passing glances and one quick collision, but he was good at reading people. You learned that in foster homes. You quickly figured out what counted, because things always changed, got lost or showed up out of the blue. You learned what to hang on to, what to fight for and what to shrug off, and always to be ready to move on. Lessons he maybe got too young, but good ones all the same.
He didn’t blame his mom too much. Hadn’t really at the time. She’d done her best. She was just…limited. He visited her whenever he blew through Colorado. She always baked him something awful. And he always ate it like it was gourmet.
He picked up the bar phone to sign up with a palm-trimming crew to make enough money for the next couple of months’ rent at the guest house where he was staying. The work was dangerous—climbing hundreds of feet in the air to work with sharp blades—but that was why it paid so well.
Plus, he liked variety. He never stayed long in any place or at any job, choosing both for the opportunity to learn…about people, ideas, music and himself. He liked college towns, so he could take classes from people he admired. Gigs were easy to come by near universities. Gig money paid his tuition. But he was happy to work in restaurants or bars, on yard crews or as a handyman to make his daily wage.
Just as he hung up the phone, Erik slid onto the stool beside him, his guitar in hand. “’Sup?” he breathed in his rumbling bass.
“Not much.” Trip said, smiling at his teacher.
“You’re wearin’ that look.” Erik winked at him.
“Yeah?” Trip opened his guitar case and removed his baby.
“Yeah. The look of a cat after a big slurp of cream.”
Trip chuckled. Erik was smart and wily, and the best guitarist he’d had the privilege to know.
“It’s a girl, am I right?” Erik said, fingering his strings.
And he was intuitive. “Could be.” Trip plucked through a tune-up.
“So tell me about her.”
“She’s pretty. Nice eyes. Brown.” He sighed.
“Uh-huh.” Erik began to play Van Morrison’s classic “Brown-Eyed Girl.” “I ain’t heard ya talk about a woman since you been in town.”
Trip shrugged, then started up a harmony line to the tune. “I like spending time on my own.”
“My ass. You’re jus’ too lazy to call any of ’em.”
Trip shrugged again. There had been women who let him know they were interested, but none had caught his eye. Except this Claire. Maybe because she was different than the women he usually spent time with. Which made her off-limits completely, of course. He moved into the chords he’d been learning from Erik, who’d stopped playing to muse a while.
“Women love musicians,” he said. “I was always gettin’ busy in the old days. But once I moved out here, Sara got her hooks in me….You want to make that a minor seventh.”
“Right,” Trip said, adjusting his fingering.
“You probably think you’ll never want to stick to a place, but there’s a good side to it. A steadiness.”
“I like variety.”
“Watch that chord. Keep the arch and it’ll flow easier.”
“Yeah. Got it….”
“There’s a joy in learning all one woman’s tricks.”
Trip didn’t reply.
“I’ve got a gig on Tuesday if you want,” Erik said.
“Sounds good.” He reached for the new chord. And got it. He loved that feeling. Music was the best companion.
Erik gave him the details about where and when they’d be playing. “I could keep you busy if you’d stay around. You going after this brown-eyed girl?”
“Too much trouble.”
“But that’s the best kind of woman,” Erik said, cackling. “The ones that are trouble.”
“I don’t think so.” Trip didn’t like disappointing people. He’d stayed some months in Denver for a woman, but she started getting on him about the future and his plans, and he’d itched to be on the road. It was always easier to think, to learn, to be himself when he kept moving.
She’d reminded him of Nancy, the girl he’d been with during that mess with his final foster home. He’d fallen hard and when she broke it off, he’d been wrecked. But she’d pointed out what he needed to know about himself and he’d never forgotten.
“So you say,” Erik said, nodding and smiling his wise Buddha smile. He strummed something so complex that Trip had to work to follow it. Good. He’d rather focus on music than women any day.
“SO, I GUESS YOU GET the master bedroom,” Kitty said to Claire Friday afternoon as they stood in the narrow hall of Claire’s apartment. When she’d said Kitty could move in, it had never occurred to Claire that her own bedroom might be up for grabs.
They’d agreed today was a good day for the move, since Rex had the day off and could muscle her stuff upstairs.
Barely moved into the duplex, Kitty hadn’t had much to pack. She’d boxed up her kitchen and bedroom stuff, emptied her closets and rented a truck yesterday. Kitty moved fast when she wanted something. She and Rex had loaded the truck last night and now, Rex was dutifully trotting Kitty’s bed frame through the front door.
“I guess you could pay less rent for the smaller bedroom,” Claire offered.
“No, no,” Kitty said, tapping a French-cut fingernail on her lip, wearing her real-estate-deal look. “Having the bigger bedroom will be like a finder’s fee. You found the place, after all, and paid the deposits.”
She gave her an abrupt, bruising hug. “I’m sooo glad we’re doing this. We’ll have so much fun. We can do each other’s makeup, drink wine and dissect men all night.”
“Sure,” Claire said, trying to look on the bright side of the situation. Kitty wouldn’t let her mope about Jared, that was certain. Plus, a pint of ChocoCherry Rumba Swirl shared seemed way less sinful than one shoveled in alone.
“It’ll be just like college,” Kitty added.
“Uh, yeah.” God, she hoped not. Claire had spent many an evening studying in the library so she didn’t have to listen to Kitty’s headboard thump against the other side of the living room wall. At least the apartment walls here were thick.
“That room,” Kitty said to Rex the Robust, directing him to what they’d agreed would be her bedroom. The two women followed him inside to watch as he bolted the bed frame together. Just watching his muscles ripple from butt to ankle gave Claire thoughts.
“Gonna be tight,” Kitty said.
“Huh?” Claire startled from her fantasy.
“The bed,” Kitty added.
“Oh. Yeah. The bed.” The frame did nearly cover the floor.
“Big bed,” Rex said, rising to stand between them, his face red from exertion.
“All the better to amuse you with,” Kitty said to him, scraping a finger through the stubble on his jaw.
“Really?” Rex said, catching Kitty’s hint. “Great! I’ll get the mattress.” He barreled down the hall, like a kid who’d abruptly gotten permission to buy a video game.
“He’s completely tireless in bed,” Kitty said to Claire. “Like a machine. All muscle, all the time.”
“Sounds nice.” Simple and satisfying.
“Oh, it is. And don’t worry. He has a friend—Dave, from the gym—who will be perfect for you.”
“It’s too soon to date, Kitty. I’m not over Jared.”
“This isn’t a date, Claire. This is getting laid. Bodily function…healthy release.” Her words slowed at the end because Rex had come in with the mattress across his back, looking like Atlas holding the world. All muscle…all the time. Hmm.
“I’ve got to get ready for work,” Claire said. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I think I’ve got everything I need right here,” Kitty said, not taking her eyes off Rex.
In the shower, Claire wondered why she couldn’t think of sex as easy breezy as Kitty did. Why did she have to pick at it like a scab? What does it mean? Where is it going? Will we get serious? Is he the one? Why did she have to want it to be perfect?
Because when it went bad, it went very, very bad. Her mother hadn’t been the same after Claire’s dad left her for his secretary when Claire was sixteen.
Maybe that was why it was so hard for her to decide about men—she didn’t want to make a mistake. She’d thought her parents were perfect and look what had happened. Plus, she could always see both sides of a situation. Each parent blamed the other for the break up—and the bad match they’d made in the first place—and wanted Claire to side with them. She’d somehow managed to keep them both happy.
Kitty was right about sex, though. Claire should think of it as a healthy release, like jogging or doing aerobics or taking a yoga class. Exercise was good for all your muscles, right? She would at least try Kitty’s idea. Maybe with this Dave guy.
The idea sounded empty now, but after a few days of celibacy, she was sure it would appeal. She should put in some time with the Thigh Buster, just in case. A weightlifter would be fussy about the legs he tangled with.
So, she was moving forward, making decisions, being clear. Good girl, she told herself, drying off. She’d forget about Jared, get casual about sex and serious about work.
In the closet, she faced another dressing quandary. That made her think of Guitar Guy calling her outfit a getup and she smiled. What should she wear? Forget the trying-too-hard suit. How about professional separates? A plaid skirt with a navy blazer. Conservative, but not so coffee-tea-or-me.
For shoes, she needed those damned navy heels again. She slapped a couple of adhesive patches over Wednesday’s still-angry blisters—she wouldn’t let a minor injury slow her down—and headed for the kitchen.
One good thing about having Kitty as a roommate was that she added cool stuff to the kitchen—a combo coffee-espresso maker, an industrial-grade blender and gourmet food. Claire scooped a spoonful of paté out of a plastic tub Kitty had plopped into the refrigerator and ate it. Mmm. Expensive protein. She’d read somewhere that protein eased depression. Or maybe that was only turkey, not duck liver. Duck liver probably depressed you because you realized you could never afford it on your salary…sigh.
On her way out the door, Claire paused to survey the living room. Even as her heart had emptied out, her apartment was filling up. Rex had placed Kitty’s zebra-striped sofa where Jared’s commitment futon had been slated to go. And beside it was a leopard-spotted chaise with pillows shaped like lips and a glass coffee table on a black lacquer base. Propped against the wall were a couple of paintings of abstract nudes from a former lover of Kitty’s. The place was beginning to look like a singles pad. Not exactly Claire’s style, but fun. Definitely fun.
She called a farewell to Kitty, who probably had her mouth too busy to reply, and hurried outside, pleased to see the bus hadn’t arrived. Standing beside the bus bench, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, blisters throbbing slightly through the bandages, looking down Central.
“You were right.”
The liquid voice came from behind her. She turned to see Guitar Guy, wearing jeans, a snug black T-shirt and his guitar. He looked better than the other day, and when he brushed back a strand of hair, she realized it was shorter.
“You got a haircut,” she said.
“Yeah. I took your advice.” He gave her a crooked smile, then tilted his head, indicating her body. “But you didn’t take mine.”
“Excuse me?”
“The nuns make you dress like that?”
She looked down at her skirt. God. He was right. The blazer and plaid skirt did seem like a Catholic school uniform. She shrugged. “All my idea, sorry to say. Maybe I should go change….”She bit her lip.
“Don’t ever change,” he said in mock seriousness.
She laughed. “You’re just full of advice, huh?”
“That’s why I get the big bucks.”
“You’d probably make more money in Scottsdale. Lots of tourists.”
“Too snooty. I like downtown people.”
“Really?” Did he mean her?
As if in answer, he launched into the Billy Joel classic, “Just the Way You Are,” a song about not changing to please him.
He was flirting with her. She grinned. Except maybe he just wanted her to tip him. But if he was flirting, a tip might insult him. Her instincts said he liked her, but where had her instincts gotten her so far? In love with a married schmuck.
The bus arrived, saving her a decision, and she climbed the steps. While the driver looked at her pass, she glanced out the door. Guitar Guy saluted her as the bus doors shut. He liked her. And his voice stayed in her head all the way to the office.
Inside B&V, Georgia and Mimi stood at the receptionist desk. “So let him think you’re a lesbian,” Georgia was saying. “Men love lesbians. They want to convert you. Plus, they think they have to be re-e-ally good at oral sex.”
Mimi looked unconvinced. They both looked up at Claire.
“Well, lookie here,” Georgia said, leaning over the reception counter. “Muffy’s stopped in on the way to her tennis match.”
“Oh, for cripe’s sake,” Claire said. “I give up.” Catholic school or prep school—either way it was a bust. Despite what Guitar Guy had said, she should have changed clothes.
“Mr. Tires called again. He thinks the radial in the ad looks like a glazed doughnut.”
“Great.” The man spent no money on his tiny newspaper ads, but he wanted new creative every week. Small flippin’ potatoes. She saw that Mimi held a folder with Ryan Ames’s name on it.
“I’ll take that to him,” she said, tugging it from Mimi’s fingers. She needed to schedule their first mentor meeting anyway—her first step up the career ladder.
At Ryan’s office, she saw through his glass door he was reading the paper. She tapped. He frowned at the interruption, but when he saw it was her, smiled.
“Hi,” she said, entering. She handed him the folder.
“Thanks.” He smiled again. A big smile. A too-big smile. A definite man-woman smile. “So, how’s my mentee doing so far?”
“Just great.” Well, except for that broken heart, ruined life thing. “I was hoping we could get started on some strategy for me,” she said. “Maybe over lunch. I’ll buy.” Paying for lunch was a power move, she’d read.
“You’ll buy, huh?” Isn’t that cute? his smile said. “For now, why don’t you have a seat and we can get to know each other better.” He patted the chair kitty-corner to his desk, tugging it closer to him.
