Out of Play

“What?”

She bites her lip and then says, “So…I had a really bad night with my gramps once. Some hot, cocky guy who thinks he’s better than me on a snowmachine confused me by showing me he’s more than I thought when he helped. And then he kissed me…like the best damn kiss, but I pushed him away.”

I’m trying to figure out what she’s saying. Focusing on the fact that she thinks I’m more and hoping I really am. Suddenly, I don’t want to be the guy who downs a pill every few days.

She breathes.

I breathe.

“I shouldn’t have. Pushed him away, I mean. I wish I hadn’t.”

Heat runs the length of my body. Damn, I like this girl. Actually like her. And I’m totally wishing we weren’t in this tattoo parlor right now. I brush my finger against her stomach, watching goosebumps spread across her skin. “Don’t worry. You’ll get a chance to redeem yourself. He definitely plans on doing it again.”

…

I close the cabin door behind me. We just got home from the tattoo parlor, and I let her go inside while I ran over and gave Gary my check-in. She jumps a little and looks at me, her hand sliding over the bass drum. It usually pisses me off when people touch my drums, but this time, it doesn’t.

“Play something for me.” She gives me a smile. I normally kind of hate this—being on display when someone asks me to play. If it happens naturally, it’s different, but I like the idea of her seeing me in the zone. She’s incredible at everything she does, and drums are one of the only things I have. It’s what I’m good at, and yeah, I want to show off for her.

“Are you sure you can handle it? I don’t want you to be jealous because I’m so good. Plus, I know how hard it is for girls to resist a guy in a band.” A sharp stab of fear hits me. I really just fucked up by saying band. Please don’t let her catch that.

She pretends to gag. “Yeah, pot-smoking kids in a basement with a couple of their dad’s old guitars is a serious turn-on. Oh, no. I don’t know if I can restrain myself. Please, Bishop, take me now!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Shrugging out of my jacket, I toss it on a table before sitting at the drums. Pe

I close my eyes as I slide the sticks through my fingers. One, two, three, four, and then my sticks slam down. I go up and down the line, finding the beat and the rhythm I want. Over and over, I pound down on it. My heart matches the rhythm. My arms feel the burn, but I welcome it—always welcome this kind of sting because it’s what I crave. I don’t think. Never do when I play outside of that stadium. Just feel. My body automatically knows what to do.

Sweat drips into my closed eyes, but I keep going, because this is the one thing I have to offer her. When I finally open my eyes, hers are closed like she’s savoring the beat. My beat. It feels amazing. It makes me proud.

Playing right now feels better than it ever has, and part of me doesn’t ever want it to stop, but I do. “Wa

She opens her eyes. “Do you have to ask?”

God, she’s so fucking cool. I love that she’s always up for anything.

I get up so she can sit in my spot behind the drums. “Okay, just—” My words are cut off by the worst sound I’ve ever heard. “What are you doing? You’re abusing my shit.” I grab her arm. “People don’t realize this is an art. Let the expert show you how it’s done.”

We spend the next hour playing. Well, she tries to play, and I try to teach, but it’s not coming off so well. I get to touch her a lot, so that’s a plus. My gut hurts from laughing so hard, and I’m sure hers does, too. Finally, she throws the sticks on the floor. “I’m done. The drums suck, and you’re a sucky teacher.”

“Tell me you’re kidding. I’m Bis—” Bishop Riley. Drummer for Burn. Liar to the girl he likes. “You hungry? I’d offer you pizza or something, but then I’d have to deal with one of your admirers, and I’m not in the mood for that right now.” Hopefully, my wink shows her I’m kidding.

She gets up and falls to the couch, kicking her feet up on the table. “You don’t ever let anything go, do you?”

“Nope.” I sit down beside her, one of my drumsticks in hand.

We’re quiet for a few minutes. I keep looking over at her, wondering what she’s thinking.

“So… You told me about your dad earlier. I can tell you about mine, if you want.”

My insides turn to ice. I don’t know why, but I know this is big. Know she doesn’t like to talk about this, and I feel totally unworthy of knowing because I’m keeping so much shit from her.

But maybe this is a way to tell her. She’ll tell me something, and then I’ll tell her. She’ll understand, I think. Get why I didn’t tell her who I really am. “I want to know everything you want to tell me.” And I put my arm around her, playing with the strands of her hair. It feels even better than the drumstick in my other one.

Pe

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.” But I want her to. Want to know she wants to tell me.

“You know my one-beer rule? The reason I watch the guys when they party? Some jerk who was stoned out of his mind hit him while he was on his motorcycle when I was ten.”

Every. Single. Thing inside me explodes. Not the good kind, either. She tries to sound like it’s not a big deal, but I know it is. My insides are shredded apart. I start to shake again. Panic simmering beneath the surface. Don’t let her notice. Please don’t let her see I’m fucking cracking apart. “Yeah?”

She nods. “I guess he downed a handful of his pain scrip, chased them down with a few beers, and left me without a dad. Sucks. It’s why I don’t drink and why I’d kill the guys if they ever did anything heavier than that. Why I make them give me their keys at parties, and why I hate leaving early because I can’t be there to make sure they don’t do anything stupid.”

My mouth is so dry, it’s hard to speak. “I’m sorry.”

And I don’t know where it comes from, but I feel like it was me. It could have been me. Not thought or cared about anything except getting messed up and then did something stupid. The Mitch conversation takes on a whole new meaning. Her fear of being left is because of someone like me.

I think about waking up in the hospital. About the pills I’ve taken since I’ve been here. About the pills in my fucking bag right now, and for the first time, I feel like a pill-head. I’m a loser. An addict. I’m sitting here with my hand in her hair, knowing what happened to her dad when she doesn’t know about me. It makes me feel like a failure. Like I’m letting her down the way I let Mom down.

“You’re quiet. Did I totally just ruin the mood or something?”

I try and shake it off, but I’m torn in half. Not one thing I’ve ever done makes me deserve to be here with this girl, but I’ve never wanted to be anywhere more. “We need to put the cream on your tat. I forgot about that.” Getting up, I try to forget what she said. Try to take care of her so maybe I’ll deserve to be here a little, because I can’t stand the thought of not sharing this room with her right now.

I grab the tube and walk back over. Pe

“You’re shaking,” she says when I pull off the bandage.

Yeah, it’s definitely partly because of her.

“I know,” is the only reply I can give her, and then I’m smearing the cream. My finger brushes her skin, higher and higher, just under her breast. So soft, so gentle because I don’t want to hurt her. You’re already hurting her, she just doesn’t know it yet.