I want to listen to her read random words from the dictionary,rub her feet, and eat her pussy until death threatens to take me from this mortal plane.
I’ve played guitar since I was five years old. I wrote my first song when I was eleven and Brianna Price broke my heart by dating my best friend instead of me. I lost both my crush and my best friend, and the only outlet I had was soothing my beat-up heart through my beat-up guitar.
Never once has the urge to write music about the stranger I’m staring at crashed into me like this before.
Have I just met my muse?
I haven’t picked up my guitar since the summer. Hockey has taken up all of my time. Hockey and making sure my grade point average doesn’t drop.
If I fail, I get kicked out. It’s that simple.
When I first earned my hockey scholarship, I foolishly thought I was home free. But if I don’t maintain my grades, I lose my scholarship, and if I lose my scholarship, I’m out on my ass. My family can’t afford to pay for college tuition. It’s become a whole thing.
I thought I’d be fine with the pressure, but the exhaustion weighing down my muscles and the bags underlining my eyes tell a different tale.
I didn’t think college would be so fucking hard. Do they want to break us before we become real adults?
What happened to all the keg parties and coasting your way through class?
I guess whoever made all those stereotypical college movies weren’t athletes. If they had to factor in practice, and gym time, and game time, as well as keeping the hockey house clean, as well as, as well as, well, everything on my plate makes my head spin.
“Oh my god, is it actually itchy?” My fellow inmate leans back, face contorted in disgust as she eyes my crotch.
“Huh?”
“You went all quiet and got this weird look on your face. If your dick has issues, I’m out.” She shakes her head.
A chuckle rumbles through me. “It’s not itchy. I was just thinking I want to write a song about you.”
Her brows furrow. “Excuse me?”
My cheeks heat again as my brain-to-mouth filter seems to be all-the-way broken. “I’m a musician.” That much is true. I’m a songwriter and guitar player. That’s not a lie.
The lie of omission that I play hockey digs into my skin as she takes me in.
“And I want to write a song about you.”
She snorts, derision as clear as the smattering of freckles across her nose. “How many songs have you written about women?”
I pop my hip with a dramatic flourish of my hand. “A bunch actually, but generally only after they’ve broken my heart into tiny pieces. Never when I’ve just met them.”
Again, her eyes widen. I don’t know if she’s not used to people being as frank and honest with her as I am, or if she’s surprised I’ve had my heart broken, or surprised I have the higher brain function to write songs. Either way, I wouldn’t blame her. I haven’t exactly put my most competent foot forward with this woman. She has me flummoxed.
I kinda like it.
“Anyway. My point is, nothing’s itchy. And since we’re on the subject, everything works the way it’s supposed to. Y’know. In case that piece of information matters to you.”
She smirks. “I’ll be the judge of whether it works the way it’s supposed to or not.”
Her brashness is alluring. We’re bantering back and forth, sure, but something about her tone tells me I’m going to be buried balls deep in this woman by the end of the day.
And my dick, along with the rest of me, is very enthused at the idea. “One date.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I want one date. Let me take you out when we get out of here.”
She does a slow shake. Head, shoulders, torso, they all move from side to side with a resoundingno. “No dating.”
