Page 58 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“Alright, then come out with the guys and me. Or come to rehearsal. Or to the studio.”

I press my lips together and drop my eyes to my hands. “I want to. I really do. I just can’t. Not right now.”

His expression falls and it hurts me to see it. I’ve never felt so frustrated in my life.

“Not right now,” he says. “So maybe later? Yes?”

I worry my lower lip with my teeth. I want to try to manage his expectations as best as I can, but I don’t want him to think I’m being insincere. “Maybe later,” I say with a nod.

“Alright,” he says. “That’s enough of me ruining the mood for the night. Let me kiss you until we both pass out, now.” He shifts Gloam in his arms, gently placing her down on the floor between his feet despite her chirruped protests. She mews plaintively as he cups my face in one hand.

He braces that hand behind my head, pulling me toward with him with not-so-gentle force and kissing me. His lips are soft and taste of mint and beeswax. The salve I made him. I like this kiss. I like the way it undulates like the comings and goings of the waves I can hear distantly out the window.

His tongue rolls into mine, soft and practiced. Within moments, both of our mouths slide effortlessly. Lush, wet sounds joining the hush of the waves.

He breaks the kiss just when I’m starting to feel dizzy and breathless.

“I mean, if you insist,” I say belatedly as he climbs on top of me, taking my face in both hands now. He kisses me into the cushions of the sofa until I’m begging him to carry me to bed.

ㅤ

Four days without Lillith.

What was supposed to be a daytrip to San Diego with a same-day turnaround has now become a four-day trip full of meetings and collaborations with local punk bands. I’m pissed, but I’m doing my best not to show it. Not because I’m embarrassed. It’s a no-brainer that I’d want to spend time with the beautiful woman I’m trying to make my girlfriend, instead of a bunch of sweaty dudes.

I’m trying to hide it because I’m not in the mood to take shit from my friends about my habitual simping. Not when I’m feeling so much doubt over whether or not Lillith even wants me the way I want her.

The fake name thing is still bothering me, and the longer it bothers me, the weirder I feel about bringing it up and asking about it. When I’m with her, I feel great. I feel like we’re twin stars, orbiting each other as we work our way toward a collision so powerful it could become a black hole. In a good way. In the best way.

I want nothing more than to sink into her and drown in her presence. Suddenly, every prospective plan takes on the faint lilac hue of my growing infatuation with Lillith. Every potential business deal and travel plan brings her to mind. As well as a host of other questions that make me want to throw things.

Will she ever be able to come on tour with me? Would she move to the PNW to be with me? Or would she let me move in with her? I’m making enough money now that it’s not totally unfeasible for me to fly or drive back home to Seattle when I need to do a show, but losing out on the ability to write music with Oren in-person, or rehearse with the guys, might feel rotten.

I know she wants to travel. She told me as much as we cuddled on a pile of comforters and home-sewn quilts in front of her hearth in nothing but our underwear. She looked so sad when she told me, though. And I’m worried she feels so tied to her family’s legacy that she’ll never leave it in someone else’s hands in favor of being with me.

Then again, it’d be a dick move to even ask her to do that.

“Why the sour face?” Roxie asks, drawing me out of my rumination.

I didn’t realize I’d been showing my emotions so openly. I had hoped staring out of the window and being quiet would have saved me from the scrutiny about to be dumped on me like a bucket of cold water.

No dice, though. Oren speaks next.

“He’s pouting because he had to leave his tour girlfriend at home.” He sounds groggy, probably waking from a doze just to give me shit.

“You should have brought her with us,” Fletcher says. “She doesn’t seem like the type to go all psycho on you.”

“She isn’t,” I say. “But she owns a store, man. It’s not like she can just drop everything and follow me wherever. She’s got customers to take care of.”

“How busy can a crystal shop even be?” Satoshi gripes, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his leather jacket and slapping the bottom of it against his palm a couple times before fishing one out and lighting it.

“Hey, hey, hey! Roll down the window first, you prick,” Roxie complains, doing it for him.

“It’s not just a crystal shop. She makes spells and potions for people, does Tarot readings too,” I tell Satoshi.

“Oh. So she’s a scammer,” he says blandly.

“Careful,” Oren warns lowly.