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I forget about caution. About protecting my heart. About August.
For the first time in my life, I embrace now.
And now is fucking amazing.
“You realize this is jazz?” Wes turns to me and raises a brow.
Between the sunglasses, the smile, and the light hair, he’s every bit the picture of California.
Which is perfect.
We’re on our way to the Hollywood sign.
We’re driving around the hills, windows down, stereo blasting.
It doesn’t get more Los Angeles than this.
“It’s not jazz.” I turn up the volume. Sure, this big band song has jazz influence. It’s positively Amy Winehouse-esque in its jazzy vibe. But it’s clearly not jazz.
Jazz is a bunch of random notes in a nonsense order.
A then B then C then G then who the fuck knows.
(And, no, I have no idea if those are actual music notes).
There’s a stand-up bass and a sax and an old-school vibe, but there’s a repeating melody too.
Maybe if I was cool and laid back and knowledgeable about music history, I’d love jazz.
But I’m not.
I hate jazz.
I hate the randomness. The inability to predict where it’s going. The total lack of repetition.
“Should I consult Wikipedia?” Wes asks.
“Yeah, you should. Because you’re dead wrong.” This is big band music. It’s the picture of big band music. And, sure, I got into it originally because it was all over my favorite film soundtracks. But it’s past that now.
I love the bombastic sound.
And, yes, that little hint of jazz.
But only because it’s a hint.
Only because the impulses are contained.
He chuckles. “What if Wikipedia agrees?”
“Should we put it to the test.” I pull my cell from my backpack.
His gaze shifts back to the street. “Let’s go.”
I pull up my browser. Look up this particular song.
Luck Be a Lady Tonight.
Big Band.
Parent Genre Jazz.
Shit.
“What’s it say?” He stops at a red light. “Something about how I’m brilliant?”
“No, it says Wes Keating is full of himself.”
“Fuck, I’m important enough to be on Wikipedia? My ego.”
“Oh no.” I laugh. “It’s already enormous. I can’t handle it getting bigger.”
“Go on.”
“In your dreams.”
His laugh fills the room. Competes with the smooth vocals and the horn section.
Which is clearly not jazz.
Jazz inspired, sure.
But that’s a repeating melody.
That’s something comprehensible.
Enjoyable.
Not the utter nonsense that is jazz.
“Should I take you to a jazz club sometime?” he asks.
“Since when do you go to jazz clubs?”
“Since I got the idea of sneaking into a booth in the back, peeling off your panties, and making you come.”
Holy shit.
My cheeks flush. My sex clenches. My nipples pang.
I need him touching me. It’s been an entire week.
A week of flirt texting.
A week without his lips, hands, cock.
A week and I’m cock hungry.
I have no idea what happened to prim, proper Quinn Thorn and I really don’t care.
This feels too good.
He feels too good.
Hell, if Wes is going to make me come while we listen to a Miles Davis—
I’m not going to object to that.
Even so—”Listen to this.” I press my palms into my leggings. Focus on this moment. The trumpet. The hum of the engine. Wes’s laugh. The electric charge to the air.
“Fuck, I’m supposed to listen to shit? Still imagining you coming on my hand.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
“Should we pull over?”
“Only if you’re going to push those leggings to your knees.”
My sex clenches. God, that’s a good idea.
A big, beautiful idea.
I want to come on his hand.
I want to tear off his shorts and wrap my fingers around him.
I want to hear my name roll off his lips.
But not here.
The car doesn’t offer nearly enough privacy. Not with dozens of million-dollar mansions within view.
When we go home, sure.
Now…
Not so much.
Though then again…
Ahem.
“Um… the melody.” I motion to the stereo. “There is a melody. So not jazz.”
He nods. “Not what?”
“The song.”
He cocks his head to one side. “The what?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Just need to think about baseball for a minute.” He turns to the right.
There’s a sweeping canyon to the right.
Another row of mansions to our left.
This place is beautiful.
But still less appealing than him.
God, his smile.
It makes my stomach flutter.
It makes my heart thud.
It makes my limbs light.
“What was I supposed to listen to?” He follows the winding road up the hill.
“This part. Here.” I turn the volume up.
Wes taps his fingers in time with the beat.
“See. There’s a rhythm. A melody. Not jazz.”
He chuckles. “What’s wrong with listening to jazz?”
“Nothing. I just… don’t.”
“You don’t like it?”
I nod.
“You want to know where things are going?”
“Is that wrong?”
“No. It’s Quinn.”
“Do you really… what do you know about jazz?” I turn the volume down. Lean into my seat. He’s right. I don’t like the way jazz skips around. I need to know where a song is going. But I do like this. The tease of uncertainty. It’s not quite jazz, but there’s still a mystery.
“Nothing, really. Looked up big band music after you said you liked it.”
