Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, January 23rd, 2018▪️
▪️Phoenix, AZ▪️
Mike moves to distance himself from my grasp.
"It'll take them half an hour to get off the bus. We have plenty of time."
A knock at the door, the door that barely locks, brings me to my knees and to my senses.
"The honeymoon is over." Poppy is rapidly losing her points.
"Damn you." I shout at the door.
"Did you just say thank you?" Poppy's laugh recedes. At least she didn't open the door to find me in this compromising position. Would've taught Poppy not to interrupt us in the future. My ears ring. Future. That word again. I stick my fingers into my ears and twist them hard enough to dislodge the irritating sound and the stupid word out of my head.
Mike's tugging his jeans onto the second calf with the balance and agility I could watch as a sport: tight pants putting on. No. Tight pant sheathing. No. Tight pants installation. Gawd no. Why is there no proper word for this action? Mike completes the unnamable movement, and I'm the one left breathless. I need to maybe think about doing some exercising. Maybe some yoga? It's a new year, and the last year of my first quarter-century. Doing something good for my body might not be such a horrible thing. I grab Mike's hands and have him help me get up.
"This is still my birthday, and I'm determined to have all the fun I can squeeze out of today." I re-seize his now jean-clad and zipped up crotch.
"Hotel. Now." Mike moves to his bag, hangs it over his shoulder, stuffs his jacket on top, and opens the door before I can count to three. "Your stuff?"
I nod to my bunk, littered with the presents.
"Take what you need."
Message received. I hang my bag across my body, drag my keyboard from the studio behind us, ignore the rest, and lead the way, our hands still linked. We maneuver around the people climbing up and down the bunks, duck when bags swing above us, jump over cables, boxes, and unidentifiable objects. An obstacle course of our own, and we're determined to set the record at getting off the bus.
"Where are you two going?" Neil blocks the exit.
"Hotel." Mike moves without a warning. He bulldozes the much slighter bassist, and I know every body part of Neil's in insured to the wazoo, but Mike doesn't need to be that aggressive.
"Mike, don't engage with him," I whisper. To show I'm on his side, I run my thumb over Mike's hand that's holding mine.
"Check-in is in an hour." Neil snickers behind us.
"Fuck off." Mike's not pretending to be polite anymore.
The air outside is colder than at our last stop, or maybe my snowflake outfit was more appropriate than my T-shirt and leggings. The hotel is to the right, and Mike hones in on it.
