Blue Notes Page 8

  So when he found me . . . I never knew who found me.

  I snap free of the memory when Brandon smiles. His mouth moves. I pop out my earbuds and slap my notebook closed a little too quickly.

  He stays quiet for a heartbeat, looking at the notebook, then shrugs. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “You got dinner plans?”

  I about choke on the cough I hold back. “Uh.”

  Fabulous. I might as well replace my tongue with a row of black and white keys. Sure, I’d pound out a lot of weird music every time I open my mouth, but at least it’d sound better than my oh so eloquent response.

  “I don’t know,” I finally conjure, and it’s the truth. “Probably pizza and a stack of textbooks.”

  He shifts from one foot to the other. It looks a little boyish, but sorta bashful on a guy as built as Brandon. He must’ve played sports back home in Pensacola. Maybe he still does. Maybe we’d actually have a good time, with plenty to talk about.

  But why do I doubt that so much?

  “Sounds about as bad as desk duty,” he says.

  “Nothing sounds as bad as desk duty.”

  “I’ll give you that.” He sits on the floor beside me and props his back against the wall, long legs outstretched, ankles crossed. He’s wearing loose jeans, Carhartt work boots, and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. Even if his only authentic knowledge of Ozzy Osbourne is from the TV show about their messed-up family, the effect is great. The T-shirt is fitted and just worn enough. Sitting side by side like this, I let myself sink into the idea that he’s as nice and cool as he’s supposed to be.

  “What else are you taking?” he asks.

  I really want to get back to my work before I lose my out-of-body feeling. And I still have to feed my notations into the music program on my Mac. But Brandon’s too nice to blow off. I’m making too much out of the few little things about him that bug me.

  “The sociology of subcultures, the history of early Latin America, and basic biology round out my required classes,” I say. “So . . . reading. Research. I have a paper about piercings and tattoos due a week from Tuesday, which has to include firsthand interviews. I haven’t even started.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

  I want to say, I bet the people I interview for my paper won’t resemble the guys in prison with my dad. But I don’t. I never will.

  Janissa can’t help hearing when I have nightmares, which makes me want to apologize all over the place. That doesn’t mean I’m ready to open up and explain where they come from. I was given a fresh start when Clair and John drove me out of California. That clean slate means no one here gets to know what I’ve lived through.

  I clear my throat. “So, what’s your major?”

  The question is genuine—the perfect escape route—and he sounds excited about his major. But I’m struck with the idea that I’m using up potential dinner conversation fodder. Again I wonder why talking to him over milkshakes or whatever would be so hard.

  No, not hard. Just . . . ordinary.

  “I’m studying journalism,” he says. “Part of my Big Assignment this year is editing a campus news blog, and shadowing a local news crew. So, see? If you need any help on that paper, I’m your guy.”

  I accept his hand to stand up. His palm is warm but in that pleasant way. Life force. No hint of sticky New Orleans sweat. Thank the heavens above for air conditioning at full blast. I tuck the notebook in front of me like a shield. Against what? Having a life?

  “So . . . about dinner?”

  I look everywhere but at him, until I call myself a coward and force my chin to lift. “Can I take a rain check until I get a better handle on my schedule? Maybe next week? I know it’s asking a lot.”

  He grins. “Nah, asking was asking a lot. I know everybody’s busy.” He glances around the room, where co-eds look like they’ve been hooked up to anesthetic drips. “Well, everybody worth asking out.”

  “Am I doomed to ramen if I say yes?”

  “I save it for the really special girls.”

  I fake a sigh. “Ninety-nine cents of paradise.”

  “I buy them in bulk. Ninety-nine cents would be highway robbery.”

  Slugging him on the shoulder seems perfectly appropriate. He doesn’t budge. Smacking him, even playfully, is like trying to make a dent in granite. Suddenly I wonder what it would be like to grab this guy and know he wouldn’t let go. To know that kissing him would be solid and safe.

  I have to keep wondering, because I can’t picture it. At all. Imagining something so domestic with a steady guy like Brandon should be easy. Instead I feel that same agitation.

  My imagination is out of control this weekend, which is why I don’t trust myself about much of anything—only that Janissa makes me laugh, and that what I’m writing is saving my sanity. Grounding me. It’s not the first time I’ve retreated into deep sonic worlds—places buffeted by echoes of remembered thunderstorms—in order to avoid the real one.

  Back in the real world, I’m standing in front of Brandon. His active brown eyes are full of expectation, even though I’ve already put him off. I like his chin. It’s strong without being arrogant. I like his lower lip, just full enough to beg for exploration.

  I don’t like that I’m imagining someone else.

  He smiles again. That particular tilt of his lower lip makes me remember the night before, when he asked Adelaide’s name.

  He knew.

  “So . . .” I shift my weight, as if I’m mimicking the way he’d first approached me. “About last night . . .”

  “That already makes it sound like we did more than talk with a five-foot table between us.” Maybe my expression stops his jokes, because he blinks and drops to my level of sobriety.

  “You knew who I was talking about when I mentioned Adelaide Deschamps. How she and Jude Villars are brother and sister.”

  He glances toward the ’luded-out television crew, then turns back. The palest pink flush tips his ears, which are revealed by the fall of his black hair. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

  I clutch my notebook tighter. “Why not just tell me?”

  “You came back looking so supercharged. I liked that you stopped by to say hi.” He looks away again. It’s making me want to fidget. “Then, to bring up how you’d spent the night with two New Orleans celebs? I guess I didn’t want to be overshadowed so fast, you know?”

  I take his explanation and roll it around in my head. “Sure.”

  “Besides.” He looks uncomfortable, as if me shooting him down is finally sinking in. But what he has to say, with that bitterness back again, is a surprise. “She has a reputation. Wild girl. Lots of sex and drugs.”

  “Way to keep the rumor mill in check,” I say without hesitation. “Think about what she’s been through, then try to think of her behaving like a normal person—if anyone’s really normal. I bet it’s impossible to muddle past that, even with a truckload of therapy.”

  “Therapy.” The word is clipped and sharp as a blade. “Right. That works wonders.”

  “Really, I’ve got work to do.” I glance down toward my notebook. Without realizing, I guess I’ve been edging toward the door, because I’m halfway out of the common room when I say, “I have to finish this sonata before I lose it completely.”

  He grins—the same one that first grabbed my attention. But it doesn’t feel the same now. It feels . . . like trying to gauge my dad’s moods.

  I shiver.

  “Don’t worry about it. I was just bored and trying my hand at being spontaneous.”

  I nod. I don’t want to be around him. He’s become the human equivalent of rubber cement that I can’t entirely pick off my fingertips.

  “I’ll see ya,” I say woodenly.

  Later that night, a knock at our dorm door reveals a pizza delivery guy. Janissa and I
protest until he says it’s already been paid for. By Brandon. A note on top reads:

  “I know it’s second best to ramen, but I thought you’d be busy working. How about Saturday night?”

  Twelve

  Yamatam’s isn’t the only club in New Orleans. It isn’t the only place with an open mic, frequented by both college students and locals. And it isn’t the only jazz bar.

  On Thursday night, when I walk up the stairs with Janissa at my back, it might as well be the center of the universe.

  It has its own unique scent. Sure it has all the usual smells of a bar and fried food and sticky floors. Lots of bodies, sweat, cologne. Only a few years ago, the whole place would’ve been overlaid with a fog of smoke too. But there’s something else. Earthy? Not damp or musty. No, it’s as if part of this place has always been here, wrested from land so close to the possession of the sea, and that it always would fight the Gulf for its right to stand at the intersection of so many cultures and history.

  It’s sandalwood and mint.

  It’s potential and fear.

  Janissa grabs my arm from behind and utters a quiet “Whoa” in my ear just before we reach the top step.

  Thursday night is the unofficial start of the weekend. Plenty of people are here to drink and grab a few hours of entertainment. Still, it takes me only a few moments to find Adelaide. She may as well have a spotlight shining on her all the time. She’s at a high two-person table in a far corner, with her feet dangling off the tall bar stool. She’s wearing a colorful floral camisole layered over with a bright gold lamé peasant blouse, tucked into black jeans as tight as a parting embrace. Giant gold hoops dangle almost to her shoulders and glitter against her sunshine skin, with her hair pulled up in a ’50s-style ponytail, cute bangs and all.

  None of it should work. All of it does. She’s a performer the moment she steps out of her house each morning.

  The guy she’s sitting with isn’t Jude, but he looks familiar. It takes me a few minutes and covert glances, during which Janissa grabs me a cranberry and soda and a Diet Coke for herself, before I make the connection. Adelaide is having drinks with Dr. Saunders, our music theory prof. He’s hot for being in his late thirties, but he’s very, very married. Like, so married that his wife’s about fourteen seconds from having their first kid.

  I manage to tear my gaze away from the duo, although not before I catch the prof slipping his hand up her leg. She giggles and twirls the straw in what looks like the same frothy pink drink she’d had Friday night.

  “Is that her?” Janissa asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “But sure as hell not Jude.”

  “Um, no,” I say, rolling my eyes. “This isn’t Game of Thrones. That is, however, one of our professors.”

  “With his wedding ring on. Classy. He’s a creep for taking advantage of her.”

  Janissa’s comment eases the tension where I store it between my shoulder blades. I feel easier, calmer around her. Maybe one day, she can become a confidant. Until now, I didn’t realize how much I want one.

  A pair of singers with rough beards and acoustic guitars is warming up for their set. Janissa spots a four-person table to the right of the stage. I make to follow, but she shakes her head. “Go say hi to her at least. Maybe it’ll remind that prof to keeps his hands off damaged jailbait.”

  “Okay.” But ever since Janissa and I stayed up past midnight, fitting in another two episodes of Lost, I mostly wanted to hang with her. She’s familiar and comfortable and happy.

  The night has other plans.

  “Okay,” I say, turning to walk away. “Be right back.”

  “Or maybe you won’t,” comes a sleek masculine voice.

  The club is warm with so many people. Windows open to the street below don’t help circulate air. The idea I can get any hotter—in an instant—should’ve been absurd. But I know that voice. Or I think I do. The almost week since my Friday night performance accomplished the thankful magic trick of blunting its harmonic power and smooth New Orleans confidence.

  But it was just that—a trick. The power is real and stunning all over again, especially now that I know who he is . . . and who isn’t his girlfriend.

  Jude Villars stands with his back against the wall midway between Janissa’s table and Adelaide’s. They seem like distant female islands, one of refuge, one of drama, but they call to me as being safer than meeting Jude’s eyes.

  I take up the challenge anyway.

  He smiles, then mock salutes with a foreign beer that’s mostly full. A drip of condensation rolls down his hand and travels the inside of his forearm. He’s wearing another broadcloth shirt, with the sleeves rolled and buttons undone at the throat.

  My enthusiasm for the night, which had been building all week, is burnt crispy in moments. Everything has gone wrong in the span of a few heartbeats. First Adelaide, who is supposed to be ready to talk music with me. Then Janissa, who sits alone at a table for four.

  Now Jude.

  Who is so stunningly magnetic.

  How did I manage to downplay his effect since Friday? How did I think I could come here and remain upright while weighed by the curious aloofness of his blue, blue eyes? Maybe it was a self-defense mechanism. Or I’ve gone temporarily insane.

  I hope it’s temporary.

  I make my feet move forward. Adelaide can wait. She’s occupied anyway. Leaving Janissa twists me with guilt. I don’t dare look back for fear of seeing a reminder of the truth in her eyes.

  Drama. Bad boy. You don’t have time for this.

  “Hello, Mr. Villars.” Yeah, there’s some bitterness in my greeting. After he made me twist last week, I indulge in one petty comment. There may be more to come if he messes with me again.

  “Have I been found out, Miss Chambers?” He takes a sip, looking at me over the lip of the bottle.

  “Yes. Now we both have full names. All very civilized.”

  “I can go back to sugar if you want, but I decided to try politeness.”

  “What about Friday night? That wasn’t polite at all.”

  He pushes away from the wall and presses into my space. I turn, using small steps to slip back and away from his physical presence. I only wind up buffeted by the sturdy bricks.

  “Now you’ve done it,” he says.

  “Done . . . ?”

  “You’ve let me hide you over here.” He touches my cheek so softly, so slowly, that I’m convinced I’m dreaming. “As for last time, I wanted to enjoy teasing you before you found out who I am. Everyone finds out eventually.”

  I frown at the cynicism in his voice, but he soothes the pinch between my eyebrows. “I thought you and Adelaide were a thing,” I say. “Boyfriend, girlfriend.”

  He drops his hand. His gaze rests on my lower lip. His intensity is even more intimate than touching me. “Creep factor aside, I treat her a lot better than her boyfriends do. I wanted to see if you could keep up with her, because I don’t just mean her music.”

  “You mean her personal life too? I’m not her chaperone.”

  “No,” he says, mouth tight. The only time I’ve seen him stray from his glib playboy act is when he talks about his sister. “You’re not.”

  “You want me to spy on her for you? Is that it?”

  He shakes his head. “You know, I’m already regretting Friday night. I gave you such a bad first impression.”

  I blink at his words, which almost sound like an apology. I don’t know if I’d call his first impression bad. Frustrating. Unique. Captivating. But it sure didn’t invite involvement in his family problems.

  “What would you do differently, if you could go back?”

  He doesn’t have dimples. Not really. It’s more like his smile can get so big and bright that laugh lines bunch together on either side of his enticing lips. Pseudo dimples. I want to kiss each one. To kiss
him while he smiles . . . that hits me as way more intimate than fantasies about kissing him in the heat of passion. I already know he doesn’t shine that smile at just anyone.

  “I’d have told you who I am and used it to tempt you back to my place.”

  “Liar,” I say, returning his smile.

  “I’d have asked you out for coffee and beignets.”

  “I think that’s still a lie, but I like it.”

  He chuckles, then nuzzles my neck until he finds skin. I shiver when his lips touch me. I should protest, shouldn’t I? Instead I tilt my head to give him better access.

  “I’d have kissed you and called you ‘sugar’ until you didn’t know whether to hit me or kiss me back.”

  “That’s more like it.” I’m breathless with anticipation while still trying to hold a conversation. “And you think what you’re doing will have an impact on Adelaide and me?”

  “Possibly, but they’re two different matters. What I’m doing to you is because I want to.” He kisses my neck again, inhales deeply, and makes a low, satisfied sound in his chest. “Damn, I was right in calling you sugar.”

  I want to yell in his ear, Pick a side! Good guy or bad boy? Go for it or run away? Instead I let the wall prop up my head as he sweeps his fingers down my throat, between my collarbones.

  Then he straightens to his full, impressive height and meets my eyes, his demeanor businesslike. “I don’t need a spy, Keeley. I need an ally. She’s gifted. You saw that. I don’t want that wasted. And I don’t want her hurt.” He pauses. “She could use a friend.”

  As if by agreement, we both glance toward Adelaide and the professor. She happens to look up. Her brows lift. She grins like a conspirator who just got found out, but who has enough dirt on her fellow conspirators that she doesn’t have to worry. Then she’s back to the professor, her hand on his upper arm.

  “But everybody loves her.”

  “That’s part of the problem.”

  “What makes you think I can keep up with her, as you called it?”