A Small Voice

Chapter Thirty-Six

9:33 p.m. Sunday, September15, 2001

"How far is this stupid beach house?" I complained.

Rachel snickered, "You ask me every five minutes."

I put my feet up on the dash, frustrated that I am always stuck with small cars and long legs.

Rach started whapping at them. "What if the air bags go off? They will break those twigs of yours."

I laughed, "I guess with your driving, I should be careful."

"Shut up."

I leaned into her. "Pull over and let me drive."

"Ha!" she laughed. "Not with a Xanax in you."

I relented, mostly because she didn't know the half of it. Then I tickled her side. "Stop it Dan, I swear, you're gonna get us both killed." She kept slapping my arm with her right hand playfully.

"All right, all right. My plan is not to kill us, my plan is to get you all hot and bothered so we find a secluded road and have sex in this little car, instead of spend the whole evening with a group of people whose personalities remind me of dry toast."

Rachel laughed at that. "Well, I'm sorry, babe, the plan is to hang out with the toast tonight. Whatever that even means."

I put my hands behind my back and tried to get comfortable. Some fucking plan, I thought,

I closed my eyes again. I thought about Brittney and my own stupid plan.

***

It only took until the third lesson for things to heat up with her. She never had interest in the guitar; she only wanted to play me. The first lesson she'd arrived sexy, the second scorching, by the third lesson, she looked full-fledged fucking scandalous. I should have turned her right around and called her mother when she walked in that day.

She had on some very short, denim cut-offs, and she even had them rolled up, to dangerous heights. She had on a dress shirt tied up at the side, so I was able to get a pervert's view of her midriff, the milky skin contrasting exaggeratingly against the crow black shirt. It was like Rachel's contrast when she wore her white bikini, but in reverse.

Ying and fucking yang, again.

Brittney bent over to take out her guitar, and I could clearly see the purple straps of her thong.

"Britt," I said, "I'm going to have a drink. I don't usually do this, but I have been feeling sick lately, and I'm allergic to penicillin."

I ruffled though my guitar bag to the hidden mickey and took a big swig. I needed to calm my nerves and strengthen my resolve if I had any chance of making it through the lesson.

She started at me for a moment, processing the fact that I was drinking alcohol. Then, her lips formed into a big grin, and she started to laugh.

"Allergic to penicillin?" She put both hands her cheeks and looked at me with wide eyes and that same wide smile. "I knew it!"

"Knew what?" I asked, putting all my energy toward building a barrier, trying to hold back the current of lust swirling through my body.

She walked over and knelt beside me. Her perfume was so overdone it was almost blinding, but I liked it. It was intoxicating.

She looked up at me with her island blue eyes. "I knew that you were a bit naughty."

It was getting so fucking hot in my studio that if I had a sprinkler system for fires, I was sure it would go off, and I wished I did—it could cool off the whole situation. Instead, I got a young girl who looked like she'd just walked of the set of a White Snake video, calling me naughty.