▪️Saturday, December 19th, 2017▪️

▪️Los Angeles, CA▪️

Oh no. No way he's kissing me after that show. I meet his still reserves gaze with what I hope is my touch-me-and-you're-out one. I'm not a prize cow for them to fight over. What the hell was he thinking? Behaving like he had some claim on me. Showing off the macho-biker crap to Neil as if I had no voice of my own. As if he's not been barely texting me back over the last two days. After multiple messages every day . . . and night he went to sentences short enough to mistake them for a telegraph notes, not texts.

I thought he was going to tell me he's not coming, that he's not interested in me, that the two days we had were great, and we should leave them at that, but he didn't. He showed up at my hotel room. He didn't offer to rent one of his own. He's here, and I was so glad he was there when I opened the door. Him actually coming to LA for me outweighed his silence in the past days, but maybe it is his silence I should've been paying more attention to. Or the doubt that shone in his face when he stepped in the room were not a figment of my imagination.

"Not now." I duck under his arms and make my way back to the bed, the one I'm not sure I want to share with him anymore. This is not how I expected my reunion with Mike would go. My imagination drew a passionate scene of him ravishing me in the middle of the hotel room and us lying there breathless, naked, and sated in each other's arms.

The Mike of my dreams had the passion and skills in bed worthy of Rachmaninoff's finger-twisting third, but also the gentle care of someone who isn't self-absorbed. That dreamy Mike had nothing to do with this grumpy Mike who showers me with an icy stare of doubt, then tries to put a mark of his kiss on me. Branding me with the heat of his lips. I missed his heat, but not like this. Nothing about this feels right I run my thumb against the pinkie that's looking and feeling better after the steroid shot I got yesterday. Another couple of days and I'll be able to play again.

Mike slams his back into the door. "Should I leave?" The cello of his voice pulls at the strings in my chest I'd much rather ignore. I'd much rather tell him to go, but it's still there: the chain between us. I feel it resonate to his voice, reminding me about its presence. It's weaker, thinner, but it's not broken.

"How about lunch?"

He runs his hand against the design of the wallpaper on the wall next to the door. "Sushi?"

The memory of him feeding me sushi in the Chicago apartment is another one of those I too can't forget. A corner of my mouth goes up. "Great choice." I get up and grab my purse.

Walking next to Mike through the lobby of The Ritz-Carlton brings more of the same coldness he greeted me with at the door. His hands are in the pockets of his jacket. Mine rest on the strap of my cross-body bag. My neon pink skirt and frames fit into the beigeness of California chic of this hotel even less than Mike's gruff biker style. Stares follow us. I put on my best 'don't you wish you looked this good' smile on my face and make every step of my white converse as close to a catwalk as I can. I feed off their stairs. It never gets old.

"Okay if I take a photo for my followers?"

Mike nods and starts moving away. My hand clutches his sleeve before my brain can scream at me to not let him go. I want him next to me here, and on the photo. I'm not ready to give up my independence, but I'm not interested in giving up Mike. Yet.

"No. Stay here." I angle the camera, so it has an ample view of the lush lobby, my face in the shades, and a tiny sliver of Mike's leather-clad shoulder. I type: "Sushi recommendations in LA? Looking forward to playing for my LA audience today." I post and refuse to breathe in Mike's smell of leather and himness any deeper. To make sure the rush of happiness I felt when the door to my hotel opened was not a fluke, turning, wrapping my arms around his neck, and kissing him would be so easy. But I'm still pissed at him, so I cinch my hand around his elbow and exit the hotel.

My fame level hasn't gotten to a point where people stop me on the street, asking for a photo or an autograph, but with Mike at my side I can imagine what it'd feel like to have a bodyguard protecting me from overzealous paparazzi while I lavish in the stares of my adoring fans. Recommendations of fancy five-star sushi restaurants and hole-in-the wall joints roll in so fast, I can't possibly read them all. One is a ten-minute walk from the hotel, so that's what I settle on.

I stare at my screen, switching between more replies and the directions to the place. The small front of the restaurant is nothing impressive. The interior is an open room with booths along one wall, some tables in the middle, and a short bar behind the hostess station, where three guys are forming nigiri with a speed which makes them appear they're on fast-forward.

"Party of two?" The server takes us to a table by the window and leaves the menus with us.

The seat of the chair is cold against the bare skin of my thighs. My skirt rides up a bit too much, and I cross my legs to prevent the rest of the customers from seeing my polka-dot-underwear.

The menu hides Mike's face. Everything they have on offer looks good. Maybe I'll get the bento lunch, or several rolls, and we share? We did it so well in my apartment. A shiver crosses my bare legs and heats me inside. "Are you okay to share?"

Mike lowers the menu and shrugs. When was the last time he said anything? I scroll back through my memory, and it must've been him suggesting sushi for lunch. That was what—I glance at my watch-thirty, forty minutes ago? Shit. We couldn't have been silent for that long.

The server returns. "Have you decided what you'd like to order?"

One of us must order and neither of us does. We look at the server, each other, and server again. "I'll give you another minute." He leaves and doesn't help our conversation paralysis.

"Bento box?" We say at the same time.

"Jinx." We say at the same time.

"Fuck." We say at the same time.

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose, and a smile spreads across his face. The heaviness from his interaction with Neil lifts. My stomach pangs with a craving that's not for food. I missed his smile. A thrill only he and writing songs has given me chases any resentment away. He looks at me from under his fingers, and the dark heat of his eyes conjures the magic I spotted our first night together.

I'm so much more than in lust with this man. I let the sensation spread across my skin, bones, and connective tissues. Like my songs, Mike is part of me, whether he knows or not. I'd rather he doesn't, because that thought is too much to handle right now. I abandon my anger and plunge headfirst into the waves Mike's smile is rippling through me. I can't hold my lips in a tight line any longer. I grin. When I see him do the same, I press my fist to my mouth, hoping not to laugh. The chain between us tightens and pulls me to him. I find his hand on top of his menu and cover it with mine.

"Hi," I say.

He puts his other hand on top of mine. "Hi."

My fingers are warm between his. Secure. They tingle and burn.

It feels right. We feel right.

"Have you decided?" The server is back.

"Yes." I answer to him, but also to Mike. I've made up my mind. I want Mike to stay. I want to give whatever this is between us a chance. He might need to sleep on the couch, but he's staying.

Mike's rumbly laugh comes as a surprise. He looks at the server. "What do you recommend?"

We walk back to the hotel glued to each other's sides. Our now swinging hands remained linked the entire lunch. It was hard to eat with one hand, but we managed, helped each other and made messes, wiped each other's lips with the napkins, and let our fingers fight it out for the last piece of the roll we both like.

"How much time do we have until you have to start the rehearsal?"

"Three hours? Why?" Don't say we should test out the bed. Don't break the magic I'm starting to believe I haven't imagined.

"Wanna test out. . .the bike I rented?"

"You did it?"

"As promised. A two-seater. I even got you a black and pink helmet like you wanted."

"Really?" I squeal like the little kid I still am inside. My heart swells. He kept his promise. He's kept all his promises so far. How can he make me so happy just because he got me a pink helmet?

"Wanna see?'

I let go of his hand and start clapping and jumping in the middle of the sidewalk. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

"One yes clued me in," he says through a huge grin on his face.

"What do I need?"

He looks over my jean jacket, my white shirt, neon pink linen skirt, and white converse. "You should be good. It's still warm and we're not going to go far."

Instead of riding up we take the elevator down to the concrete dimness of the underground garage. We don't have to go too far to see the low black bike with saddlebags and a smaller leather seat above the primary driver's seat.

"I've never been on a bike before." I scratch my nose. "What do I do?"

Mike takes a helmet out. It's black with pink swooshes, just like he said. He takes my sunglasses off my head, hangs them on his shirt, and puts the helmet on my head. It's lighter than I imagined, but is dampening the sounds of the garage, and creates a quieter space around my head.

"Good?"

I nod, and the interior padding slides across the top of my forehead.

Mike puts a black helmet on and throws his leg over the bike. "Hop on." He moves his head to the seat behind him.

I put my hands on his shoulders and climb on. The bike leans a tad, but Mike balances it and holds it in place with his legs. I thread my arms around his waist.

"Ready?" Mike's shout is muffled.

"Yes." I shout back.

Mike revs the engine and lifts his legs off the ground. I'm sure we're going to fall on one of the sides, but we don't. We move forward and, with a soft turn, head down the concrete driveway between other parked cars, up the ramp to the street, and merge with the traffic. I press myself into the leather of Mike's back but keep looking around. We're not going fast. The people walk along the sidewalk. The cars let us through, and no one is screaming like I do inside. My voice shrill, I can't believe I'm on a bike and what would my parents say if they ever see me on it? They'd freak out. I'm freaking out too, but also not.

Mike merges onto the highway, and we pick up speed. I haven't asked him where we are going. He didn't mention a place, and I relish the spontaneity of the ride. I enjoy the vibrating machine, the solid man in front, and the LA traffic envying us as Mike takes us between the barely moving cars. The danger raises hairs on my arms. The cars seem too close for us to pass through. Somehow, we do.

Mike's driving skills are proving to be top notch. Even though I can't relax, I drink in the emotions coursing through me. The muffled noises of the highway create their own music in my head, and I focus on that. Words rush in front of my eyes, and a melody whooshes through my ears. I move my head in rhythm with the upbeat happiness of it. I need something people could dance to, move to, and this might just be it.