Easy Little Lick (Copperline #3) Page 2

  And then she’d duck her head and turn away.

  I had seen something there, though. I zoomed in, focusing on those little moments because I knew that, in spite of her obvious desire not to, she liked me back… if only just a little bit.

  A couple weeks became a month and then two. The longer I knew her, the more I became truly fixated on this one girl I’d barely even spoken to.

  I wanted to talk to her.

  I wanted to make her smile. To make her laugh.

  To make her moan.

  I just wanted her.

  The Bangin’ Mofos were like brothers, and I was constantly treated as the little brother of the group.

  The other guys gave me shit all the time about my age. I was almost twenty-four, but a good year younger than any of them. This constant ribbing had gone on since we’d gotten together a few years before, especially when they all reached the legal drinking age of twenty-one and I hadn’t.

  I had also been labeled as the big, dumb one, a part I actually played to perfection. Not that it was really the case, but drummers tend to get the dense-guy image. I didn’t do a lot to alter their perception, either, even if school had been a breeze. I had excelled in math as a kid. Same with welding and auto shop when I got to high school.

  More than anything, though, I was a machine on the drums. If anything in life came easy to me, it was that. The rhythm seemed to flow from the world around me into my soul and out through my hands. I was far from the best drummer ever, not even comparable to my idols, guys like Shannon Leto and Dave Grohl, who could shred like nothing I could even hope to come near.

  But I had been beating the shit out of everything I could get my hands on since I was a toddler. Since I laid out my mom’s pots and pans and beat on them with spoons. I had a constant tempo in my head, a perpetual rhythm that made my fingers tap unthinkingly. It made me bounce my leg almost nonstop. My parents had me tested for ADHD as a kid because my third-grade teacher complained that I just could not sit still. The doctor examined me and talked to me. He watched me for a few minutes and turned to my mother.

  “This kid needs an outlet for his beat. Get him a set of drums.”

  So she did. A piss-poor cheap set because she thought I’d never stick with it. I was only eight years old, after all. I started in my bedroom. After a year of constant cacophony, my folks moved it out to the garage.

  My older brother had gotten a guitar around the same time. A few years later, he formed a garage band with some friends, but felt I wasn’t cool enough to play with them. They’d lure me sometimes, telling me they might let me play with them if I helped haul equipment when they had a gig, but the fuckers never did follow through.

  Their promises had me practicing like a motherfucker, though. I spent every spare minute trying to prove myself. Before long, I didn’t want to be good enough to play with them. I wanted to be better than them. I wanted them to wish they could play like me.

  If I wasn’t practicing, I was watching greats like Don Henley or Peter Chris. Studying their movements to see how they pulled off their amazing licks.

  I soaked up everything I could find and listened over and over to the same songs until the beat echoed in my dreams. Until I could mimic every bark and scoop. I wanted more. I thirsted for it.

  I’d known Brannon for years since we both grew up in the same small Montana town of Ophir. He was a couple years older than me, though, and didn’t hang out much until we were in the Automotive Technology program together.

  At the time, his grampa was on his case to be a little more responsible. Brannon had taken some time after high school to coast through life, but the old man had been pretty insistent. A little over a year later, we realized why when his health started to fail. He managed to hang on long enough to watch Brannon graduate, then left him his auto shop in Ophir. Shortly thereafter, Brannon hired me on.

  The whole time we’d been in college, I’d hung out with Brannon and had gotten to know his friend Denny, a crazy Irish fucker who somehow had decided he wanted to settle in Montana. Denny could play a little guitar and had a hell of a singing voice. His roommates, Justin and Drew, were also musicians and had a radio show on the campus station. We fucked around a lot on it, making up songs, playing instruments… and developing a following.

  We never really formed a band.

  We just were a band.

  Pretty soon, we started getting gigs, and that was an awesome ‘fuck you’ to my brother and his friends who were, by that point, realizing I actually had some talent. When we started getting chosen for shows over their band, I asked if they wanted to help haul our equipment. My brother looked like he wanted to kick my ass, but I’d gotten a lot bigger than him over the years, so he just made some bitch-ass remark and sulked away.

  I was a lot bigger than most guys I came across, really, taller than all my friends and built like a fucking linebacker. I ate damn near anything and everything I could get my hands on, but as much as I played, all those calories turned to muscle. I could have been kind of scary if I’d been a dickhead, I guess. If I was a mean fucker, always looking for a fight.

  Instead, I sorta went with the big nice, dumb guy approach and played the part very well.

  So well that even my buddies bought it.

  “Hey, Drew,” Justin called out one night as he tightened a new string on his bass. “What do you call a drummer with half a brain?”

  Drew grinned and I gave a good-natured sigh. These fuckers and their drummer jokes.

  “Dunno, Justin, what?”

  “Gifted,” Justin replied, and the two of them laughed and laughed.

  And laughed.

  They thought they were so clever.

  Ilsa had come to the top of the stairs, some bottles of beer on her tray, just as Justin had started the joke. When she heard the punchline, she scowled at him. He hadn’t even noticed she was there.

  She seemed rather invisible to him, which baffled me. Denny often said that Justin would ‘shag a crack in a plate.’ The dude did damn near every girl he set his eyes on. He was even one of the few guys I knew who was completely comfortable doing a male-female-male threesome… without a referee.

  Me? Not so much.

  “How about this one?” Drew chuckled, “What’s the best way to confuse a drummer?”

  “What?” Justin snorted.

  “Put sheet music in front of him.”

  Justin wrapped his arm around his gut as he practically rolled on the floor.

  Hilarious.

  Ilsa, however, was not amused.

  Having handed a beer to Denny, she turned to hand one to me as well, her brows drawn in irritation.

  “They’re just giving me shit, Ilsa,” I smiled, talking in a low voice. “It’s not a biggie.”

  She didn’t seem convinced. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  Shit! She talked to me.

  Finally!

  Be cool, Cody… be cool.

  I shrugged one shoulder, like I wasn’t totally jazzed. I’d only been trying to get her attention forever.

  “We’re dudes. That’s kinda how we show we care. I’d worry if they got all mushy and shit… especially Justin.” I raised an eyebrow and gave her an easy grin. “He’s really not very in touch with his feminine side.”

  This brought a sweet smile to her lips and for a second, I almost thought she’d stay for a moment. Talk to me a little longer.

  Wishful thinking.

  Instead, she lowered her eyes, almost seeming to remember something. Looking back up at me as she began to turn towards the stairs, she gave me a hint of a feisty little grin.

  “Tell them they can get their own damn beer,” she shot back at me as she headed off stage with two beers still on her tray.

  That little bit of spark in her eyes smoldered in my chest, making me care even less what kind of jokes those dickheads came up with.

  I was used to them anyway. I was used to the razzing and teasing. I took their good-natured quips without batting
an eye. It was just how we all were with each other. I let it roll off my back. I blew it off. Sometimes I acted like I didn’t even get the jokes, or I pretended I hadn’t heard them.

  My feigned ignorance was bliss.

  I noticed from then on that, when Ilsa was in earshot of their teasing, she’d frown. In spite of my attempt to alleviate her concern, she still didn’t like it. After a couple weeks of it, she came to my rescue.

  No shit. Blew me away.

  Justin, as usual, was giving me crap about my lack of pussy-mongering. Drew had been totally whipped by Maggie for some time. We all figured (and dreaded) they might get married eventually. So, now that Denny had shacked up with Felicity and Brannon had fallen head over heels for a local princess, Justin was the total manwhore of the group. A title he reveled in. Unfortunately, the fact that I, with no girlfriend to tie me down, wasn’t constantly banging everything in sight meant I was practically a chick in his eyes.

  “Hey, Justin,” Drew joked, “what do you call a drummer who breaks up with his girlfriend?”

  “What?”

  “Homeless!” Drew replied, and he and Justin howled with laughter.

  “You know, though,” Justin dryly stated after their chuckles died down, “he’d have to have a girlfriend first.” Both of them started up laughing again even harder, eyeing me like there was a snowball’s chance in hell that something like that would happen. Justin kept chuckling as he tuned his bass, razzing me like the motherfucker he tended to be when a wry, quiet voice came from the stage stairs.

  “Some girls aren’t looking for a walking STD, you know.”

  Every one of us froze solid. She’d spoken to us… well, she’d spoken to Justin.

  And she’d done it to defend me.

  Holy motherfucking shit.

  Seeing the shock on our faces, she snapped her mouth shut. A totally mortified did-I-say-that-out-loud look crossed over her face, and she cleared her throat.

  “Do you guys need something to drink before you get started?”

  The guys barely moved, still astounded by her comment.

  “I’ll take a bottle of Bud,” I finally said, breaking the silence. She gave me a sidelong nod.

  “Me too,” Drew offered. “Maybe just bring four of them up.”

  She nodded, turned on her heel, and shot back down the stairs.

  “Jaysus,” Denny gasped, “who knew that little bird could talk?”

  Drew laughed. “Leave it to Justin to get her to open her mouth.”

  “Yeah, I’ll get her to open something alright,” Justin nodded, raising his eyebrows. “Who knew she had spirit? I might just have to check her out.”

  I instantly bristled. “Leave her alone,” I said as I glared at Justin with a sudden ferocity that took even me by surprise.

  I was not a fighter by nature. I was mellow and easygoing. I had never responded like that to Justin—to anyone—and it threw him for one hell of a loop.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at me in speculation.

  “You can pick on me as much as you damn well please,” I growled, “but leave her alone.”

  Justin gave a screwed up look at Denny and Drew, then turned back to me, feigning a look of unbelievable shock. “Cody, do you have a little crush on the new barmaid?”

  My skin felt flushed, not so much from his teasing, but rather the protective anger on Ilsa’s behalf. “Just because you’re a slut doesn’t mean you have to be a fuckin’ dick to every girl you meet. Believe it or not, not every chick is madly in love with your ass.”

  “Oh my God,” he laughed. “You really like her, don’t you?”

  “Fuck off,” I growled as I clenched my jaw and turned away, trying to channel some sort of inner peace or some shit. Anything to tone this down before I flew off the handle completely.

  “Really?” he continued. “Her? You like her? That little waifish tomboy? We've got a smorgasbord of hot, slutty chicks around us practically twenty-four-seven, and you want this plain little waitress with no personality?”

  Drew started to laugh, but caught himself as he glanced at the back stairs. He quickly cleared his throat and turned to scowl at Justin, slugging him in the arm.

  “What the fuck—” Justin snarled.

  “Uh, hey there, Ilsa,” Drew murmured over my shoulder.

  I looked back to the side of me to see her standing at the stairs to the stage, just out of my sight until I turned my head. There was no way she hadn’t heard what we’d said. The only question was how much.

  Justin’s insults.

  My wanting.

  Fuck.

  Yet, she appeared relatively unaffected. She didn’t really look at any of us, just sort of at the floor.

  “Here’s your drinks,” she said quietly.

  But I saw it.

  Just for a split second, there was a slight quiver of her lip. She covered it with a bracing breath, raising her eyes to sweep around those of us on the stage. Not defensive, but an uncaring affect. Unfazed. Completely flat after that tiniest fragment of emotion.

  She quickly handed out the bottles, not making eye contact. “I’ll come check on you guys again in a bit.”

  Her soft voice was almost swallowed up by the awkward silence, then she was down the stairs and gone.

  “God, you’re an asshole sometimes,” I groused at Justin.

  “Awe, look at our little Cody getting all protective,” he shot back. “About time you turned into a man.”

  I threw down my sticks and stood from behind the drums. “Justin, I’m not shitting you. I’ll kick your fucking ass.”

  Justin was almost as tall as me, but I probably outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Still, the guy often didn’t know when to shut up… like now.

  “Dude, seriously, pussy isn’t worth shit like this.”

  I started around my set, but Denny stepped in front of me, placing a restraining hand on my chest. Drew gaped at me as though I’d grown two heads right before his eyes. I’m not sure anyone had ever seen me raging like this before.

  “Relax your cacks, Cody,” Denny said before glancing over his shoulder to Justin. “And you, ya feckin’ eejit,” he scowled. “That was pretty harsh, even for you. Play nice.”

  “Whatever…” Justin mumbled, seeming a little dazed in his own right by our tiff. “And speak English, you fucker.”

  Denny ignored the last bit and stepped over to me, speaking in a low tone to keep things semi private.

  “What the hell are ya throwing a feckin’ moody for?” he asked.

  I didn’t know, really. I wasn’t quite as crass as Justin, but I usually found him somewhat amusing. He tended to be pretty spot-on with his observations, and I generally laughed along, even when he was aiming his ribbing at me.

  For some reason, though, just the mention of Ilsa—just the faintest jibe in her direction—and I was spitting mad. The annoyance roiled inside me, leaving a simmering anger that was so foreign to my calm, mellow nature.

  So it was no surprise that my band mates were a bit taken aback. I was a bit taken aback as well.

  How to explain it, though?

  “I’m not sure. Short fuse tonight, I guess.” I tried to brush it off. Denny was still concerned, that was clear, but left it alone. We weren’t chicks, so he didn’t go with the ‘Are you okay?’ type thing. We had balls. Y-chromosomes. They sorta kept things like that from getting spouted out between us.

  He shot me one last puzzled look. “Well, go park your arse behind your drums. Justin won’t be slaggin’ ya anymore tonight.”

  Drew just continued to stare back and forth at the lot of us, still mystified by my uncharacteristic outburst, while Justin focused on tuning his bass.

  “He fucking better not,” I muttered, earning another peculiar glance from Denny as I sat back down.

  Her vulnerability stuck with me as we played that night. My eyes kept looking for her in the crowd, scanning the faces until I saw her, then losing her ag
ain in the low light.

  Nothing seemed amiss on the outside as she wound through the tables taking orders and delivering drinks. After a while, I started thinking Justin’s fuckhead comments hadn’t gotten to her that much after all. Maybe I really had just overreacted.

  Then I caught sight of her standing towards the rear of the room. We were playing a slow song, some ballad Denny had written for Brannon and Sophie, and a number of couples had congregated out on the dance floor, swaying to the mellow beat. I watched her as she watched them. Loneliness radiated from her, almost visible in the dim neon beer-sign lighting.

  Was she missing someone? Was her forlorn expression the result of a lost love? Maybe an unrequited one? Or maybe she was just yearning for the closeness of another human being, the desire to let someone in rather than to hold everyone around her at bay.

  Regardless of what made her look and feel that way, it triggered an ache deep inside my chest, something that made me want to shelter her in my arms, to hold her up against the steady beat of my heart so I could ease the sadness from her eyes.

  She turned her head away just a bit, taking a deep breath and looking out over the crowd again. Scanning the room, looking for someone in need of service. When her eyes came my way, she noticed me watching her.

  I was caught, but so was she, and she knew it. She had let her shield slip, had let me witness the vulnerability buried deep inside. I hadn’t the faintest clue what was even wrong, but I wanted so badly to make everything okay.

  She broke free from my gaze and lowered her eyes for a second before she looked back up at me. Once again, wary and cautious. Steeled up to get through the rest of the night… maybe through life in general.

  But that raw, naked expression stayed with me long after she left her spot along the back wall and headed into the crowd.

  A few Saturday nights later, the bar was closing, and we were packing up some of our shit to put away until next weekend. Doug had ushered the last few stragglers out the door before he went into the office to do the books for the night. Ilsa had been wiping down tables, picking up empties, and was now washing glasses behind the bar.