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darlingchronicles · 4 months

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Oh, Schroeder...

pairing: jj x fem!pianist!reader

summary: a piano prodigy had captured the eye of jj ever since they were young, but their friendship is constantly up and down. she claims she's interested in piano and piano only, but (un) fortunately the heart wants what it wants.

word count: 18.8k (tad of a slow burn)

content warnings: drinking & drug use, angst if you squint, cursing, crying, miscommunication-ish, reader being kinda cold, anxiety, "original songs" are mainly by Taylor Swift, all songs linked

loosely inspired by Charlie Brown's "Schroeder and Lucy"

Enjoy!

"OH, SCHRODER!"

The girl had barely sat down. Her sheet music wasn't on the music desk. Her favorite ballpoint pen hadn't been laid in front of it, ensuring the AC didn't blow the pages. Her fingers hadn't been cracked or stretched out. Her iced matcha with almond milk hadn't even begun to condense.

She let out a sigh.

Beginning piano at just two years old had certainly captured much attention of the young girl and as she grew, she adapted to the name of "prodigy" that had been placed on her. With that name, she had gotten everything from people who wanted to see her "succeed" or at least appear to care about her in order to up their appearances. Everything from a brand new piano to music classes with composers and pianists from Juilliard and entry to every performance she wanted to see was given into the palm of her hand.

Everything.

Including two free periods at the beginning and at the end of her school day in the music room in order to practice. She had barely brought up the suggestion to the Board of Education of Kildare, the ones receiving paychecks from the government because of her interest in the arts and was the reason for funding in the school, and she already had a cleared out schedule in her hands.

The room was to be spotless and cleared out for her.

And only her.

And yet that didn't stop people from disturbing her.

"Yes, Maybank?" She said refraining from calling him "Lucy", but a minor laugh made its way to the end.

It wasn't even nine in the morning. She was surprised he was up that early as he spends most of his time in art sleeping in the back. Not that she takes notice or anything. She's at the table next to him and he snores a little. And it wasn't like she could ignore him - not like they were friends, but they weren't enemies.

Frenemies.

"Aw shucks, how'd you know it was me?" He jogged up the steps onto the miniature stage that was implemented in the music room.

"Well no one else bothers like you do in the morning. So," She slammed down her sheet music on the top of the piano, letting the sound echo before replying with a sarcastic smile, "lucky guess."

"Didn't know I was so important to you." JJ leaned against her piano, crossing his ankles and his arms. She wanted to whack his backwards hat off his head.

"Believe me, you aren't. And now you are just bothering." She huffed, placing everything in order before massaging her hands. When she noticed that he stayed put, like always, she rolled her eyes, "Don't you have algebra right now or something?"

"Something." He shrugged.

He always did this. He always came in, unannounced, and tried talking her up and distracting her. She'd understand if he was trying to get out of class or just wanted a quiet place to do his homework or escape a few teachers (she'd done the same herself) but he purposefully came in to talk to her. Sometimes she enjoyed the company to fill in the moments of isolation. Sometimes she was more annoyed at it when she needed to work. Such as that particular day.

And no pointed finger at the door, no retort or comment on how he was bothering her, and not even a threat to complain to the Principal about his intrusion scared him away. If anything, it only caused him to come around more often. If he wasn't there her first period, he was there her second. If he didn't show up in the morning, believe that he will be there in the afternoon for her final two periods. He'd chew gum loudly, blow on the trumpets to try and get her to mess up her piece or make paper airplanes of sheet music lying around and throw them around the room.

And she needed to work that day, so only God knew what he was going to do to distract her that day.

Once he'd even had the audacity to climb on the piano and lay on it. He had done it once and only once because that was the day that she actually coaxed him off the piano with a sweet smile and eyes before grabbing onto his shirt and dragging him out of the room and told him that if he did it again she'd personally see to it that he's stuffed into the piano and left there for the weekend before slamming the door in his face.

He still came back the next day, still bothering, but sitting on the floor this time.

She narrowed her eyes at him as he tapped the sleek black with his index figure. He took note of her silence before following her eyes to his finger and his posture against her instrument, silently chuckling before stepping away with his hands in the air.

"Don't shoot me."

"Believe me, I stop myself every single day." He winked at her, shiny eyes looking at her, and she could only roll her eyes and place her hands on the keys, "Don't bother me and I won't drag you out of here again. I need to actually practice today."

Oh she needed to practice. Her recital at the Kennedy Center was her top priority. She couldn't deviate from her plans to practice.

"Yes ma'am."

Another roll of her eyes (maybe the apples of her cheeks heated up, but she'd never admit or check that) and she began to play. Her warm up always consisted of three songs - one from a classical composer, another from a movie and the final is a popular song that she converted into a ballad. Every musician, athlete and gambler she knew had a system and this was hers - the number three. Three warm-ups to get her started for the day.

That particular day, she chose Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.14 in C-Sharp Minor, which she had claimed to be one of her favorite pieces to play. She found it soothing although the song did sound daunting to the common ear. The notes were smooth and crisp to her ears that she had played it nearly every time she had to perform. The music so raw and emotional.

"Why do you play depressing songs? I thought pianists were supposed to be lighthearted." His voice cut through her piece halfway through, making her miss a note. She continued, ignoring the blond boy, "Then again, you're uptight enough that I'm not surprised by your music selection. Do you ever play rock music on that thing? Maybe some Fleetwood Mac or Meta-"

She stopped playing abruptly and turned her head, noticing that he was laying on the floor near the edge of the stage, only a couple inches from her, "Beethoven is one of the greatest composers to ever exist." She hissed, not feeling friendly at the moment he insulted one of her favorite composers, "His music changed people's perception on what music can be. Unpredictable and emotional." She saw red for a moment, "Do you ever hear yourself and think "I should shut up" when you don't know something? Hmmm?"

He looked up at the ceiling in false thought before shaking his head, "So that's a no to both our questions."

She almost smiled, but only deadpanned, "I should lock you out."

"Oh you see, but you've tried that already." He threw up his hands in the air, "Just can't keep a jailbird out."

"Oh this is a cell?" She hummed. You would know what a cell is, don't you?

"For you, yeah." He shrugged, looking around for second before whistling lowly like he always did, "But hey, what a girl wants what a girl wants. I can't explain your mind to you."

"It's not a cell, now shut up." She snapped at him before turning back to her keys.

Taking it that she wasn't going to get far with Beethoven, she turned to her second soundtrack. She let her keys play the beginning notes to Mia and Sebastian's Theme, a song she had fallen in love with however heartbroken she had been at the end of the movie. She had seen the film with her best friend friend, Sarah, and hadn't noticed a tick she had until Sarah pointed it out. She had been pressing her fingers down on her knees as if she was playing the song in real time.

As the song came to its fast crescendo and decrescendo, a snap of fingers hit her ears.

"See now that's all lovey dovey and heartaching-y and I don't know if you're trying to foreshadow anything, but maybe don't play the ending to that."

"Do you even understand what foreshadowing means?"

"Not in the slightest sense." He smiled brightly before laying down on the floor with his arm as a pillow. "I'm bored with all this slow music."

"Oh, am I boring you?" She grumbled, pulling out her third set of sheet music, hoping to not get interrupted. He's usually tolerable when it came to his unwarranted visits, but today, she was neither interested in his jokes or his presence and he seemed to feed off of it. Her recital was in June.

It was nearing the end of May and the clock was only ticking.

"Oh you? Never. Maybe your depressing music, but never you. Your voice is music to my ears."

"Once more," She sighed, "Shut. Up."

She didn't wait for a reply and began playing her final warm-up song. Her pop songs usually came from Sarah, who had challenged her to play something she usually wouldn't. Sarah had chosen Shawn Mendez's In My Blood, and surprisingly she enjoyed it. Especially the chorus. Her fingers flew back and forth, playing both the melody and the "lyrics" portion. She had almost made it to the end when the sound of a can opening brought her out of her trance. She accidentally hit the keys hard on her unfinished notes and whipped her head to the boy on the floor. He wasn't looking at her, only drinking from a can of Monster before glancing at her hardened state and her whiten knuckles.

"I didn't say anything."

◇ ◇ ◇

Many believed because she was a piano prodigy that she had nothing else she wanted to do. And you'd be right. There was nothing else for her that she wanted to do. Not a single thing as she grew up. Everything revolved around her talent - natural, God given, incredible and undeniable talent. If it were art or soccer or anything, but an instrument, she would have been treated equally with a bit more praise than others.

But piano was an instrument that took years to master and it didn't help that she was a girl. A girl with much smaller hands than those of grown men who played at the same level of her, if not lower. Piano was not kind to those with smaller hands and she learned it the hard way. She always had to reach and strain her fingers in order to play smoothly. Her skin tore, became sore and she had consistent nights with ice on her tan skin.

Because of it, every adult gave her special treatment. She was a one of a kind pianist. She picked up on notes perfectly - she had perfect pitch. She learned songs in only a few hours, even the most complex ones - she had a solid memory bank for music. She never complained about her hands being sore or being tired of playing - she was resilient. She was a young girl from the Cut with a talent that would bring her out of the depths of poverty - she was given a gift.

Praise came to her from every direction ever since she was young. And it worked to her advantage. From a young age, she was invited and paid to play at recitals on the main land, eventually growing to paid trips to play with a group of equally gifted children and orchestras. She got to know people and use their connections to make other connections in order to create opportunities for her and her family.

She loved piano and it loved her back as it created opportunities for her to grow. However, every gift has a cost and one has to be willing to pay it.

For her, it was the payment of isolation.

Through her traveling since she was five and her constant hyper fixation on what could bring her from the bottom to the top, she skipped out on what being a kid really means. Fooling around with friends never came. Going to the movies and watching back to back movies never arrived in time. Creating lifelong friendships never had it's destination called.

The piano prodigy never built friendships and soon decided she couldn't have them.

The few times that she did try and create them, she was met with peculiar stares and judgmental glares. No one truly knew her, so why should they let her get to know them? Those from the Cut became jealous that she had a one-way ticket to Figure Eight and those from Figure Eight only saw a girl from the Cut who got lucky enough to climb up the social ladder, but she'd always be from the other side of town. She had her foot in both worlds, but was rejected from both.

Too much of a pogue to belong on Figure Eight and too much of a rising-kook to belong on the Cut.

Sure she had a few people who she'd say hi to, share the homework with, sit in class with, text to see how they're doing and happy birthday to, but never anyone to truly fit in with.

That was until she met Sarah.

Sarah Cameron was a kook. She was one of the kookiest-kooks that the prodigy ever got to know, but she soon took the title as best friend. The day they met was when they were thirteen - around eight to nine years after she began performing on Figure Eight for charity events and some other events that could be related to Midsummers. She had just played and decided to go hide in the hallways of the country club so that no one would bombard her. Her mom was off chatting with some adult that would hire her to play for a private party. She was enjoying the new-found life that she was being provided by her thirteen year old daughter. The prodigy couldn't blame her - with the money she was earning and even with the amount taken to be put into her savings account, they were on track to move to Figure Eight by the time she's seventeen.

And just as she had sat down, there was the sound of footsteps hitting the floor. Hard. As if they were running. She turned her head and saw a girl, around her age, who came dashing down the hall, grabbing the prodigy's hand, pulling her down the hall with her. She had no clue what was going on, but she ran. As they dodged party goers in the lower level hallways and staircase, she found herself laughing with the dirty blonde girl.

Soon they were near the beach and laid flat on the sand. Their breaths were hard and rapid, but laughs soon came out. Her name was Sarah Cameron and she had been running from her older brother, Rafe, because she had messed with his hair one too many times that day. Thankfully, he stopped chasing the moment she had pulled the prodigy up from the floor and with her. After that, the two girls chatted on the beach. Although she didn't know much about gossip, people or fashion choices, Sarah was friendly, open and accepting of the piano prodigy.

She even wanted to know what it was like being a piano prodigy at such as young age. Sarah said it sounded lonely and for once, she brought herself to agree with her.

And after that Sarah decided that her new friend would never be alone again.

Skip three years later and the two sat together by the pool on a Saturday afternoon, the sun going down earlier than usual, and listened to each other. Unfortunately the money that had been and was being collected by her recitals wasn't enough for her to go to the Kook Academy, so she went to the general high school, away from Sarah. With their school work and outside hangouts and recitals, they only hung out in person every weekend and the occasional weekday, but they were always texting and facetiming.

And there was something constant in all of their calls since they began high school.

She huffed, kicking the water, "All the time. He always has be in that room, opening a can, commenting on my song selection, making paper airplanes and throwing them around the room or talking his ass off. I can't stand him sometimes."

"So I've heard." Sarah chuckled. "I can't believe he hasn't given up yet. It's what? Almost junior year?"

"Yeah." The pianist grumbled, "And nothing I do gets him to leave when I need him. Yesterday, he told me my song choice was depressing and boring. Beethoven is one of the greatest composers to ever exist. I should have thrown him out of the music room the moment he said that. Heck! My middle name is Elise, like Fur Elise. Beethoven's music is phenomenal. What does he know about classical music?"

Sarah almost laughed, "Nothing. Trust me. He listens to music with John B when they're fixing up the Druthers. It's all rock, rap and old school music like Fleetwood Mac or Billy Idol." She grabbed her cup of soda from her side, "Why don't you just tell on him or something?"

"Tried that." She admitted, "Freshman year. He got detention and came back with even more fervor than before. It's like it fueled him to be even more annoying. After that, I just decided to not add fuel to the flame." Part of that was true.

Maybe she liked him around sometimes.

"Well there is the other theory."

The girl's head whipped in the blonde's direction, "You're still on that?"

She shrugged, "Hey, it's classic textbook for boys. Annoy the person you like in order to get their attention. It may be unwarranted and may have undesirable outcomes, but hey, they get your eyes on them." She tapped her best friend's shoulder, "And JJ is a person who likes attention, especially from girls. You go against that. You focus on your work and work only."

"Yeah well," She grabbed Sarah's cup, taking a sip, "he's not gonna get it from me. That's for sure. I'll just lock the door again." She handed back the cup, "And on an unrelated note, I have my recital next month and I need you to RSV-"

"Done."

"Great. I'm still trying to decide on a few songs. I know I'm going to play a piece from Beethoven, but they've been telling me that original pieces would attract more of an audience. They're trying to get me more into originals than ever now. I have a few, but I'm not so sure. I'll send you some pieces for some feedback. I also need an outfit-"

Sarah listened to her best friend chatter about her recital. It would be on the mainland and it'd be one of her biggest yet. And while she was happy for her, her mind wandered back to JJ Maybank's constant desire for attention. Even if she didn't admit it, she knew that her friend liked the attention she got from the boy. If she really didn't want him around, she would have already found a way to keep him away. She would have gotten him suspended or had his schedule changed so that they never crossed paths again. Maybe the attention did annoy her at some moments, especially, when she needed to practice, but during their art and history classes (which they had together) she didn't seem to mind it, due to her lack of complaining. If Sarah knew it, she knew that JJ definitely knew it too. And maybe that was why he kept going. She never truly pushed him away, more so keeping him on a thin line that he couldn't push forward. Like a piece of music that she had written down, but never played.

If anything, Sarah suspected that it wasn't only JJ who had a crush.

But that was just her opinion.

And Sarah Cameron was usually right.

She may have been right this time.

◇ ◇ ◇

Another week, another tug of war game between the pianist and surfer boy. It was a beautiful spring, almost summer, morning - school was almost at its end and she was dying for school to end. No more distractions. More time to rehearse for her recital. It was the next month, as she had told Sarah, but she was getting more jittery as the days passed. According to her manager, Margie, this was going to be her highest paying recital yet. More of an audience. More expectations. And the more she got, the more popular she became. She was already being recognized nationwide and they wanted to extend it internationally. Margie was trying to get some British, French and Spanish reps to come and if they did, it could extend an invitation to come schools with scholarships - just as Juilliard did - and maybe paid trips to perform. Even if they didn't, people from California and New York were coming down to see her perform solo. It was only a fifteen minute time slot at the end, but her body was beginning to recognize how much she needed to succeed and she felt her anxiety levels beginning to rise.

And JJ Maybank interruptions were not helping. And his last comment on her music taste and his song suggestion (a song by Alt J?) actually had her consider throwing him out of the room. He wasn't particularly annoying at first, but then again it was JJ.

His attention be damned if she messed up her recital, her biggest paying one yet.

And although she could have rebutted, she didn't. There always was a pull that told her to fight, to reply and give him the reaction he wanted. It was as if they were magnets and she was either pushing and he was pulling or she was north and he was south. To forces fighting to land on top.

But she had to let it go for now.

Instead, she put away her stack of warm-up sheet music on her red folder. Red was for warm-ups, green was for classical, blue was for originals, orange for everything else and purple was for recital practice. She decided on blue because Margie kept telling her that originality sells along. That and classical music. Plus it was like writing whatever she wanted.

And a little secret of her own, she liked to sing. And she could actually do it too. But not in front of people. No way. She could play piano and let people focus on the music, while looking around the room or silently speaking, but if she sang, eyes would be on her immediately. So singing was off the table, but she found that writing lyrics that went along with music helped her write better and quicker. She'd sing in her head while playing.

She had multiple songs lined up, but she found herself focusing on one she had titled Champagne Problems. Her entire idea was based on the idea of a failed proposal and admittance that it was her fault - kind of reverse of what one would usually hear. No failed marriage. Just a failed proposal. She had some lyrics written down, but not a full song.

She played for a few moments before writing a few notes down and repeating the process for a full ten minutes. She hadn't noticed, but she had begun to hum and sing lightly under her breath. She especially liked the chorus, but she found it repetitive. Without lyrics, it wouldn't be as interesting.

Maybe I should cut it short. Just the chorus and the bridge. Short like a rejected proposal.

"What song was that?" Her ears perked up to JJ's voice, which was filled with curiosity.

Her response was instantaneous, "One you don't know."

"Nice." He quipped, turning towards her, pulling his knees into his chest, watching as she pushed a piece of hair behind her.

Surprisingly, JJ didn't speak anymore, but instead let the pianist write and mess around with her instrument. He didn't feel the need to interrupt nor did he want to interrupt. She was so concentrated. Her bottom lip was captured by her top teeth, signaling her fixation on what she doing.

"Damn it." She mumbled. It's definitely too repetitive. Maybe changin- but that wouldn't work. Would it?

"What?"

She glanced down to the boy, who was watching her, "Nothing. Just trying to figure out how to make my song less repetitive."

"You wrote a song?"

She paused her writing.

Okay, one thing to note about the pianist and JJ was that they actually talked a lot in person. Sometimes online whenever she posted on her story something about her recitals or she'd post herself playing the piano in some grand room or opera house and he'd comment or reply with some joke or quip about her getting famous or something of the sort that she'd reply back with a sarcastic or lighthearted joke. And they were frenemies (as she deemed it, she didn't know what JJ thought) but she didn't think she could trust him with something that personal, something so close to her that only few people knew. He'd probably just think it was stupid writing songs that she didn't even sing outloud.

"No." She mumbled and tried to swallow the fear that was beginning to form in her stomach.

"Huh."

"What?" She glared.

"Nothing." He shook his head, grabbing his phone and his backpack. He stood for a moment, the two of them staring at each other for a moment. Neither of them looked away and it was almost as if neither wanted to. She felt her heart quicken, mistaking it for a feeling she was all too common with, before the she looked away. "Nothing." He repeated, "Nothing, just...sounded good."

The pianist didn't say anything, only watched as he left the room, like he usually did around that time, but she felt something else biting her stomach. He was able to leave the room, glancing back at her only to see her eyes planted on him and not on the piano as she usually did.

He grinned, seeing her curiosity about his response. He winked and headed out the door.

And it was about ten minutes later when she looked back at the now closed door when she mumbled, "Thank you."

◇ ◇ ◇

As the weather turned from spring to summer, the heat came as strong as it could. The chill spring wind was being replaced with the humid Kildare summer air. Unfortunately, the Cut was victim to it as ACs didn't work, fans were old and opening windows wasn't an option most times. And you can't just go swimming in the marsh or driving to the beach at two in the morning because you're sweating in a tank top and shorts in your bed. Due to this revelation, the pianist tried to visit Sarah more often during these times - the rich loved their air conditioned homes and boats. And it was the day after her and JJ's strange moment that school was called out because t was unable to hold students due to the heatwave coming through.

Free day for the Kildare High School students.

Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for Sarah as her school had enough funding to hold over fifty ACs in the school 24 hours a day, seven days a week. However, when she woke up drenched in sweat and in desperate need to practice in a comfortable area, Sarah offered her home. Neither she, her dad, Rose, Wheezie or Rafe, who was a Senior at the prep school, would be there, but Ward Cameron welcomed the pianist into their home constantly and agreed to let her come by that day and any day she needed.

The only issue was getting there in the first place.

She had to walk due to her mom taking the car to work and couldn't call her to come get her. While they had money due to her accomplishments, there was always something happening. Either the AC wasn't working, a light went out, or anything else that happened, they had to be prepared. Always vigilante. Always checking off boxes twice.

So she had to brave the elements.

She put on a blue sports bra and white button up over it (keeping it unbutton of course) and jean shorts that were loose enough that it wouldn't bother her while walking. She grabbed her bag, remembering putting extra clothes, knowing she'd get cold in the chilled house before running out.

She hadn't made it to the bridge that separated the Cut from Figure Eight and she was drenched in sweat. Her hair was up, water nearly gone and her white button up would have been thrown into the backpack if it wasn't her only protection from the sun's devious rays. She was melting.

"Someone save me, please." She choked out, trudging through the heat. "Only you, Kildare. Only you."

A high pitched whistle hit her ears with a bang. The girl jumped back, only to see her blond boy in a van and not some stranger ready to kidnap her, "I would ask if you're delusional, but I think I have my answer."

"Jeez!" She put a hand on her heart, "You scared the crap out of me. Don't do that!"

"I can see that." He chuckled, driving slowly on the abandoned road, "What I can't see is why the hell you're out here in this heat. We're in a heatwave." He took the hat he had off his head and plotted it on her head.

She would have hit him with some sarcastic retort and tore off his hat from her head that gave her much relief, but she had no energy for it, "I need to practice. My house is crap. Heading for the Cameron's." She wiped her forehead, feeling agitated by the sweaty hair sticking to the nape of her neck. "Why are you out?"

"It's hot, sunny and the waves are perfect according to the report." JJ looked forward for a second before saying, "Get in."

"What?" She choked out, but it was out of confusion, not suspicion as it would have been if she was cognate with her mind.

"Get in." He repeated, "I'll drop you off nearby. I'm getting John B from a house job anyways."

Once it registered in her mind, she didn't reject the offer. She ran to the other side and jumped into the passenger's seat of the van, "Thank you." She wheezed out, leaning back in the seat the moment she buckled up.

"No problem." She thinks she heard him chuckle, but she couldn't be so sure at the moment.

They drove with the windows down and the breeze did miracles with her pending state. Five minutes into the drive, she was wide awake and conscious. She finished up her water and leaned back as she watched the Cut pass by. She, then, turned to JJ, and immediately noticed that he was shirtless.

Glistening tan and freckled skin with muscles flexing with every breath and spark of movement.

She shouldn't have stared for as long as she did and if you asked her about it, she'd deny it. But hell, she couldn't deny that he was attractive. With or without a shirt, but at that moment, his shirtless state was definitely affecting her more at the moment. She'd hadn't denied it in her mind that her annoying fucker that liked to interrupt practice sessions was attractive - fuck it, he was hot - but now that she was face to face with one of his attractive aspects mixed with the delusion of the heat...all rational thought was gone.

"So I was thinking." He turned his head and she pulled her face together as if she wasn't ogling him.

She snapped back into her sarcastic tone, "You do that? Never would have guessed."

"And I was thinking you could expand your music taste." He ignored her tone, "There's a whole world out there that isn't classical music that could apply to your piano playing."

"Really? This again?" She groaned. "Sorry that I'm not into whatever the heck you listen to. Piano playing is delicate, but strong in its chords."

"I have no idea what that means, but you could totally change your mojo." He replied as if he believed in what he was saying.

"I play classical and the occasional movie score. Okay?" She quipped, rolling her eyes, "It's what people want to hear. Not Metallica or Red Hot Chili Peppers."

"Nah, people want to hear music. Something with soul and meaning behind it. Not just instruments." He explained, "Do you even like what you play?"

"Of course I like what I play." The half-truth slipped out with ease, "And even if I didn't, I don't get paid to play what I like."

"But you could." He pointed out.

"No, I couldn't. When you get hired for a job, you do the job or else you get fired. I'm pretty sure you understand that."

"You don't get it." He turned up the radio. An upbeat song was playing. Michael Jackson. "If you were able to convert songs like these onto the piano, you'd have a bigger audience. I promise you that and Papa J never fails in his assumptions."

She thought for a moment, ignoring the fact that he called himself "Papa J". If she was able to convert those songs into piano themes, she would have a bigger audience. But it's not easy. There's so much practice that goes into doing things like putting Beat It into piano formation. It's not impossible, but it'd be difficult. Out of his mind, but...he wasn't wrong.

"C'mon! What'd it take you to do it?"

"Answer a question for me."

"Shoot."

"Why do you keep come into the music room to bother me? You've been extra annoying lately." Bingo. He'd never give into the question. "You tell me that, truthfully, and I'll convert any song you want into a piano ballad or something."

His eyes narrowed. JJ wasn't a guy to open up about his feelings or about the reasons he did things. He usually just did it and then thought about it later if he even thought about it again. He's impulsive. Never has a reason for anything.

"Gets me out of homeroom."

"I said truthfully." Her voice took a playful tone, which caused JJ's eyebrow to lift up, "You skip either way."

"I don't know. I never really thought about it." He shrugged. "I guess..." He shifted again. He was uncomfortable. She could see it as clear as day, "You're easy to be around."

He didn't say more.

She blinked, not able to find the confident nature she had only moments ago. He didn't answer her question correctly, but it caught her attention. She was easy to be around? Lately, she constantly glared at him, told him to shut up, and dragged him out of the room once. She wouldn't consider herself "easy" to be around even when she wasn't doing any of those things. Especially in the music room. She was her most uptight in those moments. She didn't care who she hurt as long as she got her work done. Her target was mainly JJ - and now thinking about it, she felt bad. Yes, he annoyed her, but she felt shameful of her behavior.

"Easy?" She scoffed, "I wouldn't call myself easy."

He clicked his tongue, "That's my fault." He admitted, "You're easy to get to when you're working."

"So you admit that you do it on purpose?" They stopped at a stoplight and he turned to look at her. And she knew. She just knew that he did. She also knew by his expression that he was getting a kick out of her just figuring it out, "You little shit."

"Glad to know you just picked up on that." He teased and she almost had the decency to push him out of the car, "Now what song to pick."

"You don't get a song."

"What?"

"You lied to me first."

"Oh come on!" He complained, hitting the gas again when the light turned green. "You can't take that back. I get a song."

She couldn't get over the fact that he was whining about getting a song played by her. He looked kinda cute actually.

"Fine!" She rolled her eyes. "You get one song, any song, as long as you keep your bothering to a minimum and I'm talking the most JJ minimum you can give me. Deal?" She held out her pinkie.

"Really?" He asked, almost missing how she used his name for the first time, and she nodded with a confidence that should have been hilarious in any other situation. "Deal." He wrapped his pinkie around hers. "Original."

"What artist is that by?"

"You."

She paused and deadpanned, "I don't write songs."

"Look who's lying now. You said any song, therefore I get a song by you. I already have a name for it." He put his hand out in front and moved it across the air, " "The Ballad of JJ". Upbeat. Nothing fancy. Something like Bohemian Rhapsody."

She shook her head, "Do you even know what a ballad is?"

"Sounds cool. So, why not?"

This kid will actually kill me.

"Fine. You win. "The Ballad of JJ" it is." And he smiled like he won a million dollars.

He dropped her off at the front of the house, watching her disappear into the house with his hat still attached to her head. And while she did practice, she allowed herself to begin to write for the blond boy, who wasn't so annoying today.

Or really any day.

Not that it mattered.

Right?

◇ ◇ ◇

What JJ had said bothered her.

A new audience.

She scoffed.

Based on ratings and statistics, people enjoyed classical music over anything else. Covers of pop or rock songs didn't fit the mold nor did they get high ratings. Maybe on youtube they did, but not for live concerts.

And it was like he was challenging her. Challenging her to try something new. As if she was afraid to do it. She scoffed at the thought.

Afraid?

She wasn't afraid.

She'd show him.

◇ ◇ ◇

"That was excellent!" Margie Jones clapped her hands. "Truly wonderful. I have no words other than magnificent."

Her mother joined in, "I've never heard you play something that energetic before. It's mostly mellow. Is it original?"

She nodded proudly, "Yes, it is. Got some inspiration. It's not fully done, but it's getting there."

"What's it called?" Margie asked, pulling out some files, but still with a wide grin.

She opened her mouth to reply, but the words couldn't come out. Her one piece of music that was the light of her mother and Margie's life at the moment was orchestrated because a boy had her write it. Not just any boy. JJ Maybank. Her annoying (ex-annoying) music room bother. It wasn't exactly The Ballad of JJ, just an alternate verison of it (she felt like it was personal to the point that only the two of them could hear the original),but it was similar enough to be connected to the song titled in her blue folder with his name. However, she couldn't have it leave her mouth. Weird.

"Oh, I don't know yet. Like I said, it's just coming to me in pieces, so I'll figure it out in a bit. It's just one of my originals."

"Excellent." She nodded, "More originals open more doors for your solo career without any orchestra or becoming back up for a band. More money for us." She clapped her hands, "And this is good because I got news that the scouts from France and the United Kingdom are coming."

She gasped and stood up, "Really?"

"Yes and because of this, you'll be performing for a longer bracket. I talked to the managers and everyone I needed to and they agreed that instead of a fifteen minute time slot that you'll take on an hour time slot. Thirty minutes for the first half, a ten minute break, and then your final thirty minutes. With this you'll have to do a setlist that I'll need by next Friday. We only have three more weeks."

Her heart dropped.

Her mother clapped her hands, "Wonderful. How about the pay?"

"Because she's bringing in the scouts for the entire program, not just the orchestra part, I negotiated for her to get triple for her section plus her original fee for her part in the orchestra."

As Margie and her mother spoke, they hardly noticed the sixteen year old girl sitting on the seat by the piano, turning pale by the moment. She had never done anything more than twenty minutes straight of playing. Now she has to do an hour with a set list and most likely originals that she had never tested before. Plus the orchestra. That would be two hours of straight playing.

She didn't know if she wanted to do it.

She was a performer. She had played in front of a hundred people before, but this was a concert hall in Washington D.C. Hundreds of people and staff. Now scouts for her future in music. For more time than she had been used to. With original music she had never tested. She was performer, it was her job.

But they hadn't asked her if that was what she wanted.

Her breath felt heavy and her chest began to heave. Her body didn't feel in control of anything. She hardly said anything as she excused herself to the bathroom. She closed her eyes as she slid down the luxurious bathroom wall and tried to level her breathing. She flexed her hands back and forth, trying to stop the shaking.

She was a performer. She had to do this. She had to do more. She had to take the job. She couldn't say no. She was a performer. Performing was what she did. It was her job. Her future. She couldn't say no. She had to for the money. A better life. More for her mother. More for her. She couldn't say no.

But she really really wanted to.

◇ ◇ ◇

That weekend, she stayed as close to Sarah as she could. Distracting herself from the reality that she would have to do something that was holding her heart down. She didn't understand it. So she ignored it.

A tale as old as time.

Sarah sensed something wrong, but didn't say anything. She knew she'd come around eventually and she'd give her space until then. So, she suggested that they go to the beach and get acai bowls at the Playa Bowls nearby.

The two girls walked arm in arm and got their bowls and sat by the docks, watching early tourons and kooks and pogues alike spend their Saturday with their friends or family. From the docks, she watched people surf on the waves as if it was second nature.

She didn't know how to surf - another downside of piano being your life - but she liked watching it. She found it interesting how people were able to move their bodies in a way that allowed them to move with the ocean's ripples. She believed it was similar to how her fingers meshed with the keys of a piano and became one with the instrument. However, that was only one part of her body. Surfing was control over the entire body to not go flailing around. She admired the people who could do it.

Sarah chatted to her as she nodded along and allowed her to speak. She felt like she was in 2nd grade again when she hardly ever spoke. She only spoke when she had something she needed to say, but no coaxing would get her to open her mouth. It wasn't until around middle school that she started speaking full sentences to people. Even then, she was only chatty around people she was comfortable around such as Sarah Cameron or her mother. And she only wanted to listen that day anyways.

And as she watched the waves, she noticed one person surfing as if his life depended on it. Flips and turns and going through waves and making it to the end. She began to observe him up until he came up to the beach. That was when she noted who it was.

She turned her head before he could spot her, but she heard a classic high pitched whistle. She turned back and noticed JJ, staring right at her with his hand lifted in a hello. She couldn't help, but smile and wave. His friends, who she recognized as John B and Pope Heyward, turned to her as they began to nudge JJ around, teasing him. He swatted them away.

A nudged on her shoulder caught her attention and she turned to Sarah.

"What?" She furrowed her eyebrows.

"Oh Schroder." She teased, "Don't leave Lucy hanging by the piano all day."

"What are you on about?"

"Gonna play dumb? Okay, Schroder, I'll play Linus." She put her finger up, closing her eyes as if she were the comic character, "'No problem is so big or so complicated that you have to run away from it.'" She opened her eyes, "Running away isn't the answer even if you think it's yours. I should know. I do it a lot."

"I'm not running away." She took another bite from her bowl. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Okay." She hummed, "But don't be surprised when Lucy decides to stop waiting by the piano and goes out to become a psychiatrist that you meet in twenty years wondering "what if"."

"What in the actual hell are we talking about now?"

◇ ◇ ◇

She didn't hear her alarm. Two weeks had flown past her like sand falling out of her dry hand and she had been pushing herself everyday to practice playing nonstop. Finishing a handful of originals and practicing complex songs that made her hands cramp from how much she pushed. Staying up late nights was all too common for her. Missing her bus and a ride from her mom was not.

Everyone looked up at her when she entered the door. She feels like she came to school with no pants and mix and match shoes by the way everyone looks at her. Miss Prodigy is never late, never tardy, never disheveled, never not perfect. This was a sight: her hair was brushed, but was covered by a red hat, the bags under her eyes could carry bricks, her shirt collar was half up, her socks were different colors and her shoe laces were untied.

"Sorry." She mumbled to her history professor, handing the pass that the office lady had signed with the same amount of shock.

She walked to her seat and sat down, taking out her textbook and notebook. The shock had passed and whispers ensued as the class continued. She noticed the stares, but she just fixed her collar and payed attention to the lesson. It wasn't as if the other ten of them didn't come in late every other day in worse conditions.

From behind her, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned slightly to her left and saw JJ quickly passing a note to her. He sat in the next row but two seats behind her. She grabbed it and turned back around before opening it discreetly.

Didn't know prodigies came in late. Sounds like a crime. You look like crap also.

She scoffed lightly before grabbing her pen and scribbling down her response before tossing it over without so much as a whisper. And it just kept getting passed back and forth.

You sure do think of me a lot to know it's a crime. And yeah I know I look like crap. Thanks, Lucy Shit I didn't mean it like that. Like you look tired. You know like the little alien in Lilo and Stich? I have so many questions, but do you mean Stitch? I know I'm shorter than you, but you don't have to stoop to that level. You just called me Lucy from the fuckin Peanuts comics so I think it's fair game You've called me "Schroeder" since freshmen year. I think it's bound time I respond correctly. I've been scattered brained lately. Can't remember to hold my tongue. Oops Or wear your own clothes. Nice hat. Where'd you get it?

She touched her head, pulling down the hat that she had grabbed from her desk only to realize who's it was. She heard him chuckle behind her and she put up the bird in the air, waving it in his direction, not daring to look at him.

The bell rang within the next ten seconds, signaling for her next period, which she knew she was going to skip. She packed up her items and before she could head for the door, a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Truly amazing fashion choice. You get it at a boutique or something?"

"Ha ha. Very funny." She rolled her eyes, "I would give it back to you, but my hair did not cooperate this morning so I will be keeping it at the moment."

"Looks good on you. Not better than me, but close enough." He said as they walked out of class together.

It was a stupid compliment, and he was teasing her, but she still felt the apples of her cheeks begin to burn and she rolled her eyes, shoving him slightly with her shoulder, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get to class."

"We both have art next." He pointed out with his thumb at the classroom door.

"Not me." She sang before heading down the hall to the stairs towards the first floor. The sound of hard boots followed her, "Class, Maybank."

"I'm good." He shrugged, "Where we going?"

She rolled her eyes, but she didn't command him away. In fact, she couldn't bring herself to even if she needed him gone. Something about his presence lately had been calming to her, even if he was as calm as a hurricane. She'd felt in the car the previous week, when she saw him at the beach that weekend and even now as her anxiety began to peak for being late.

He made her feel like everything would actually be alright. (It confused her for a moment before she shook it off).

"Music room. I need to practice." She said, taking a moment to yawn. She covered her mouth, "A lot of practice."

"You keep saying that. What the hell's got so much of your attention?" She noticed his tone, but kept her observation to herself.

"Recital. Big one."

"And?"

She sighed, "Recitals make me money. I get a lot from it. I play with the Virginia Orchestra and they have their annual recital event. Because I'm part of it, a lot of people come. Some from New York. Others from Los Angeles and other places. It's a big deal." She pulled the music room key out of her pocket, "I got news that some scouts from Europe are coming to see me. It's next week, so pressure's on."

"That's amazing." He complimented as she swung the door open.

"Thank you." She shrugged as she headed for the stage, "It's just that I have a bigger time slot now so-" She didn't finish her sentence as she dropped her bag and began to pull out her blue folder.

"You don't seem so happy about it." He grabbed a chair that was on the stage already and pulled it so it was right next to her. "Don't you like playing?"

She nodded, "I do. It's everything to me." She pulled out her pens, "I just never played for two hours straight before. It's new."

"Hours?" He blinked, whistling lowly at the thought of playing piano for hours.

"I play for an hour with the orchestra and then an hour solo." Candor began to spew from her mouth, "I've never played solo for an hour in front of scouts before."

He didn't speak for a moment and she glanced at him. He nodded slowly, as if he began to understand why she was killing herself the past month. Why she stopped joking more and more with him and began to be stricter and cold to him. She was nervous.

"No wonder you've been such a buzzkill." He laughed, "You're anxious."

"I guess," She fiddled with her hands, "I'm not nervous. It's more like a feeling that I can't do it and that I'll disappoint everyone if I'm not shiny enough." She couldn't control her mouth. It just came out. She had told some of it to Sarah, but nothing like she was now, "I'm the main income in my home and now this is paying triple for my set, which could get us closer to getting out of the Cut, but-" She laughed, but it was more pained, "And I would have done it either way, but they never asked me. Just threw it in my face and I think I sound like an ungrateful brat for saying that because these scouts could eventually be my ticket to some great music school or job in the future. I just...wanted to be asked for once." She looked up at JJ, who had gone quiet. She blinked and sat up straight, turning back to her music, "Sorry. I'm ranting."

JJ reached out, hesitantly, but put his hand on her shoulder, "It's okay to be anxious and like so much is on you. It is. You don't have to apologize. And you're the artist. They should have asked you."

She looked at him with appreciation. A thought sparked her mind and she turned to the folder, "Oh, um, I have your song. Well part of it."

"Oh?" He leaned forward, seeing lines and song notes both scribbled and written over. The Ballad of JJ was written at the top of it, "How's it coming?"

"Halfway done. I just need to figure out the ending."

"Play it. The muse needs to know what's being created." She rolled her eyes at him, but complied. She had been able to get through the entire half she had before he spoke again, "I like the whole crashing part."

"The what?"

"The way the playing gets loud and wild, I mean. I don't know how to speak music."

She laughed, "You're a wildcard, Maybank. If it was about you, might as well get loud." He paused, but she hadn't noticed, "Now I'm thinking for it to start off loud and maybe end loudly, but I'm not so sure. Maybe it can mellow out or-"

JJ only nodded, feeling a smile creep up his face. He reached out and pulled his hat, that was on her head, down so that it covered her face. She pushed it back up, shoving his shoulder before smiling and going back to writing music.

And there it was.

Air shifted.

Something was changing.

Maybe their frenemies ways were turning more friendly than they both expected.

◇ ◇ ◇

Within that week, whenever she could, the pianist would sneak off to the music room, hoping to pack more and more time into her playing. And more and more she did, JJ Maybank followed. He'd come in, less distracting than usual after she had told him about the important recital. and sit down next to her on a separate chair or lay on the floor. He would comment here or there, but he left her be for the most part. When she wasn't looking, she could feel him staring at her. She'd then hit him with her foot or glare at him and he'd just laugh and the cycle would repeat.

And then there were moments where she wasn't sure if she should be feeling the way she did.

The moments where time would stand still as they stared at each other. His blue eyes meeting hers and the small smile she'd give him as he brushed his hair out of his eyes and smirk. The moments where she'd take her eyes off her sheet music to stretch her hand and catch JJ's puppy-like eyes following her every move. The moments where she'd pack up and he'd hand her the sheet music and their fingers would touch ever so slightly, making her heart jump a few octaves.

There was one day that week when he brought her a Monster, saying that it'd give her energy like him. She didn't think he needed any energy drink to be the way he was. He was high off of life. She drank it and by the end, she was practically running around the room. The jitters left her and she was just left with the energy rush. She said out loud that it actually helped.

"If you think that's helping, just wait for weed. Bring you right up."

She hadn't been big on drugs or usage because she needed to focus, but she thought that maybe it would be a good idea to try for some creative juices. She held it off until after the recital though. She didn't need some sickness to hit her. She didn't know if weed even caused sickness, but she wasn't going to risk it. The two made plans to smoke together after her recital - weirdly enough she trusted JJ to be the person she smoked with for the first time.

JJ also helped with his ballad. He helped her navigate what he wanted in the song and she was nearing to finish it. (A part of herself was nervous if he would like it).

She didn't know if she should have done it, but had asked Margie was an extra pit ticket. She didn't know why. It was for a friend? She didn't tell JJ.

It was Friday when Sarah decided the pianist could use some fun. She would have rejected the offer, but the recital wasn't until that following Monday. And according to JJ, she deserved a break. So, she (surprisingly) said yes to the kegger that was being thrown on the beach. Sarah had personally taken care of the outfit - a white tube top and colorful skirt that fell to her knees. Sarah dressed similarly in order to have her more comfortable and also because it got desperately hot during the day.

The two girls made their way to the beach by foot and made it around sunset. The girls stayed together the entire night, drinking from cans instead of solo cups, and chatting on pieces of wood. Kooks and pogues alike were there - it wasn't touron season yet, so it was just Kildare kids. No trouble was stirring up, so it was calm as people drank and smoked whatever they had on them before passing it on to their friends. Girls and boys chatted each other up, some couples fought at the farther end of the beach, some made out near the fire that was starting up while others swam in the ocean or sat with their friends.

At some points, people would say hi and boys would come up and chat up the two of them. Sarah was more likely to entertain than the prodigy ever would. She didn't like their dark hair and dark eyes or the way they would try and shoot out jokes. She just watched the ocean, seemingly ignoring them. Soon enough, a kook from Sarah's school - his name was Topper which was weird as hell - and by the way he sat by Sarah, he was there to stay.

"I'm gonna get another drink." She said and Sarah nodded while the boy chatted her up. Sarah nodded and said if anything, she'd come running.

She walked to the coolers, where closed drinks were. She wasn't stupid enough to take from the "punch" bowl or 2 liter soda bottles that had been opened. She neared the coolers, noting that many of them had water in them.

"Hey!" Someone called out her name and she turned her head, seeing John B Routledge calling out to her. She walked over, "What's up, Miss Prodigy?"

Oh he was tipsy. Not fully drunk, but he was getting there based on his loud volume.

"Hey John B." She chuckled slightly. "I'm doing good. How's it going?"

"Not bad, not bad." He raised a tap he had in his hand, "Want one?"

It is closed, she thought. And one isn't bad. Right?

She nodded and John B filled up a red solo cup half way before tossing it over to her. It was mainly foam and however bitter it was, its coldness soothed her.

"So uh, how's you and J?"

"What do you mean?" She wiped her mouth with her wrist and looked at the boy. She gestured for more beer, the coolness had filled her dry throat and warmed her stomach.

"I mean, I'm surprised you were able to tie the man down. He talks nonstop about you as if his life depended on it." He said. She had a feeling that JJ didn't know that he was saying that, "So you two are like-" He put his hands together and before he could continue, she shook her hands.

"Oh, no. Me and J...we're not like that." She chuckled nervously, "J's a good friend, but he doesn'-he would never- I mean you know." She drank more, hoping it would help more. She wasn't stupid to the insinuation, so she looked up, "Umm, does it look like that?"

John B rubbed the back of his neck, seemingly growing nervous, "I mean, yeah. Especially with these last few days. You two are always together at school."

She thought for a second. Maybe...

"Well, I didn't mean to make it awkward or anythi-"

She waved her hand off, "Don't worry about it. Sarah's called him Lucy one too many times for me to not notice." She surprised herself with the candor.

"Lucy?"

"You know. Schroeder and Lucy? The Charlie Brown comics?"

John B laughed loudly, "I can't get that out of my head now. I have a new nickname for him. I can totally see him in the little blue dress, and waving his feet in the air and-" He kept laughing, "Thank you seriously. He won't get me to shut up."

"Glad to be of service. He's annoyed me one too many times." She finished the cup, "Is he here?"

"Uhhh yeah. He's somewhere over by the fire."

"Hmm." She placed the cup in the trash by the tables, "I'll pay Lucy a visit."

"Go get em', Tiger."

She threw a thumbs up and walked closer to the fire.

Okay, she wasn't dumb. She knew what John B was saying and what Sarah was saying with the Lucy comments. She knew how it looked and before it would have inconvenienced her, maybe made her mad, but it didn't. In fact, it excited her. Could it be that JJ liked her? Like really? A boy she may possible totally liked actually liked her back? I mean, she's had boys who liked her before, but they weren't anything like JJ. He was funny, charming, annoying and a total nuisance at times, but she always liked it.

At a kegger in the middle of the night, searching for the boy who had captured her heart, she came to terms with what she had been hiding for over a year.

With a mind that was not sober, in fact tipsy from her lack of consumption in the past, she decided that she'd tell JJ. She'd tell JJ that she was sorry if she ever made him feel unwanted in the music room because she wanted him there. She wanted him to come and annoy her and tell her what he thought of her playing, of her original pieces. She wanted to teach him about Beethoven, Chopin and Brahms and listen to his song recommendations. Maybe he'd teach her how to surf. Maybe he'd want to go to her recital. She had a ticket prepared for him like she had for Sarah. She could play his ballad. She'd tell him how she wanted to him that summer coming up because then she'd get to know more about him - filling her brain with more about him because he made her feel like she wasn't just a prodigy or someone who only played piano. He made her feel like she was human, like she was girl who had more. She'd tell him that she liked him more than just a friend. She'd tell him that she wanted to be with him if he'd have her.

And he had given her all the signs, so she wasn't saying it out of the blue. He had stared at her. Carried her bag. Didn't mind that she still had his hat. Was considerate of her. Made her laugh. It all pointed to one conclusion. Just like Sarah had said. There was one theory as to why he always bothered her and in the middle of the night, during a kegger, with people talking and a fire burning, she decided that it was one she'd consider.

Maybe JJ Maybank liked her. She wouldn't know unless she asked.

But she knew.

The piano prodigy liked JJ Maybank.

And maybe he'd like her too.

She had made it to the fire when she spotted a glimpse of blond hair. Her heart picked up a beat as she came closer, only for it to drop to her stomach when she saw what he was doing. Another girl, who she had known as a pogue and lived on the Southside, was touching his shoulder and he brushed his hand against her hair. He was staring at her like he had stared at her that morning. He leaned forward, saying something in her ear, causing her giggle and shove him a little

It was a tiny thing. Miniscule. She still could have gone up to him and told him and maybe the night's ending would have been different. But it made her blood boil. He had always given her attention, but she hadn't considered that he gave other girls the same attention as well. She had heard about JJ Maybank's notorious history with girls - his endless list of makeout sessions that girls swooned over, his mysterious hookups and his knack for making girls fall to his feet. She hadn't judged him because everyone had their "things" that they did, whether proud or not.

But if she wasn't the only one he was giving attention to, who else was there?

Yes, the green jealousy monster came to haunt her. Maybe it wasn't fair. She hadn't been interested before, but she had shown signs too. RIGHT? She had stared back and laughed and flirted a little without her knowing. She wrote him a song! But he was there, with another girl, touching her, laughing with her and he would probably kiss her by the end of the night.

JJ had said before that her music was sad and depressing and emotional. That's because the composers were. Artists, writers, composers, poets and the like were tied to emotions. It was how the most heart wrenching, beautiful and one of a kind art was made. How Shakespeare wrote about doomed romances. How Beethoven wrote Fur Elise. How Van Gogh painted with such originality. How Louisa Mae Alcott wrote a story about four sisters. How Taylor Swift wrote in a way that made poetry come to life through music. How she wrote songs.

And as a pianist, she agreed.

She was emotional.

She was strung by her emotions constantly. It was why she responded angrily when JJ bothered her. Why she cried in the bathroom when she felt used and ignored. Why she spiraled when she felt anxious. Why she tried to ignore her feelings in the first place because when she was emotionally attached, she hyper fixated.

Her emotions controlled her.

And it was why she turned around and let the tracks in the sand be the only proof that she was ever there.

Whatever confidence, whatever hope, whatever beautiful thing she had felt for the boy was shattered like a chandelier falling from a ten story building. The pieces, whatever was left, would be hidden in the back corners of her mind, collecting dust for the rest of eternity.

Her sober mind knew that it probably wasn't completely fair for her to get angry. It wasn't like they "talked" or flirted outright or kissed or anything of the sort. He had a right to go off and be with who he wanted. He wasn't tied to anyone.

But it didn't stop her from feeling the way she did.

She was angry. First at JJ for being with someone else. For making her feel like she had been led on. For making her distracted. For filling her up with hope. For giving her attention that she thought was only hers. For making her feel like she had a piece of him that no one else did.

She was angry. Secondly, at herself. For allowing herself to get distracted when her music was what she needed to focus on. For allowing her mind to be filled with teenage ideas of love and boys. For believing that someone actually liked her for her. For thinking that JJ may have been hers.

She was stupid to think those things. Irrational. Irresponsible.

She walked away from the party, walking down to the Cameron's home to get her bag that she had left. The streetlights were the only thing lighting her path and it was there that she felt the first tears of anger fall onto her cheeks.

It wasn't fair to him. For her to be angry for something he didn't know he did.

But she really wanted to believe that he liked her and her only.

So on the sidewalk, in the middle of the night, alone, the pianist cried out into the dark for a boy that she held close to her heart. She would allow herself to cry once and once only.

Before stuffing it in the farthest corner of her hardened heart, locking it away forever.

◇ ◇ ◇

He's liked her since they were in elementary school. Truthfully, he never looked at girls until he was in middle school. Boys thought girls were icky and girls thought boys were gross, but there was always something about her that intrigued him. She was the quiet one, sat in the back, never talked to anyone and usually ate lunch alone on the field they had. That was if she was there. Out of the 250-ish days of school, she had been there less than 100 of them.

Piano prodigy they called her. Girl with a gift. Marvelous. A wonder. A bunch of words that he knew a lot of his classmates got jealous of. Even him at one point. All because she could touch keys in order to make music.

She was hardly ever there - always on Figure Eight, on the mainland, in New York, Washington D.C or any other place that required her presence. But when she was there, it was as if she was a ghost. No one talked to her. If they ever looked at her, it was with jealous envy.

He didn't know why he liked her so much.

The one time she spoke to him, it was during the one rare moment when they had to work in pairs for music class. They got to choose their pairs and while he would usually pair with his new best friend of 2nd grade, John B. Routledge, he made a beeline to the pianist. She looked at him, tilting her head, as he asked if she wanted to be partners. She merely nodded his head and let him pull up a seat next to her desk. It was music class and anyone else, even John B who had paired with the new kid named Pope, thought he was in it for an easy 'A' as did anyone who was partners with her. The pairing up was to help each other with piano playing on the little keyboards.

She had been flawless with her rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star", but he had been a mess of a player. Wrong key every two notes and wrong note every key. He semi-expected her to laugh at him, but she didn't. Instead, she stood behind him and put his hands on the keys and guided him through the motions. She never said anything, only used her hands to help him. It took a whole class period, but he was able to do the lullaby as easily as she did by the end. He shyly thanked her, although he didn't know because he was never shy about anything as a kid. She nodded and while they waited in line to go to lunch, he kept on yapping.

He eventually figured out why he kept talking, but at that time, he was oblivious. He eventually said that he probably won't be a pianist like her when he's older since he's too hyperactive to be sitting down playing songs. He stopped mid-sentence when he saw her smile.

"You're a wildcard, JJ."

The class was led out of the room and before JJ could ask her what she meant by that, John B caught up with him and was pulling along the new kid with him.

A wildcard. Something with unpredictable behavior. Uncontrollable. Unkempt. Wild.

They never really talked after that incident, but he always watched her. In class. When they passed by in the halls. When she played at their 5th grade recital. The middle school play rehearsals. Their short interactions around Kildare. When she was on the news. She was always somewhere and anywhere she was, it caught his attention whether he wanted to pay attention or not. Always a thought in the back of his mind.

As he got older, he hated that she had some hold on him. She didn't do anything and neither did he, but he just liked her. Her. Her work ethic. How she found a way for herself. How she practiced day and night to get better and better. Her confidence in what she did. Her concentration. He liked her because she was just her and unapologetically so.

And when high school came around and she began to attend school more often, he found himself in the music room, escaping his pre-algebra class when found her there. The more he skipped some classes, he would escape to the otherwise empty music room. She was there for her first periods and her last periods. So he sometimes found himself in the room with one other person occupying it. The first time, he sat in the back as she practiced. If she saw him, she didn't say anything. The second and third time, he sat closer - seeing if she would say something. She merely glanced at him while fixing her sheet music and continued with her practice. Nothing moved her. Nothing shook her. She was still and commanded with everything she did.

And eventually he began to make some noise. Open a can of Monster. Take leftover sheet music and make paper airplanes that landed on or around her. He even blew a trumpet once. She never said anything, only glared and handed him the airplanes back, pointing her index finger to the back of the class. The more he seemed to bother, the more attention he got from her. The more she looked at him with her focused eyes, the more he wanted them on him.

And eventually, she became more vocal with her dislike and her annoyance. She'd tell him not to do something and he noted that when he began to push her, she pushed back. Soon their bickering became a common thing to do.

At first, he had to admit that he was trying to get her to dislike him, so that whatever little crush he had on her would disappear as her dislike grew. He wanted her to look at him with malice that maybe he'd grow some too. But instead, it had the opposite effect on him. Her dislike grew, but his crush only grew. Whether he bothered her or not, she never told on him (only that one time at the beginning of Freshman year) and used her words instead of her fists to tell him to stop bothering. And he did. Usually. By the time of the beginning of Sophomore year, he had accepted that he did like the pianist.

He liked her a lot.

He liked her hair and how she fiddled with it when she grew restless or anxious. How her short fingers moved across keys and flexed ever so delicately. How her eyes were as expressive as her face. Her shorter figure that always demanded she look up to him when she spoke. The smiles that told him that she enjoyed being with him. Her hands too. Delicate and soft.

Oh yeah, he liked her a lot.

But now her resentment had grown into a full grown hate and he didn't blame her for any of it. He didn't even have to speak for her to glare at him. So he toned it down. Only making playful remarks with some sarcastic crack at her and it seemed to work. She was less aggressive with him and he even caught her smirking a few times. He'd made the rare notion of messing with her outside of class, but he wasn't met with the harsh stare or tongue of malice, but instead with a similar joke or a narrow of playful eyes. He swore he even saw her look at him a few times during history and art.

But now came the interesting million dollar question.

What now?

He liked her. He was sure that maybe she felt the same way, but then the doubt sinked in. What would she have with him? She was future a pianist in some famous band or orchestra or would become a solo artist or whatever in New York or D.C or heck, even in the United Kingdom or France. She was destined for more.

And him?

Some punk from the Cut who never had more than fifty bucks in his pocket. Wasting his life away at keggers, fights, weed and barely passing his classes. He'd go out with almost every girl who caught his eye. He'd never been in a committed relationship. He didn't even know if he wanted that. He didn't go out with girls to forget her because he wasn't a boy waiting for a girl. But that wasn't the full truth. He couldn't forget her because she had made her mark. She had imprinted herself like a golden tan on his mind - forever a reminder that there was some amazing girl out there that liked Beethoven and Mozart, who enjoyed drinking iced matchas with almond milk and writing music, who could push back as much as you pushes her, who had a confidence that others would pay for, who shined like a bright star whenever she played. She was everything he wasn't.

So, what would she have with him?

Easy.

Nothing.

She would never look at him the way John B said he looked at her. She would never willingly want to hold his hand or spend every waking moment with him or go to the beach to watch him surf or spend time listening to him talk about fishing or surfing or rock music.

That was the thing of dreams.

So he went out with other girls. He continued on with his life as if she hadn't completely flipped it around.

But then things began to change within that last month. She was more playful, nicer even to him. She still had the ability to give him hell if she wanted to and if he decided to push, she'd push back. But their friendship grew and flourished. All because he finally let his guard down and allowed her to drop hers without judgment. She responded to him as much as he responded to her.

So, he knew that if he shook the boat too hard, she'd obliterate it.

They were similar that way.

But she wanted him around. She even complied with writing The Ballad of JJ. She called him "wildcard" as she had done before as a kid. She smiled at his with a kind of sparkle that almost made him kill her in order to feel it. And for once, he had hope, but what was hope if, again, she was destined for the stars and he was stuck on Kildare just like his old man and every man in his family beforehand?

If he tried hard enough, maybe he could deserve her.

Or maybe he would never and he would merely be a song that she wrote as she went off into the world.

Either way, he was done waiting.

He decided that at a kegger he went to. He was sitting with a girl he knew from school, flirting and talking, when he realized he didn't want to do that. The pianist was plaguing his mind and all he thought about as he flirted and touched the girl's hair is how much he wanted to be with her. Did she like keggers? He never saw her at them? What would she wear? Did she drink? Does she like dancing?

Questions that went round and round when he stopped and realized what he had to do.

He was done waiting.

Because it was stupid. Waiting. Hoping. He was a doer. If he got rejected, that was it. He would live. He would go on with his life. He wasn't going to keep pining. If he ruined a friendship, well, he's ruined worst things.

It was stupid to tell her how he felt. It was stupid to ask her out. It was stupid to believe that she would say yes.

However, he believed in his personal philosophy.

Stupid things have good outcomes all the time.

◇ ◇ ◇

He just hadn't realized how stupid he had been

◇ ◇ ◇

It was Sunday, the day before the recital and she's determined to avoid JJ at all costs after Friday night. She had told Sarah about what happened and she immediately told her to come over. She offered to pick her up, but she just wanted to walk. To think. To find closure within. She semi-regretted it as the June sun began to beat on her.

She believed the world hated her because she would have never believed that she would have run into the very boy she was trying to avoid on the day after he accidentally fractured her heart. She was walking, ten minutes away from the Camerons, when she heard her name being called followed by a short but hight pitched whistle.

Driving the same van as before (which she know knew as the "Twinkie" as John B called it) JJ Maybank slowed down his driving near the girl he had caught feelings for.

"Hey, what you doin'?" He asked with a cheeky smile.

"Walking," She replied, her tone mimicking the same unimpressed one she had at the beginning of May when JJ came around to the music room.

"I can see that. Very nice walking." When she didn't respond, he cleared his throat, "So uh, where you going?"

"Camerons."

"Cool." He cleared his throat awkwardly. The one word answers were not normal after their week of delight. "Is everything okay?"

"Peachy." She folded her arms and kept walking, never putting her eyes on him.

Shit, JJ thought. If she was pissed off, he couldn't ask her out. And if she was pissed off, there was something wrong. So, he made a risky move and quickly (and illegally) parked the car and ran up to her. His hand caught her arm and she turned around, pulling her arm out of his grasp as if he had burned her.

"What?" She asked.

"What's wrong? You can tell me if something is wrong." He reminded, "We're friends." He winced internally. Probably not the best phrase to say as he's about to ask her out, "Is it the recital?"

"Friends." She mocked and turned back around.

He didn't relent and decided to push, "What's wrong with you?"

"A lot of things. Thanks for the reminder." She chuckled dryly before digging her hand in her tote bag, "Oh and here." She tossed it to his hands.

He caught the item, noticing that it was his hat. He furrowed his eyebrows, not understanding.

"It's yours." He said, falling into pace with her, handing it back, but her hand pushed back.

"It's yours. I don't want it."

"Wait, wait, wait." He finally stood in front of her, blocking her path. "What's happening? Did I miss something?"

"Nothing. Just giving you your hat back." She tried to move to the side, but he blocked it with his body.

"No, no. You're doing something else."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"No!"

"Yes!" He shouted back.

"Fine!" She relented. "I don't want to see you. I don't want you around. I don't want your hat. I don't want you in the music room. I don't want you near me. Okay? Okay." She shoved him to the side, but before she could even take a step, he grabbed her bicep and pulled her close, close enough that she could smell sea salt and smoke on him.

"What the hell are you saying?"

"I was stupid enough to actually believe that you liked me, but I guess you like every single girl on the damn island." She tried to pull out his grasp, but he held on tighter. It didn't hurt, but her heart did.

"I d-"

"If you did, you wouldn't have been with that girl at the kegger. If you did, you would have said something by now. You can go out and be with as many others as you want but you don't have enough interest to tell me?" She scoffed, "You've distracted me enough. You made me feel so stupid for thinking that you liked me and I was even more stupid for thinking I liked you back." She tugged at her arm, but JJ was like a statue, staring with his mouth parting. "I don't have time for you and I don't want to make time for you anymo-"

It happened quickly.

She almost didn't process what he was doing when he did it until she was doing it with him.

His mouth fell onto hers as his other hand pulled her in by her waist. His hand fell from her bicep and instead cupped the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair as he kissed her. He tried to put every ounce of feeling into it - the passion and yearning he felt, the desire and burning. His mouth was soft, but demanding.

She felt all her anger and her malice fall as his mouth moved. The thoughts in her head flooded away as she pulled him in closer by his black button up. Her left hand held on tightly to his shirt while her right hand was flat on his chest, as if deciding whether to push him away or not.

His mouth almost pulled away, but she finally responded and allowed her mouth to open, allowing their kiss to deepen. They were breathing into each other's mouth, desperate to stay connected to one another. His teeth nibbled at her lip to which she pulled at his shirt even tighter. A chill ran down her spine as her body began to heat up more and more from their closeness. Not even the sun and its direct rays could have created the amount of heat between them.

JJ was in complete euphoria as their kiss went from soft and slow to burning and passionate as if they were speaking with their lips and lips only. His tongue teased her lips and her mouth opened slightly, allowing him to make his entrance. If they weren't in kook public, he would have pinned her up against a wall or a car in order to allow more room for movement.

And maybe it would have gone farther if her brain didn't zip back into rational thought and pulled away. Their breathing was rapid and heavy as they stared at each other, unsure how they got that far. She was silent, unsure how to respond to a sudden and stolen kiss.

JJ, not usually one to talk about his feelings, untangled himself from her, taking a step back before placing the hat that she had tried to return on her head.

"Keep it." He huffed out before walking back to the Twinkie and driving down the street.

The kiss had confirmed what both of them suspected and now knew.

Their feelings were real and reciprocated.

However, it didn't make anything else clear.

In fact, everything felt more complicated. She was angry at him for "leading her on" after she saw him with another girl. He was angry at her for not wanting to see him because of a miscommunication. She was angry at herself for not letting him speak and clear everything. He was angry at himself for being with another girl because now it fucked up everything with her.

But it didn't stop their minds from wandering to the same question.

What now?

◇ ◇ ◇

Sarah swore that she had never been friends with a dumber person. She may be a prodigy, but man, was she stupid sometimes. JJ had kissed the living daylights out of her, gave the hat back and she was doubting everything now. It was clear to Sarah - he was telling her that he liked her and that he was sorry.

But her best friend didn't see it that way.

In a way, she didn't blame her. She wasn't use to the dramas and the mind games of relationships, situationships or friendships that weren't friendships at all. And she knew that she was embarrassed by her outburst. So she allowed her best friend to wallow the day away.

The day of the recital, Sarah got an idea. It was risky and could backfire, but she knew that if she didn't do it, her little prodigy would never resolve this thing on her own. She was too focused on her recital that she couldn't take a break to think about the blond boy that had been pining for her.

The prodigy was near to leaving when Sarah snuck away from her, past her father and Rose who were speaking with the pianist's mother, and outside to the Druthers. She knew one person who could help and she was placing all her bets that he knew what was going on.

"John B." Sarah said, "We need to talk."

The boy put down the bucket and hose that he was using and wiped his hands with a cloth, "What about, Sarah Cameron?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Unless JJ didn't fill his very best friend in." John B shook his head and Sarah sighed, "Look, she's embarrassed. She didn't mean to blow up at him. She doesn't know how to apologize."

"Tell me about it. JJ doesn't know how to apologize either. And the fact that he wants to apologize is something you don't hear everyday."

"She likes him. A lot." She smiled softly, "She wouldn't be all frazzled and upset if she didn't. So," She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket, "Let's give them hope."

"A ticket?" He asked.

"To her recital tonight in D.C." She sighed, "I don't know if he's gonna make it or want to go. It's a long five hour drive or train ride, but if he wants to go, it's there."

"I don't know." He shrugged. He'd never really seen JJ like that. Quiet. As if he thought too much that he couldn't even speak. "It could complicate things more."

"She was going to invite him on Friday." She admits, "She had the ticket in advance."

And with that he sighed, knowing that he couldn't take an opportunity away from his best friend, "No promises, Sarah Cameron."

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

◇ ◇ ◇

She pulled on her dress once more. It was a beautiful dress that had been bought by her mother, but she did feel kind of warm in it. The bow in her hair matched it and so did the shoes. She had been dressed in a simple black dress beforehand, but this one was made of velvet, and was longer in length than when she played in the orchestra and pockets.

Pockets!

Her performance was more important, she guessed.

But her mind was anywhere, but her performance.

Through the ferry ride to the mainland to the five hour limo ride to the concert hall - the Kennedy Center for Performing Arts - her mind was occupied with JJ Maybank.

"Oh great!" Margie barged into her dressing room, "You're on in ten. Let's get going."

She nodded, sitting up from her vanity, glancing once at the hat that was sitting on it. It was like her was actually there, assuring he that she'd be okay. She reached her hands out for a moment, but hesitated.

Margie called out her name once more, impatient by the door.

She followed Margie out the room.

The concert hall was full and from her view from the stage when she played earlier, she could see a few people she knew. A few senators. A couple congress men and women. Directors of universities. A professor from Juilliard that she had studied under when she was nine. But there were some she hadn't known, but knew from their posture and the way they took notes that they were either scouts or people of importance.

She was prepped and ready, but began to breathe heavily. She could do it. She could do it. She knew she could. The anxiety told her she couldn't, but she tossed them aside. She couldn't do anything, but play now. Whether she had boy problems or not, whether she just had her first kiss less than 48 hours before, she was a pianist first. She put her first love first before anyone else. Her future first.

But having him there would have been better.

She stood at the corner of the stage, breathing more steadily as her announcement was made. A round of applause followed and she walked elegantly on the stage. Her shoes clicked against the clean and slick floor as she made her way to the sleek black piano. She moved her dress aside so she'd sit comfortably. Her sheet music was out for her as a guide, but she knew she wouldn't even have to look at it.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

She put her fingers on the keys and played her first piece. As written on the program handed out for her time slot specifically, she played it as tribute to herself. And down she went on the list for her first section - classical and somber.

Fur Elise - a tribute to her middle name and her favorite composer of all time. La Campanella - at only the age of eight, she played this piece during her first live performance in Lincoln Center. I Wanted to Leave - an spectacular original piece by our composer. the inspiration came during a late night practice session at her home when she decided to write her own music. it is one of her first original works. Mists - one of the most challenging parts of her journey was learning to be spontaneous with her music. much like Beethoven, Iannis Xenakis' work inspired her to try less regulated music and explore the chaos. Cardigan - this original song took over two years to write. her inspiration for this piece was the idea that when one is young many believe that they know nothing. her song explores the highs and lows of both the piano and life, showing that she does know more than others believe. She dedicates it to her five year old self. Gymnopedie no 1 - going back to her roots, she plays one of the first songs she's ever memorized. she dedicates it to her mother, who encouraged her to play from day one and to her father, who once told her she'd play for audiences around the world.

The first set of thirty minutes ended as soon as it started. She was given a loud applause and she gave a small curtsy, a spotlight on her, before the curtains enclosed the stage and the lights turned on for the audience. She let out a breath as Margie, her mother and others came towards her, catering to her. Someone gave her a water bottle, another brought her lotion for her hands and another with a small towel to dab her forehead.

"Beautifully done, honey." Her mother kissed her head. "Your last piece made me remember the first days when you kept playing it. Drove your father and I crazy."

"Thank you, ma." She smiled.

"Okay, okay. Costume change!" Margie sang. "I have to go check up on your audience."

Quickly, she was rushed to the back and put on another outfit. It was a dark blue dress made of tulle. It was airy and light compared with the black dress that had made her feel suffocated. It was off the shoulder with tulle frills. She was thankful as long sleeves combined with hot stage lights did not combine well. Her shoes were replaced with Mary Janes. It was relief to her sore ankle that kept rubbing on a sharp part of the heels she was thrown into.

She received a text from Sarah as her black bow was replaced with a gold hair pin that kept her hair back. She congratulated her on her performance, saying that there was a lot of positive feedback. The pianist smiled for a moment before, replying with a smiling emoji, before thanking her hair stylist. For a moment, she was left alone to give herself some room to breathe.

Alone was the damn hat.

She picked it up. It felt intimate now. Touching the hat from the boy she liked and who liked her back. The hat that he had told her to keep after he kissed her for the first time. She couldn't help, but smile.

That boy made her crazy.

She had been distracted and pissed before, but now, all she felt was acceptance.

When she got back to OBX, she'd make things right with him. Maybe he wouldn't forgive her and she'd accept it. Maybe he would decide that he didn't want to be with her and she'd accept his answer. Whatever the ending would be, she'd be thankful for the hours of attention he gave her and the feeling of being cared for. He deserved her explanation without yelling because he had been nothing but good to her.

Maybe she'd always like JJ Maybank. And she was okay with that thought.

A knock on the door came and so did a ding from her phone. Margie barged in, calling her for her last thirty minute set. She nodded before standing up. She glanced at the hat.

She followed Margie out of the room.

The same process repeated.

Deep breaths. A last sip of water. Another announcement and she was off onto the stage. She sat on the stool, but before she put her hands on the keys, she placed JJ's hat on the empty space to her left, hidden from the audience's view. She had hidden the hat in her black dress' pocket, but without any pockets, she put it to her side. She smiled for a second before placing her fingers on the keys.

"Why do you play depressing songs? I thought pianists were supposed to be lighthearted."

She paused.

"There's a whole world out there that isn't classical music that could apply to your piano playing."

Her mother and Margie would probably kill her later. It was stupid to deviate from the plan.

But if there was anything JJ Maybank taught her: stupid things have good outcomes all the time.

She turned in her seat, gesturing to the stagehands for a microphone. Margie and her mother stared from the sidelines, slightly freaking out. Realizing she wasn't going to play without a microphone, she was quickly handed one by a stagehand. She tapped it, making sure it was on before, turning to the audience.

This is so stupid, but here we go.

"Uh, hi, everyone. Thank you for being here today. I know you're probably wondering what I'm doing with a microphone if I'm a pianist." She chuckled, "Don't worry, I'm not going to sing. I'm not total singing potiental, I promise you," A round of laughter, "and it's not what you came here for. You came for piano and I promise I'll give you that, but I've changed my mind about something." She took a breath, "I will not be playing the complete set that is written on your programs. I've realized a common theme in my playing tonight and someone who I care about recently told me that, um, there's another world that doesn't contain classical or melancholy music that could be applied to my talent. And I didn't believe in it before, but I do now.

"I believe in it now because I experienced something I never have before and I am very grateful for it because it has expanded what I once believed. It has challenged me and brought me to what I now believe and want. I thank that person for telling me that. I...I wish he was here tonight" She let a beat pass before sitting up straighter, "Which is why I will be changing up the setlist tonight. In honor of changing my way of thinking and thanking the people that have impacted my life in many different ways. I hope you still enjoy it."

She turned back to the piano, sliding the microphone into the holder that was already on the piano.

"This first one is to my best friend, Sarah Cameron. She's in the audience. Hi, Sarah." The audience chuckled a little, "This one's for you. For being my best friend and for choosing me during our rocky years."

She didn't play the setlist chosen for her. She played her own. And in each song, she explained the meaning behind it. Something she had never done before, but felt right in doing so.

Later, when her performance went viral online for her unexpected change of plans, Margie would have her write up the reasons for the songs she chose to post online with a deeper thought process.

The Climb - a song for Sarah Cameron. my best friend. we watched the Hannah Montana movie a million times at her house and at mine and we always sang it together. we know the journey is tough, but with each other, we're never alone. i adore her. she helped my journey so much that i had to start with her. Viva La Vida - it was one of my favorite songs as a kid. i used to sing it all the time. i liked the history behind it. the fall of a famous king. i played it once for my mom and she recorded me without knowing. i think she still has the tape. Sweet Nothing - this song is original. i wrote it when i was struggling with being alone. it began when i was in elementary school and i finished it the summer before freshman year. i wrote it in order to convince myself that one day i'd have people in my life that would want nothing from me, but myself. i never played it because of how personal it was and i didn't think anyone wanted to hear something sweet and about me. thankfully, someone changed my mind. Don't Stop Me Now - the person who told me there was another world of music i hadn't tapped into was right. after that conversation, i decided to try it out. simple to see if he was right. i decided on this song by Queen because my dad loved the song. i know he was smiling when i played it. it was so upbeat and fun to play that i forgot i was on stage. Never Grow Up - okay, okay, i had to. yes, slow songs are my forte. at the time, i didn't really have other original upbeat songs, but i thought this was the sweetest to play. again, it was another song to myself. it was to my younger self, who didn't know where she'd end up. it was a apology to her, to tell her she still had time to be a kid. it's my apology to her for growing up too fast. i hope she can forgive me. Left Hand Free - so the same person who told me to explore other world told me randomly that a song by Alt J would be perfect for me. i rolled my eyes at the time, but i decided to play it. it was like a little inside joke as i'm pretty sure most people in the audience didn't know what i was playing. it's kind of like the theme song of OBX, where i'm from. my gift to you from paradise on earth.

By the end, she hadn't realized that her time was almost up when the stage manager gave her the five minute warning sign. she nodded and picked up the microphone again.

"So I don't have much time left, but if you're still here, then thank you for still being interested." She laughed, "But uh, for this last song, I want to play something that I actually wrote for someone else. It was my second time writing something for someone else in such fashion. It's called The Ballad of JJ No.2 . If it sounds weird, blame his parents for naming him JJ because that wasn't me." The audience laughed, "It's part two because the first part is for him and him only. This second part, however, I can share with the rest of you because I don't think it's much of a secret." She turned back to piano and put the mic back in it's slot before picking up the hat and placing it on her head, "And to JJ, thanks for being a wildcard."

The Ballad of JJ No. 2 - so JJ is actually the boy who told me the quotes that I mentioned during the recital. he was my friend at the time (more like frenemy) but during the second half of the recital, i just thought back to him and how he was right. the reason i wrote the song was because he answered a question for me and i had to write a song for him in return. he was the one who titled it "The Ballad of JJ". he actually helped me write the first part. i decided that since his name was in the title, it might as well be a song about him. the first part is up and down and all around. wild. just like him. and sorry to all who want to hear it, but it's for JJ's ears only. the second part i wrote as an "alternate" version and it was the one i shared with my manager, mom and best friend when i was testing out originals. it was unfinished at the time, but i completed it on the way to the recital actually. i didn't know i would perform it, but i'm glad i did. his second ballad was what i felt about him. wild. electric. passionate. enchanted, it was everything i felt for him in a song that i couldn't say in words at the time. if you're reading this, i know you're going to tease me, but thanks for challenging me, J. it's the best thing i've ever written (also know that you're never getting your hat back. it one hundred percent mine now and you're the only one to blame).

The last note rang and she let out a breath. It was done. It was out in the open. No denial. No pauses. No hesitation.

(Later on, that one specific part of the recital went viral for her "love confession". It was all anyone could talk about for a couple days. No one outside of the OBX knew who "JJ" was or how he got her to write not one, but two ballads about him. She found it funny how everyone thought "JJ" was her boyfriend, when in reality, they weren't even together. At the time, at least.)

Claps and shouts rang through the concert hall. She stood up and as she did, so did the audience. A standing ovation she received for her performance. She walked to the edge of the stage and gave a final curtsy. She stood for a moment, taking in the cheers and approval for her performance. She hadn't failed, but she didn't care for failure at the moment.

She did something new.

A whistle came from the audience.

She knew that high pitched whistle anywhere.

She scanned the audience, hoping she wasn't dreaming, but couldn't find the person anywhere.

In the first box on the right, Sarah Cameron was waving frantically. The pianist's attention was soon caught and she scrunched up her eyebrows as Sarah rapidly pointed downwards to below the box she was in. Her eyes followed and landed on a boy with messy blond hair, blue eyes and a dopey smile on his face.

He was there.

Before the curtains could close properly, she ran towards the side of the stage where she barreled through the stage crew, her mother and Margie as she made her way out of the backstage. Her shoes hit the ground hard as she ran with all her might. She didn't have to go far because as soon as she saw the door that led to the audience's front row, it swung open so hard that it hit the wall with a bang.

"JJ!" She shouted, catching hit attention. She stopped short once she made it in front of him, "How...why...I-" She had run so fast that she was out of breath, panting.

"Sarah gave me the ticket you saved for me." He said, "Well she gave John B the ticket, who gave it to me almost two hours before your performance. I had to take a train to get here and I didn't see everything, but I made it during the beginning of your second round."

"So you heard-"

"Everything? Yeah," He grinned, "Really ballsy changing your music at the last minute. Did not expect that."

She shook her head with a laugh, "I just knew.I had to. I have to like what I'm playing. Like you said." Her breathing had become more regulated, so she spoke clearer, "I'm sorry I blew up on you. I wasn't being fair to you. I was angry and jealous and a complete ass to you. I'm sorry." She confessed and it was like a weight lifted off her shoulders, "I really like your attention, but I really really like you."

JJ replied with, "I'm...sorry too. I should have told you earlier instead of fucking around and ignoring what I felt for...you." He cleared him throat, "When I'm around you it's like...it's like heavy and like," He moved his hands around his chest, "It's like my heart wants to implode and just like...just...wow! You know?"

JJ had never been good with communicating his feels. Especially to the girl he's liked since elementary school. He was never good with his words, but he was good with his actions. That's why he kissed her. Saying everything he couldn't in action. But even then, he tried his hardest to say what he felt. And she saw that fully. She had trouble saying it too. That's why she played it instead - it was a love note to him that she couldn't say out loud.

"It's like...fireworks or like the freaking butterlies. Ever since we were kids and now I just..." He took a breath, "I really really reall- I never thought that you would even look at me. You're you and I'm me. I'm a reck and you're just-."

And the more hand movement he had, the more he made her smile. A bright one that said everything he needed to know. He noticed and stopped speaking. He knew she knew. No words could say what he felt, but every action said it for him.

So, he reached forward and pulled his hat down so that it covered her face, "Nice hat. Where'd you get it?"

She pulled it up, meeting his eyes, "Some guy I wrote a second ballad for."

"Oh yeah?" He took a step forward.

"Yeah." She nodded nonchalantly, "Don't know what he thought of it though. He hasn't even heard the first one fully."

JJ looked amused, chuckling as he looked to the side, "Oh he liked it. So much so that you can play both of them on your first date with him."

"Oh really?" She tilted her head to the side, with a teasing smile, "He won't try and distract me, right? Throw a paper airplane. Blow a trumpet. Crack open a can of Mons-"

Her sentence didn't even get to finish as JJ only shook his head with a wide smile and pulled her into a kiss. She smiled, knowing that her rambling would caused that reaction. His body pressed up against hers, molding into each other as if they were made for one another. His strong arms eloped around her, one around her waist and the other around her neck. She put her hand onto his shirt, pulling him closer as her other hand ran through his hair.

Their first kiss was matches and gasoline being poured together. Their second was thunder and lightning. Same passion, different area. The first was destructive based on two opposite forces. The second were merely nature, two forces that worked together.

Both beautiful in their own categories.

Her hand tugged on his hair and his tongue slipped into her mouth. Their noises were drowned out by the clamor outside the door. Her fingers trailed his jaw and his throat. His stroked her waist, causing her stomach to erupt in butterflies.

More. More. More.

It was all they wanted.

More as everything ran through them. The wants. The desires. The love. The fire. The passion. The need. The unexplainable euphoria that ran through their bodies and into their souls - their souls that spoke to one another in this one moment.

He smelt like sea salt and smoke. He tasted like sugar. He felt like fire. His hands like water as they drowned her in sensations that she hadn't felt before, but would die to feel over and over if it was him causing it.

She smelt like old books and flowers. She tasted like sweet chamomile tea. She felt like velvet. Her presence, her entire being, was like the salty air of the beach - consuming every part of him until he desired nothing more than to stay in that moment forever.

"So that's a yes?" He pulled away abruptly, eyes sleepy and hands shaking.

"Shut up and kiss me."

And he did just that.

◇ ◇ ◇

thedarlinglore: you'd be dead if you took a shot every time i used the word "maybe". it should be illegal with how much i used that word. it took me three days to write this and one to edit. it took me out of my writing slump. might make a part 2. thank you mr.maybank ❤

#jj maybank #obx #obx fanfiction #jj mayback x reader #jj maybank concept #jj maybank fic #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x fem!reader #jj maybank x reader #outerbanks #sarah cameron #the pogues #darlingchronicles #darlingfics

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aconflagrationofmyown · 1 year

Text

but then… Gigi

Chapter 2 - An Elvis Presley fanfiction

Thanks: to the little rascals who schemed and kept me pumped the entire time I was whacking my way to fruition on this project: Bri and Elise. And to Birdy and Ally and Christi and all the rest of you darlings who are so dear to me and whose shared love for this man has brought such joy to my life. I hope you enjoy, your feedback means the world to me and there’s nothing I enjoy more than getting to incorporate some of y’all’s schemings and theories into the story itself. So don’t hold back! Xoxo

Caveats are the sign of a insecure author yet here I go…: in this chapter there are highly unflattering references and portrayals of Pricilla Presley and Ginger Alden respectively -they are not necessarily my opinions of them, they are my dramatization of Elvis’ headspace during the summer of ‘77 when many report he was breaking up with his “fiancée” and there was already a substitute picked out to come with him on the impending tour. Y’all can debate those rumors all ya want and I honestly don’t know what to think of them myself, what I do know is that man told his father he was terribly lonely days before he died. And I want to remedy that, so the narrative is unreliable here and it’s in his head. Love at first sight, love that obsesses, love that has a childlike quality to it as presented in this fic is often selfish and even cruel towards the feelings of others. If you’re not fond of Elvis as a flawed, moody bastard of a man on occasion, this fic may not be for you. Cheers.

Warnings: 18+ no actual sex happens but my goodness -it’s sure wanted and thought on so much that sometimes it felt like a fifteen year old boy was hijacking my keyboard -Big daddy was that you?! Apologies for the, uh, crass body descriptions?! Salami will never be the same again…also, use of the word “fat” in the narrative as being thought of oneself, good ole fashioned chauvinism and mild infidelity on Elvis’ part

Chapter 2

“Do ya think it’s too, I dunno, too, too on the nose?”

“E.P., ya have people over here all the time, man.” Charlie murmurs gently from where he sits on the floor, not bothering to look up from the spread out sheet music he’s rustling through. “Why would it be on the nose to do it now, all the sudden?”

“Well I-I-I was thinkin’ maybe havin’ a pool day, maybe that was too forward.” Elvis has been rethinking this since he told George Klein to wrassle up that young bunch again, and specified the pretty young Artemis whose freckles had been covered last he saw her.

“How’s that forward?” Charlie seems genuinely confused and Elvis figures this has got to be one of those times he’s so far in his own head and foggy from pacin’ the pills that he’s not thinkin’ like regular folks.

It’s just that he couldn't take this eager young one turning him down, or shying away from him. It makes him timid in a way he hasn’t been in decades.

“I thought maybe, maybe invitin’ ‘em durin’ the bright light of day would be less, less, ya know, less susp–would raise less eyebrows.” Elvis tries to explain and Charlie really gives it the old college try to understand why his usually very entitled friend is suddenly reverting to teenage levels of strategizing to hang out with some chicks. “But now it seems like it could, could be t-taken wrong.” He’s thinking of Gigi in a swimsuit, he’s thinking of her bouncing through his trophy room headed to the pool like she bounced on the sidewalk, he’s thinking of how knowing Tammy had looked when he’d badgered her for information on her folks. Tammy has him spooked, he supposes, has him second guessing his own motives a little.

“Which nose are we worried about bein’ too ‘on’?” Charlie asks gently, and Elvis hates him for it.

“Ginger’s! And fuck you Charlie you know already, it’s Ginger’s.”

“If it’s Ginger who you’re concerned about being put out by your guests,” Charlie doesn’t bat an eye, “then I suggest you worry about her chin, not her nose. The thing’s huge, bound to be too ‘on’ it no matter what ya do.”

Elvis chuckles weakly out of sheer appreciation for Charlie’s loyalty, “Is that where I been goin’ wrong with that broad all this time? Lordy, I ain’t even tried to sit on that face, what’s she so put out for? Just anticipatin’ me bein’ too on the nose? Didn’t seem to think all that fuckin’ jewelry was too on the nose, coulda bought her one a’those Indian nose ring thingys and I reckon she’d have snatched it oughta my palm fast as anythin’.”

“Some folks are born put out.” Charlie philosophizes and continues rummaging some more in the guitar case, pulling out picks and wadded sheet music.

“I invited them today, they turned me down; they’re busy with somethin’.” Elvis admits softly, because he had tried to put this off for about five hours without her knowledge, then the Bible verse this mornin’ happened to be a little too ‘ the nose’ regarding deceitful intentions and he’d rung her up, been straight up about wantin’ her over.

Ginger said no. Declined. That’s how she put it. She was always havin’ to decline him. Except for his money and his trips. That she had an open sieve of a purse for.

The fact Charlie is as unsurprised by her avoidance as he is, suggests Elvis really is a sucker. He gnaws his cuticles bloody. “I should call it off.” He realizes.

“Yeah, what’s holdin’ ya back?” Charlie doesn’t even sound remotely sympathetic and Elvis thinks maybe he hasn’t been sly about lining up a replacement if even his friends know not to pretend to be sad.

“Her family spooks me.” He admits softly, “I got’a feelin’ about them, like they’re gonna raise a ruckus if I don’t go through with it.”

Charlie looks uncomfortable for the first time in this little gossip session. “Sounds familiar,” he ventures so carefully Elvis immediately knows he’s referring to Cilla and her folks. Referencing the day that won’t be mentioned and the threatened law suits and the getting wrung dry and the whole fuckin’ mess he’d made of what ought’ve been a blessed endeavor. Instead, he married a woman outta compulsion and reaped the seeds of it six years later.

“Reckon you’ve tried this before–pacifyin’ folks.” Charlie sounds scared but whether it’s of his decision or for offering an unasked opinion, Elvis doesn't know. “Reckon you should think about what you want, E. What you want for your life. Hell man, you may be halfway done already, you really doin’ what ya want? Maybe ya are, I'm just sayin’–you’re Elvis Presley! Ain’t anything worse they gonna say about ya than they already have, and nothin’ more tragic than havin’ all you’ve got and not doing what’s good for ya.”

Elvis thinks about the deluge of infamy that’s coming his way in a few months, not a single publisher bending to his coaxing or demands for a retraction of Red and Sonny’s little tattle-tale novella. Bastards. Those disloyal bastards.

Gently ditching a frigid woman back outta his home into her daddy’s paid for and well-furnished house is hardly gonna be the most breaking news. And by that time, ain’t no one gonna wanna come over here for pool parties or game nights or stop him on the street for an autograph. No one’s gonna want him by then, might as well enjoy the company while he can.

“Looks like it’s gonna rain today anyway,” he adds in glum summary.

“So?” Charlie tries to cheer him, “I’m sure the gals have noticed the weather and they’ll bring stuff for it, change of clothes and all that. EP, we’ve never run outta stuff to do here, have we? It’s your home, you don’t gotta perform. Can always make it a movie night or somethin’.”

Watching a movie sat next to Gigi in a skimpy bathing suit cover might be worse than watching her frolic in his pool. Elvis gnaws on his thumbnail and smashes the piano keys. Charlie doesn't even jump from the sudden noise. “What time is it?” he asks Charlie even though he has a wrist watch.

“It’s still before noon,” Charlie looks up at him from his place on the floor pointedly, “they won’t be here for another three hours. George’ll be here maybe a half hour before, since ya asked him.”

Elvis's stomach will be in complete knots by then, he knows it, and his mood will be foul for the pinching pain of it and then sitting out in the baking, humid summer heat under a gray sky that won’t rain will sound like shit. He growls and starts playing that classical piece he was trying to learn last tour.

_____________________________

Gigi’s head already aches from the plastered-high ponytail Tammy hair-sprayed her wavy locks into and she knows her face is coated in far too many layers of makeup for a pool party. It’s not what she would have chosen but she considers it a win to be walking out the door of their apartment in something more decent than the nylon scraps suggested to her as a swimsuit by her friends. It’s one thing to be aided in a little primping by one’s gals who seem hell bent on depositing a buddy into Elvis’s bed, it’s quite another to feel more than a little pimped out.

Gigi has a feeling that half of this hilarity may be selfless giggles over one of their own catching his eye, but the other half is definitely some old style sorority cunning. Whoever the mythic, absent and supposedly current girlfriend of the King is, she’s been earning Tammy’s hatred since grade school. And Gigi has a feeling that she herself is but a gilded instrument of destruction for said girlfriend. It gives her pause. About five seconds worth before she’s clambering into the back of the ride sent for them, trying to keep her swim skirt down so she doesn’t flash Lamar.

Gigi may be a bit jaded from personal loneliness, but she figures it’s free-game to pick up something someone left on the sidewalk. Things that are precious to somebody are tucked in pockets or kept in safes or worn around the neck like a talisman. They never get a chance to end up on the sidewalk.

Precious things aren’t sent off to college with no roadmap and only the weekly phone call or left to rot away in their own sprawling houses utterly bereft of company.

She pulls at her ponytail and determines to have fun. And be a little bold. It’s why she wore a skirt and razor back swim top that is more sporty than seductive–she figures that if she can keep his attention by her behavior, that’ll be the only way she can manage to tolerate it. Too much male assessment turns her into an idiot, the other night proved that, and she’d like to feel free to act in a way that might make him laugh like he had at other folks' charades.

She wants to laugh at these flimsy precautions against Elvis’ legendary hypnotizing capabilities. She just tugs at her skirt bottom and admires the way Tammy’s red swim top has her spilling out like a Bond Girl. She kicks at the duffel bag holding their change of clothes hoping it rains, she loves swimming in the rain. Bike riding in it, too, anything but these ironclad skies that trap the thick air down here but don’t send a refreshing shower. She’s got her face pressed to the Cadillac’s window when the wall whizzes by her view and then the car is turning and there’s Graceland, up on its hill, looking a little somber in the pale afternoon light.

They aren’t dropped off at the front this time, “That’s for guests and the boss himself.” Lamar explains as he pulls around to the side and slots into the humongous garage.

“What’s that make us?” Dinah asks, unabashedly enjoying the way she makes the amiable fella wait for her to adjust her bikini bottoms before stepping out the door he opens for them.

“Friends, silly.” Lamar has seen a thing or two and while coral neon high risers on gleaming chocolate skin might be pretty eye-catching, Dinah’s got more work cut out for than that, if she wants to fluster him.

Which Gigi isn’t sure why anyone would, he’s nice and keeps to himself and is good humored. She gives some frantic thought as to whether she can recall meeting a wife of his or not before she’s being herded with the rest through the sea of vehicles parked in Elvis Presley’s garage and in through the back door.

They’re immediately in the cozy dark upon stepping inside. The cool, crisp air-conditioned breeze cuts through the thick of outside and Gigi feels like she’s finally able to breathe. Next comes the unmistakable smell of burgers and through low lighting and dark painted paneling she realizes they’ve stepped into the kitchen.

There’s an immaculately polished black woman at the sink and leaning next to her, beside a row of sweating sweet teas, is Elvis, making conversation and caught by his guests mid-snicker.

There’s something so strangely mundane about the scene to Gigi that her heart lurches. The domesticity of fresh-cut onions and the comfy slouch of yet another tracksuit–it has a powerful effect on her and she finds herself beaming in gratitude at being invited back. The fact the kitchen is carpeted registers about a minute later as she scuffs her sandaled foot nervously across it, her toes dragging against the plush as she waits for the crowd in front of her, one-by-one hugging their host hello, to thin out enough for her to get at him.

She’s gonna hug him this time, she’s sworn to herself she will.

“What? No Keds? Where’d the Keds go, darlin’?” is what happens instead, Elvis frozen with his arms wide open to hug her and his eyes pinned to her french-tip pedicure like she’s Liberace and done forgot her piano.

“I thought this was a pool day.” She scrambles, and that’s enough for him to drag his eyes up the leggy length of her to meet her own blue ones, still looking like he’s in great consternation over her omission. “Is your pool bottom really that rough?” She teases and is pleased when that wipes the silly pantomime of alarm off his handsome face.

His thick sideburns draw up with his smile, pulling towards his ears like the creases around his eyes and he grins, “No doll, neither my pool or its bottom’s rough. You c’mon through right here, make yourself comfortable. You like burgers, honey?”

“I do!” she replies and obeys the outspread arm that sabotages her intended hug, directing her to the barstools at the counter instead.

“Sit yourself down and I’ll get’chu one.” He assures her earnestly before leaving her side and shuffling around the industrious lady he’d been caught gossiping with.

“I’m Gigi,” she offers to the lady from across the counter, watching as she slides the plates around and sets out the usual condiments in a tidy row.

“Mary darlin’, this is Gigi,” Elvis spins halfway through his trek to the fridge , the quick movement belying his bulk and he throws an arm around Mary’s shoulders while making the introduction as if Gigi hadn’t begun it.

“Lovely to meet you, Mary.” Gigi carries on normally as does Mary herself, warmly shaking her hand over the bun basket.

“Miss Cherry Coke?” Mary’s eyes glimmer mischievously up at her boss who tucks his head shyly in response, “Miss, we’ve got the whole top fridge stocked with the stuff, you give the word and I’ll have a case poolside for ya.”

“Oh, that’s awfully kind,” Gigi splutters, “and not at all necessary I-I can make my own burger too, let me help–”

“Sit down, you’re in my house, I’m makin’ your burger.” Elvis commands and Gigi’s bottom has barely left the barstool before she flops back down with a plop that makes the deflated cushion wheeze. “What’cha like on it, baby?” He asks then, suddenly soft as butter.

Between the pet names and the unlikeliness of Elvis Presley actually making her a burger while wearing an unzipped track suit and a king's ransom worth of rings in his own kitchen, Gigi is liable to forget whether she likes ketchup or frog legs on a burger.

“How do you like it?” She counters as if they’re in some argument and he looks surprised by that before leaning towards her, belly pressed into the counter, explaining in loving detail his preference for the onion/pickle ratio and the importance of cooked meats. The sheer amount of thought and stubborn preference for his food prep that comes out in this explanation takes her by complete surprise, not expecting him to care so much about something so trivial. His music or his career or films maybe, she might not have been so surprised, but he seems very much in love with cheeseburgers and helplessly she murmurs, “I'll have it however you like yours done.”

The moment is interrupted by the loud slurp of Tammy’s straw running out of carbonated beverage at the bottom of her bottle. Gigi had quite forgotten there was anyone else here for a minute. She spends the rest of the wait trying not to be obvious about the way she drools at his elegant hands as they meticulously pile on diced onion and bacon bits, sparkling ruby rings and glinting emeralds the only reds or greens let near the food.

He slides the plate her way, determined not to be shy but hopes she doesn't notice the way he watches her from beneath his lashes as she bites into his creation. Her cheeks bulge from the size of her bite and her puffy lips strain to keep her manners and after a few workings of her jaw he sees her eyes light up with childlike enjoyment, then roll back in her head with an appreciative moan. He chuckles and pushes his glasses back up his sweaty nose.

Damn affection, he’s in love. Oh merciful Jesus, not again.

Out by the pool, a few folks sit beside it with their toes dipping in, sloshing at the crystal clear water while a few brave and stupid souls take to the loungers as if the sky overhead wasn’t implacably slate colored. Tammy had told Gigi not to dunk her head in, to keep her shoulders at least above water or else the makeup would run. Gigi thought maybe the makeup should have been left off altogether but it’s too late now and it looks like no one’s going in all the way anyway, her little perch on the diving board isn’t conspicuous with everyone else staying out. A pool is a pool in Gigi’s mind, sunny weather or not, but she feels like it would be childish to jump in and no one else follow. She feels young enough here, so, demurely, she hangs her legs off the diving board and makes conversation with Mr. Hodge about Elvis’ army days.

Elvis himself is still in the house, something about cigars and Sam coming over. When he comes out the pool house door he has his tracksuit undone and an added navy t-shirt beneath it, swim shorts replacing the tracksuit bottoms and Gigi’s mouth starts to water from…nostalgia…she thinks. Beside him is a terribly tall young guy with a mustache and two kids trailing after them. And then there’s two young women, followed by a mature couple; their parents it would seem by the familial resemblance in the jaw.

“Y’all, this is my friend Sam, and his lil critters.” Elvis announces for the girl’s benefit, “He’s a cop, so don’t y’all go tellin’ him nothin’ ‘bout the charades the other night.” He taps his nose as if they’d gotten up to obscene rituals and Sam just rolls his eyes before shaking hands. “And these here are the Aldens, Mister, Missus, Ginger and Rosemary; this is Tammy and Dinah and Marie and Gigi–” he points out one bathing-suited beauty after another with studied nonchalance.

“Nice to meet y’all.” Gigi gives a wave, wondering if she should get up off the diving board to greet them or take a cue from Elvis's casualness and stay put.

Judging by the Superman-level beams of hatred forming between Tammy and Ginger, she figures it’s best to hunker down next to Charlie Hodge and keep her head down.

It makes her jump when Charlie outs their little haven by piping up with a, “I thought E said y’all were gonna be busy in Nashville today, Ginger.”

It makes Ginger look over at them and while Gigi has done nothing but have her head patted and swallowed down every greasy pound of the burger made for her, she feels like a skank under Ginger’s burning assessment.

“We didn’t wanna miss it.” She replies off-handedly after her inspection and turns back to Elvis who is shuffling her along the patio towards a lounger like she’s some decrepit grandma.

“Here, Ginger dear,” he’s got the same voice on that he uses with interviewers and it makes Ginger scowl and Tammy smirk, “how bout we set ya all up nice and comfy here, there we go. We’ll getcha all set up and you can watch from here, know ya can’t go in, it bein’ your time of the month and all.”

It’s funny how his tone is discreet while his volume is anything but, reaching even Gigi and Hodge at the far end, making the slight man snicker at some inside joke Gigi resigns herself to not get. He sees her confusion.

“Ginger here happens to have her period about ten times a month.” He whispers conspiratorially and Gigi gasps.

“Poor woman!” She winces at the mere concept, “Has nobody found a remedy?”

“Not yet.” Hodge shrugs, “Elvis has paid for her to be seen but no luck yet. Still, doesn’t seem to slow her down much, a hearty sorta girl. Except for pool days and sleep overs.” He adds before sipping his Coke noisily.

Gigi turns crimson at this backstage confession from so polite and circumspect a man as Charlie Hodge. She feels like Tammy may not be the only one trying to maneuver her into his friend’s arms. She sighs; she’d like to end up there, she’d also just like to swim in Graceland’s pool without a load of drama surrounding it.

“Why are we all out here anyway?” Ginger asks loud enough for it to carry to Gigi and Hodge on the diving board, “It’s been cloudy all day and the forecast is rain, if you wanted a pageant I coulda taken you to New York, baby.”

She pats Elvis' shoulder in that curious way that Gigi has noticed non-tactile oriented folks use to try to make connection with touchy folks.

Pat pat pat.

Body entirely angled away, no lingering weight after the pressure, no squeeze at the end, no dip down that broad back–it’s the sorta touch that’s worse, grating even, than nothing at all, in Gigi’s experience. Isolating, lonesome, a mockery of what it ought to be. Her heart slams in her throat like she’s watching some old trauma, and maybe she is, but she feels a compulsion to put the pressure back on, laying hands on the wound, steady and firm and untiring.

It’s stupid. But so is the silence that follows Ginger’s criticism of the weather.

“Don’t have to have the sun out to swim.” Gigi observes cheerily, looking around hopefully for someone to agree, Tammy won’t stop smirking and glancing back and forth like watching a ping pong tournament.

“No, but nobody likes to without it.” Ginger frowns at her in confusion.

“I don’t get why?” Gigi presses, genuinely confused herself. “It’s not like we can tan when we’re up to our necks in water. I’d know, I had a blistered face and pasty legs in June, last year, from a monkey in the middle game that lasted too long." She laughs and Hodge and Elvis glance down at her mentioned legs before they laugh too, maybe just to break the tension that seems to be forming in the humid air.

“You’re just sayin’ that to humor this guy.” Ginger cracks a joke of her own, thumbing at Elvis who sits at the foot of Rosemary’s lounge, looking as absolutely glum as the rest of them feel.

“No, no, I’m not actually.” Gigi’s soft voice insists and in a frustrated little huff over the way everyone’s behaving like kids but not in a fun way, decides to stand up on the diving board, her posture purposeful.

“Whoa, whoa oh, ok wait, Gigi no!” Hodge takes in her determination a touch too late as those track hardened legs start a bounce on the board that threatens to send him flying like a kid letting go of a see-saw.

The last bounce sends them both, Gigi in a gorgeous tan legged arch into the water with her swim skirt fanning like one of Renoir’s tutus, and Charlie Hodge splatting beside her a split second later, polo shirt soaked and flat on his back.

The spray of their splash dilutes Ginger’s martini and through the haze of her bitchin’ Elvis licks the chlorine drops off his upper lip and lumbers himself up and over to the pool side in time to see her surface.

She’s laughing. Sopping wet and mascara running, entirely in her element now, Gigi’s laughing.

“How’s the bottom baby?” he asks her with a grin, crouching down to her level and desperate for this to be more somehow, for her to be humoring him like Ginger said. He thinks he’ll be done if that’s all, though. He hopes that Gigi just so happens to enjoy burgers the way he makes them and swimming beneath clouds. Like he does.

“Smooth.” she grins back after dragging her eyes away from the spread width of his crotch, something calculated in her eyes soothing the tiny part of him quibbling over her youth. She ain’t a baby, she’s a big tittied young woman. “S’real smooth Mr. Presley.” She's treading water and it makes her voice breathy.

“Well, go touch it f’me baby.” He tells her.

“Why?” she perks up.

“Why?” He repeats, rhetorically, standing up from his crouch and throwing off his tracksuit jacket with all the show he puts into fanning out his capes on stage. It’s too late the little kohl-eyed bambi begins to backpedal in the water, “Cause–CANNONBALL.”

More chlorinated water splashes up Gigi’s nose and into her eyes, making her gasp and wheeze, blinking through a burning film of melting mascara as Elvis Presley surfaces like a leviathan of the deep not even a full two feet away from her. He shakes his hair out of his face and grins at her like a little boy immensely pleased with himself. Jet black hair pushed back and glasses lost in the dive, he looks unbearably soft. Gigi thinks she may have cooed as she tried to clap when he made his appearance.

“C’mere lil one, your eyes’r smartin’, ain’t they?” He swirls his arm out in the water and effortlessly, like scooping up a partner in a tango, hooks his arm around her and draws her closer. Electrified by the beefiness of his arm around her waist, she almost misses when he raises his thumb to his mouth and sucks on it before bringing the spit-slicked digit to her face. Swiping at her under eyes, gently following along the water line, returning the black finger tip back to his pink tongue, then back again to her eyelashes. Again and again until he’s satisfied with the tidying and enough of the goopy cosmetic has been removed for her to make out each individual pore on his godlike face. “There, thas’ more like it,” he examines his work and she sways towards him in the water like she’s been hypnotized, her face still buzzing from the electricity of his touch, “more like a pretty Southern peach, ‘stead of a raccoon.”

“I told Tammy it was silly.” Gigi whispers, the bulk of him so near her blocks out the rest of the world and her voice dips accordingly, feeling intimate.

“Tammy, doll,” he spins round and the motion releases Gigi, she floats beside him bereft and suddenly cold in the pool without his nearness, “sugar, don’t go makin’ this pretty gal look like a rodent when God’s given her plenty on her own.”

“I do not look like a rodent.” Gigi protests through giggles as Tammy slithers into the pool with a shrug, careful to keep her own face out of the water.

“Sweetie, I’m the one lookin’ at ya.” He points out in that fatally parental way and reaches for her neck once more, taking a good grip before he dunks her backwards in the pool, with barely time for her to hold her breath. Bizarre and a bit threatening as the action is, all Gigi can feel is his warm hand again, and the press of rings biting into her throat, the promise of his body that she’s not yet been jostled close enough to feel, but looming ever near her.

“Elvis baby, you’ve lost your glasses.” Ginger is saying when Gigi is finally let back up after her extended baptism and, with a little flail, she regains autonomy from his grip as he lets her go like he’s been burned.

He hadn’t seemed that worried about the glasses before Ginger pointed it out, but his hasty movement away from her makes Gigi think that it concerns him.

“I’ll get ‘em.” She reassures Ginger before wheezing back in a breath and arching into the water, the splash of her little footsies upending the last anyone saw of her for a brief moment until she appeared in the shallow, holding them up triumphantly.

The solitary, slow clap that could be heard belonged to Mrs. Alden.

“Oh shove it where the sun don’t shine, ya big–” Tammy was snapping at the older woman suddenly and Gigi, freshly discombobulated from resurfacing, decided against figuring that one out, the feud going beyond her even at her most mentally capable periods.

“Get in here fools, Ricky, Charlie, Dinah, c’mon.” Elvis was motioning to his fellas, conspicuously ignoring the venom spitting between the ladies, “Sam, you’re gonna be our monkey.” He directed the overly tall cop to the accompanying protests of the pool’s occupants. “Lotta sissies you are, can’t take a challenge head on.” Elvis chided them and the game was on.

For the next half hour Gigi treaded water in the deep end and tried to help Dinah and Ricky get the ball past the unreasonably tall cop in the middle. Trying to smack it into the shallow side where Elvis was waded around waist deep, in the water, T-shirt clinging to the dip of his pecs and adhered to the swell of his belly like a second skin, effortlessly hefting Sam’s young kids up to take a smack at the ball themselves from time to time. Gigi didn’t think there’d ever been a fella as entranced by the sight of bikini clad babes bouncing around in aquatic sports as she was with such effortless masculinity displayed in the good humor of his backyard. Her heart hurt at the sudden gaping hole in the house, in the pool, in his life–his little girl! She should be here, his child should be here.

Before Gigi had known how domestic and serene life could be at Graceland, it had made sense the rockstar probably wouldn’t have full custody of a kid. She’d imagined wild parties and coke tidily lined up on the back of the toilet in the bathroom for convenient snorting, stripper poles in the living room festooned with real live women of the night. But instead, there was just a beautiful, vigorous, sweet man throwing pool parties to any who would come to keep him from being lonesome.

That old feeling of wanting to hold onto him and not let go, make him let go first, came back. Maybe she’d been staring too long, or more likely, maybe Gigi hadn’t noticed half the spray sprinkling them was now raindrops and not pool splash–either way, Ginger and her familial entourage made a rather large to-do about the little shower. Encouraged to go inside they refused, and while slightly miffed by the needless interruption, the pool’s occupants varied their sport to a rather unorthodox version of Marco Polo.

Ricky led the way by closing his eyes and calling out “Marco” to which every girl, with the innate sense of those being hunted, tried to flee in the water from his grabby hands while answering “Polo” in barely audible titters.

Dinah escaped a close call by diving underwater and slithering away while Sam went on the defensive and splashed water at the kid’s nose until he could barely call out “Marco.” Gigi wasn’t as lucky, trapped between the steps and Hodge she was cornered on the third round, helpless to do anything but press against the poolside and answer “Polo” to each one of Ricky’s ever leering calls, closer and closer to her.

“Time out, time out!” Elvis snapped and Ginger peered over her glasses with knowing suspense but Ricky, quite caught up in the game kept swashing forward in the shallow towards Gigi, blindly reaching out for her shoulder only for at the first tiny touch to it, he got slapped upside the head by a very proactive Lamar who wanted to save the kid from a more fatal fate.

“Boss called a time out, idiot.” he grumbled loudly, pulling him away from Gigi’s glistening tan shoulders.

“Yeah, time out!” Tammy faked a sigh of exhaustion even though she’d done little moving through the game, “Can we get some drinks out here? Got any papaya juice left, E?”

“Oh I swear to God!” Ginger’s sunglasses landed on the cushion with a clatter, finally losing all patience with some inside barb thrown her way.

“What?” Tammy asks with far too much innocence.

“You know what!” Ginger snaps.

“Drinks? What?” Tammy scoffs, “I wasn’t asking you to get them, don’t get all huffy at me.”

“The papaya shit–”

“Hey language, ladies.” Charlie tries to intervene.

Elvis knows Tammy is weedling a fight outta Gingersnap and a month ago he might’ve had it in him to play the gentleman and defend his supposed gal, and an hour or two ago he might’ve found it fun to sit back and watch the cat fight, but there’s rain droplets splattering the pool surface and he knows she’s gonna suggest going in and he wants to make everyone else regret this about as much as he is until he sees her face.

Gigi’s.

Looking for all the world like she’s sad and scared this shitty little party is gonna end. Looking to him to keep her playtime going. Up against the pool wall as the rain splatters her freckles, mostly put out that her turn has been cut short because Elvis's jealous streak can’t take Ricky or anyone else touching her besides him but he can’t bring himself to touch her for fear she won’t purr under his hand.

Gigi’s eyes leave Tammy and Ginger’s verbal sparring and seek his own out pleadingly. His command for everyone to shut the fuck up and go inside or else leave his property dies on his lips. Instead he tries to smile back at her, finding it’s been a little while since he played at accommodating anyone, but he’s willing to try for her, to give her back her playtime. She reminds him of his younger self, such a live wire, attuned and vibrating to every emotion. She needs a calming hand, a weighted presence to tether her. Instead he just reminds the squabbling pool’s occupants,

“Gigi’s it.”

And just like that, the decision is made. Ginger can bitch and Tammy can poke and everyone else can go to hell, he’s gonna play in his pool. With Gigi. It’s her turn to play Marco. Those blue eyes dance back to life and she’s smiling so wide he feels like maybe he’s unleashed the sun, fully cheerful and fully lethal all at once.

Her eyes close but her mouth stays wide and smiling and she utters “Marco” with giddy excitement and Charlie gives him a look he knows, a look of a sure-fire backstage hookup but Elvis isn’t sure, not sure this time until she’s weaved through multiple “Polo’s” and is hunting him down with giggling ferocity. And Elvis is fucked, he’s fucked and his heart is beating in wild excitement and panic as she begins to splash towards him and her palms land squarely on the now squishy mounds of his chest.

He used to have such a nice physique. Strapping, some said, maybe never a real ripped fella but fine and toned and lean. But now all he’s got are man tiddies and his cheeks flame hot under the cool splash of water as her hands splay against his soft chest, the contact winding him, grounding him, making him yearn and shrink all at once.

She’s merciless, hands trailing over the dips of his chest and over his shoulders and down to the beginning of his belly, dragging his wet t-shirt across his sensitive skin, patting him down firmly in the way of someone who savors flesh. He thinks he’s found one of his own.

“Hmm, Lamar?” Gigi guesses but the coy lift of her lips tells him it’s a joke. Still he wants to wince.

Gigi hopes he knows she is teasing, she doesn't even think to make it a barb. Lamar is lovely and so is Elvis and she would do and say anything to prolong the contact she has on the wet material of his shirt, wiry chest hairs faintly ticklish beneath the soaked cotton, the heat and the heft and the way his chest is heaving beneath her hands–Gigi is struck with the reminder of how she fantasized about him, about the bulk of him and the sturdiness she’s now mapping out. If only he was shirtless and–there’s a nipple–his breath is ghosting over her face, she’s so close and she’s being shameless, she knows, but he’s lovely. He’s so lovely under her hands, and she can feel the thump thump thump of his heart soaking up her attention and she knows he’s been lonely for this. She hopes he can feel it through her playful hands–

You’re lovely, this has been lovely, thank you for this, can you feel how fond I am?

–she thinks she hears someone sneeze and she thinks she hears talking but it’s his breaths, labored and fast, that she listens to, senses attentive, squeezing at the soft flesh of his bicep. There’s corded muscle beneath the fluff, she barely gets a squeeze in before she’s palpably reminded that it’s Elvis she’s pawing at when he drawls, thick and forced,

“You got a strong enough grip on that honey? Did I not feed ya enough in the house that ya gonna start pulling meat off the bone?”

She pops her eyes open at that, mortified at first except he looks so pleased by her squeezing, more pleased and happy than he’s been all day and it makes her brave.

“Why, it’s Elvis!” She teases in surprise and is comforted by the hot flare of temper she sees in his face as he entertains the brief concept of her groping anyone else like this, “I could eat you up.” She admits lowly, and it feels like a natural thing to say, the sorta oddball shit you say to cute little babies–or to Elvis Presley when he’s soft and firm and giving and impossibly broad beneath your hands.

“Ya watch y’self lil baby or I’ll eat you first.” He responds careless and calm before snapping his teeth at her in a way that both scares her from its sudden shift and sends molten heat down between her legs at its possibilities.

She chooses to squeal and instead of fleeing in the water, takes refuge from his snapping mouth by scurrying behind him in the water and hunkering down from the threat, plastering herslef to his wet back. The grunt he makes when she pulls herself up by his shoulders is that of a middle aged man playing at being put out over being used as a jungle gym, but like most things he does, teeth snapping and grunting and meticulous burger layering, she finds it obscenely attractive and moans a little herself, finally getting a good press on some part of him, even if it’s just his back.

Elvis has quite forgotten anyone or anything else besides the playful little critter plastering her tits to his back and giggling breathy in his ear. He thinks he notices the way the boys resume the game and Dinah tries to revive the sport while he and this minx just float like mama and baby otter on the sidelines. He doesn’t notice much else beside the fact that she’s taken to tidying him like he tidied her, fingernails rubbing his wet sideburns back down and thumbing at his eyebrow when a commotion on the pool deck gains his attention, tearing him away from the lovely yet mortifying ordeal of Gigi humming over the discovery of too much grease in his rain sodden hair.

It appears Mrs. Alden and Ginger are having it out between each other again on the pool patio, without Rosemary as a referee for once, and Elvis would like to ignore it in favor of thinking of something to talk to this sweet girl about except that there’s a slight tussle on the sidelines and before he–or Ginger it seems–can process anything, Ginger herself is being encouragingly shoved into the deep end by her mother.

Upon surfacing, Ginger makes for him like a downed airman would an atole in the vast pacific, whining all the way like she got dumped in acid instead of saline. He’s always been this way with folks, with women and with men, puzzled as to why he tolerates shit for so long when the breath of fresh air is clinging to his back. It’s a free country, Ginger can whine about pool water all she wants, doesn’t mean he’s gotta feel bad that there’s something about the way that twenty year old gal hasn’t got a lick of child left in her that makes his affection for her curdle like spoiled milk. The giggling limpet on his back laughs before registering that Ginger is unlike her, and the pool is causing her distress. Gigi starts to let go of Elvis’ back in an unconscious reaction to aid her, he finds himself trying to clutch her hands to keep her pressed to his back.

They fumble, they clutch, Gigi slips from his back and it’s as if the water has gone freezing to him. The replacement of Ginger hanging off him does nothing to replace that soothing warmth, though he pats Ginger soothingly, wondering if now would be a bad time to tell her it’s over. It was over ever since a while back, but not being able to make it today, then able to make it only to stake her claim, and now this fawning over him -he’s done. It’s over, he starts freezing and suddenly the raindrops aren’t so playful. He hopes to god his gamble won’t leave him burned and alone again.

“Shh. S’alright honey, gimme your hand.” he mumbles as he leads Ginger to the shallow end, to the pool steps and railing while the rest of the pool’s occupants clear out as fast as rats from a sinking ship when the murky pool water shows she’s not bluffing on her period this time.

Ginger gives him a withering look and he thinks he’s gonna get blamed for her mother’s poor choice in house manners when he finds her staring down at his shorts, and maybe the water wasn’t cold enough cause he’s chubbed up and bent to the side beneath the wet fabric, acting up despite the embarrassment of being felt in his whole entirety by Gigi. He clears his throat and finds himself tugging at his pant leg as they toddle off together, not even trying to act like it’s for her–they’d both know better than that. It’s over, it’s past that. It’s over.

Gigi lags behind in the pool and Elvis doesn’t know why until she’s jogged back up to them, almost to the trophy room doors before she’s kneeling in front of Ginger, her lost sandal in her hand. “Here, I got it, ya don’t have to limp all the way back.” Gigi smiles up at her from her crouch, feckless crinkling and eyes guileless and even Ginger doesn't have it in her to be sour in the face of such unstudied kindness.

“Thanks.” Ginger gets out and digs her nails further into Elvis’ forearm as she leans her weight on him to slip the sandal on, acting as if a dunk in the pool left her mortally wounded.

Fast as lightning, he notices Gigi use the towel slung round her shoulder to dab at a trail of blood running down Ginger’s shin, a womanly little comradery to keep her from being embarrassed but Ginger says nothing and moves on, hastily, Elvis attached to her by her talons, and he hardly blames her. Kneeling -Gigi kneeling- isn’t what Little Elvis needs to be thinking about right now.

In the squelching wet walk back into the big house Elvis feels the compulsion to distract from the menstrual cause of the pool’s evacuation -and his offending boner- by making conversation between the two,

“S’alright,” he repeats, “Hodge and I were thinkin’ movie night or Monopoly if it ended up rainin’. And it was bound to, bound to start rainin’.”

As if that was the reason for getting out of the pool -it’s so gentlemanly of him, despite his palpable exasperation with the whole situation, that Gigi falls a little more in love just watching him be nice to another woman.

“Oh I love Monopoly!” Gigi offers with a genuine little skip in her step, fanning out her sporty swimskirt, half distracted as she passes by the glass showcases housing the awards given to him over his career. They glitter harshly under the low ceiling of fluorescent bulbs. It’s oddly tacky for such a wealthy man. It makes them seem more personal, like a fella got a lotta medallions and plaques for being lovely and stashed them in his pool house. “What’s the longest game you’ve ever played?” She asks since the silent trudge is getting oppressive.

“Lordy, back in ‘66 I think we had one last over three weeks.” He reminisces fondly.

“No way.” She swears.

“Yeah, yeah kept the board all set up in the music room.” He assures her. “Reckon our banker was crooked.” He divulges and Gigi giggles.

“We do a lot of reading.” Ginger offers randomly and Gigi perks up at that bit of information politely.

“Oh? What on?”

“Any and all sorts of subjects.” Ginger smiles sweetly, the sorta sweet smile he used to try to earn, now it makes him wanna shake her off his arm.

“I used to enjoy it but I think college is burning me out on books.” Gigi admits.

“That’s right, you’re in college.” Ginger reminds with a significant look in Elvis’ direction.

“First year.” Gigi nods, looking a little shell shocked.

“Whatcha majoring in?” he asks her earnestly and Gigi realizes they’re near the same height, her long limbs finally giving her an advantage as they lock eyes over Ginger’s head.

Embarrassment floods her as she has to admit to this older and unbelievably successful man, “I still haven’t decided.” She is lost and tired and lonely and that is probably why she gets off to the thought of him telling her he’s gonna baby her. Shame scorches her cheeks and he tsks before reaching over Ginger’s shoulder to pat it calm, rings chilling her fevered flesh, “My parents wanted me to go,” she finds herself purging the sentiment under his kindly eyes despite Ginger’s judicious stare, “but now I’m in, the subject -it’s up to me and I- well I don’t know yet.”

Elvis pauses in his swaying gait to relieve Charlie of the duty of holding open the side door into the main house, ushering Ginger in with a flick of his wrist and Gigi follows, limp necked and chastened. “You’re just a baby.” He is suddenly rumbling right in her ear as she passes him, as if picking up the conversation naturally but it makes her shiver in a hard, wanton shake at the sound of his voice so near. It has his eyebrow raising in some suspicion. “That’s a whole lotta weight to put on youth, ain’t no way you know what you’re fit for this soon honey, dontchu fret over it in the least.”

“Really?” She begs and feels his hand leave the door, no longer needing to be held open, and land on her back, smoothing her wet hair down her spine, rings catching and snarling in the waves.

“I mean it, you’re just a lil peanut, ain’t fair to ask ya to figure all that out right this minute.”

The sentiment mimics the mantra of Gigi’s homework meltdowns and four am panic attacks and she beams at him with utter relief, as if him having spoken what her gut tells her makes it gospel truth. She shudders and melts into that hand, covering an entire half of her face it feels, and the rest of her erupts in gooseflesh from the Arctic levels of AC he keeps in his house. She needs to be closer, she needs him to hold a lot more of her—

“We’re going to change before we get pneumonia.” Ginger announces loudly and they both jump, Elvis once again forgetting that there’s others hereabout, and Gigi from the cold shock of Ginger’s icy hand slithering into her own, tugging her to the hall bath. She trips over her own two feet to keep eye contact with him as long as possible, her cheek still glowing from his touch and reveling in the sight of him in the narrow hall with his belly outlined in stark relief by the clinging, wet t-shirt and his tiny shorts that have a little protrusion of their own…she hadn’t noticed it till now, and she wants to whimper, not from Ginger’s implacable grip on her hand but at the sight of that chubby little package pointing at her while tucked behind his inseam. She’s grinning wide and accusatory at him by the time Ginger hauls her around the corner and out of his sight, grinning as if glad that he was as big a pervert as she was, growing impossibly excited just by little touches and sweet banter.

Gigi’s not proud but she’ll admit she lost some valuable time staring into space, her mouth watering and her lips pursing at the thought of that little bulge. Staring into space as she waited for first Dinah and then Marie and maybe another to finish with the hall bath under the stairs, staring straight ahead at the paneling thinking about nothing but cock, plain and simple cock beneath a pendulous belly, as if she wasn’t currently occupying a most envied space in one of the most interesting houses in America. The portraits and gilding and artifacts were lost on her, catatonic she just thought of cupping it. She was almost entirely certain that she had been able to make out the fat little head of it beneath his shorts, the cone-like little–

It wasn’t any better in the privacy of the bathroom stripping out of her wet things and trying to rub off the cloying wet to slip into her sundress. Malleable and chilly in that post swim haze that often comes over children and dreamy young twenty years old girls, she meandered out of the bathroom and right into a spitting match.

Ginger Alden had deposited her by the hall bath after dragging her away, only to then leave herself and go upstairs to avail herself of the amenities up there. Only to be gently informed by Sam that those weren’t for her use any longer. Upstairs was for family and intimate circle: boss man said she wasn’t that no more. Boss man himself was in the downstairs room to the side that had once been Gladys’ room, slipping on a comfy tracksuit without the hassle of climbing the stairs, thinking about how Gigi relabeled a baby duckling tucking herself into the hollow of his palm and how he’d like to nuzzle at that fuzzy little head and-

So there was a spitting match going on. It was chiefly between Tammy and Ginger, although Rosemary and Missus added their own hits when the occasion afforded.

“Do your friends not mind you whoring them out for your own personal vendetta, Tammy?” Ginger enunciated very clearly in the front hall, just a few feet from the understairs bathroom.

“I dunno Darlin’, does your mama?” Tammy drawled.

“Where’s her boyfriend hmm? Doesn’t he care she’s throwing herself at another man?”

Gigi cracked open the door and hoped to God maybe the discussion was about Tammy’s house cat and not her.

“She doesn’t have one.”

“Oh great, oh perfect!” Ginger’s bangles rattled as she threw her hands up to the heavens, “Let me guess, she’s a pure as the driven snow virgin too, hmm?”

“If anyone can still be a virgin after getting eye fucked that much in a pool–” Tammy cackles and Gigi winces before slipping out of the bathroom fully and trying to make herself small against the wall.

“Language, young lady!” Mrs. Alden reprimands.

“That’s my fiancé!” Ginger wails, not to her supposed fiancé himself but her rival beauty queen contestant. “She’s all over my fiancé!”

“He sure ain’t all over you for bein’ a fiancé.” Tammy points out without a shred of anxiety over the point, eyeing the damage the pool did to her nails. “Where’s the ring, by the way?”

“Here!” Ginger held up her hand and the massive rock adorning it.

“Nah, I meant like, one he gave ya after that one.” Tammy’s chewing gum smacks with her sentences, “Not the ‘I’m desperately lonely marry me after three weeks and I’ll never mention it again’ ring. I meant like, another one, he’s given you a real promise ring hasn’t he? Oh c’mon he’s gotta, he’s so in looooove! You said so yourself, he’s sooo in loooove he’s gotta be pressin’ you for that date every second and loadin’ your hand up with promise rings. C’mon Ginger, show us, c’mon”

“I'm not above punching you, Tammy Anderson.” Gigi felt in her bones that Ginger meant it and stepped up, trying to gently pry the girls apart in their toe-to-toe verbal sparring just as Elvis issued out of the bedroom clad in a deliciously slouchy baby blue version of the black tracksuit he’d been wearing when they arrived. He looked so soft with his hair drying in tufts and his sideburns too, and the vast expanse of his chest the only cuddly looking thing in this frigid house. The soft tracksuit pants also conformed to every ripple of his steps and jiggle of his obviously unconfined package that was still faintly chubby and Gigi ogles him like he’s the display lollipops in an Ice Cream truck window.

“We have a connection!” Ginger is still protesting to the unfeeling jury that is Tammy’s gum smacking smirk. “A real, soulful connection–”

“–yeah, yeah sure cause reading books on crystals downstairs is a real connection.”

“–you aren’t here for it! you don’t know! We have a soul connection!”

“You sound like you’re talkin’ about someone’s grandpa.” Tammy wheezes, “Like, that’s exactly what some gal who don’t wanna give out talks about, like he’s some ancient little granddaddy and you read him shit while he’s in his rocker–”

“You bi–”

“–because getting treated like a nursing home inmate when he’s in the prime of life has sure gotta help that connection. Lord I’m shocked he hasn’t eloped with you yet, a real keeper.”

Gigi sees Elvis scan the surroundings judiciously before anyone notices he’s entered the main rooms again, clocking everyone’s position and attitude and when they lock eyes over the feuding gal’s heads she can’t help the compulsion she feels to lighten his mood, erase the furrow between his brows. She rolls her eyes over their drama and watches those pillowy cherub lips quirk up in reply.

“I dare you to try to handle what I’ve had to handle with his mood swings and his temper and getting goddamn shot at! I dare ya–”

“Maybe you should take an interest in shootin’ his guns, maybe he won’t point ‘em at you then.” Tammy suggests, “Gigi here’s a pretty good shot, actually. Grew up on her daddy’s big farm.”

Elvis is still smirking at her and she wonders if he is like her, only tiny portions of the conversation actually making it all the way into her ears, too preoccupied with things unsaid to be of any use for public conversation. Watching him walk across the room is only worse, the atmosphere changing as he passes, despite his casual demeanor and bulk he moves with a shocking amount of grace and poise –more than Gigi’s ever noticed another man carry.

“Would y’all like some refreshments?” Mary’s butting into the little squabble with a tray from the kitchen laden with poured up sodas and sweet teas as if anyone needs refreshing in this ice box of a house.

“Cherry Coke? Are you kidding me right now?” Ginger’s voice finally pitches up to near hysteric levels and Mrs. Alden grabs the half empty bottle off the tray to inspect the ingredients as if it’ll give her a recipe for dealing with freckled homewreckers.

“I-I-I didn’t choose it.” Gigi whimpers under Mrs. Alden’s glare, feeling compelled to defend herself under the withering derision.

“Mister Elvis stocked the fridge with ‘em jus’ for her visit.” Mary confirms helpfully with a beaming smile and if Mrs. Alden could turn any more ashen under her pancake makeup than she already is, she’d be positively ghastly.

“Oh shit, oh shit, he’s out!” Ginger suddenly hisses to her mom, catching sight of what Gigi’s been making bambi eyes at for over three minutes already. It’s amazing how efficiently the ladies put on a mask of decorum for Elvis’ benefit, all simpering smiles and polite acceptance of the drinks. Except in the criss-crossing of arms and the passive aggressive pinching of fingers around bottles on the tray, somehow the Cherry Coke tips over and spills its contents down the light, pretty patterned front of Gigi’s gauzy sundress.

Cherry-pink nipples, pebbled from the cold shock of a refrigerated christening, suddenly replaces anyone's objections regarding Cherry Coke. It’s obscene those breasts of hers, large and pendulous but curving upwards with obstinate perkiness as if preening hopefully for a compliment, salam-sized areolas emblazoning a landing strip for a tongue to lave… or maybe that’s just Elvis’ perception. Maybe they’re just Coke-soaked titties and he’s a gentleman so he disengages from his chat with Hodge about film selections and comes up, solicitously cooing which makes those nipples–somehow–perk even more.

“Elvis, don–”

“You did that on purpose!”

“No, she didn’t!”

“No, I didn’t! Why would I wanna do that?”

Gigi really has to focus. This was worse than her attention span on homework. “Come on, let’s be nice.” She begs the girls, succeeding in pushing Tammy and Ginger apart just a little, which also gives Elvis a clear path to her. She’s so humiliated at this point that when she sees his determined gait towards her and compassionate face as he eyes her chest that she goes to him like a child with an owie that needs fixing, utterly sure he has the anecdote.

“Oh darlin, s’alright, we’ll get ya sorted with somethin’ else to wear.” He behaves so familiarly as he comes up to her and tucks her into his side that she melts into the gesture, following his lead as he steers her away from prying eyes as she willingly follows, not processing that they’re nearing the foot of the stairs, “You brought somethin’ else to wear?”

“This was it.” She whispers in defeat because it was supposed to be a swim date and she only brought along something beyond a scrap of fabric to wear–despite Tammy’s protests–because she suspected rain and being housebound.

“S’alright little dolly, I’ll get ya covered again,” he says very gravely and it makes her shiver, “modesty is a virtue, darlin, glad to see ya have it naturally.”

She stalls at the foot of the stairs, suddenly realizing his intention is to take her up there. Her cheeks flame red at the implication of both being invited to his private space for God knows what purpose and being invited while his supposed girlfriend is barred from such spaces. Everything in her being longs for it but suddenly there is a nagging, a real fear she’s doing wrong somehow and that if she gave into this, it would taint what oughta be a blissful first time in the arms of a man she’s fantasized about for years. It isn’t fair and she wants to stamp her feet, instead she feels her eyes pooling with tears and her lip wobbling and that ole cry baby nickname sure proves its mettle as she drags her feet and makes him pause right before the first step.

“Elvis this isn’t–I’m not comfortable with this–I wanna but–” she stares miserably up at the portrait of a young, golden haired version of himself on the landing and vaguely wonders if his sons would look like that, if anyone were to give him one.

“Oh, naw, naw don’t cry lil one, tell me what’s wrong?” his hands flutter over the outline of her shoulders as if he’s unsure if his touch is welcome. She wants to glue them onto her body but instead she glances back at the crowd behind them that aren’t even bothering to act preoccupied. Elvis gets the message loud and clear. “Aww I see,” he mutters, “let’s step right in here then, fix ya up with somethin’ at least. Won’t be nice and girlish like intended,” he sounds like he’s moping a bit but he leads her towards the room he went into to change into his tracksuit, sidestepping their onlookers, “but it’ll keep ya cozy. And ya won’t have to go to no bachelors room alone, keep ya reputation all clean.” He loads Gigi’s clouded concerns with heavy amounts of motivation and moralisms she’s never even considered but she doesn’t care as she savors the feel of his hand on her waist, guiding her to a lavender-shaded room.

On the purple quilt of the solitary bed lies a rumpled tracksuit jacket, the one he’d been wearing when they first arrived and Gigi seizes it lovingly, like a child might a long lost stuffy, holding it to her nose and smelling it. To her relief it’s every bit as musky as she hoped. Maybe that way she can be surrounded by him without making an absolute fool of herself. Elvis watches her bury her tear stained face in his old jacket and has to heave in a breath to steady himself. There’s something akin to the adoring fan about Gigi that unsettles him but coupled with that unique irreverence she showed him in the pool, he could craft something here, from this young girl, something that would fill the slot he needs filled so badly.

She might as well be a child, his own Yisa, her eyes are so vulnerable when she raises her head and meets his, jacket still clutched to her chin.

“Ya can wear it.” He affirms, helpless in the face of it, addicted to the beaming smile that catches and spreads across her face like wildfire at his permission, despite the watery red rimmed evidence of her turmoil. “Use it, put it on, that’s right, be all right. That’s a good girl.” He cups her freckled cheek, making sure to keep his fat gut far away from her and she burrows into his palm again, hungry for touch and he remembers now that her so-called parents are cold fucks who don’t care about the fact their daughter is alone in a room with him. Maybe if they did she would be more carefree. “You scared of me, lil one?” he asks gently, thumbing at a dappled cheekbone and swiping down to those plush lips he wants to acquaint with his own. All in due time. For now, “You scared of me?”

“No sir!” She gasps, terribly pressed to make him understand her conflicting emotions, “I just worry–Ginger! We shouldn’t be–not if she–I don’t know.” She trails off and is back to crying again and it affects him strongly, far more than female tears usually do.

“Listen to me, baby girl,” he tilts her chin up to his face solemnly, his tone and commanding the utmost respect and she listens reverently. “This is my house; I can do as I please in it, and so can my guests. Now, some folks don’t wanna be my guests ‘till they sniff a competitor. What you and I got lil one, it’s pure and it’s good, ya feel it baby?” And Gigi did indeed feel him run those ring clad fingers over her face like a hypnotist, mapping out each feature and dragging her eyelids shut momentarily. She didn’t know what she felt except for starving hunger and utter surrender. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with our connections, and we ain’t gonna let the world tell us otherwise, are we, darlin’?”

Gigi felt his fingers trailing over her lips, pulling the blush bottom one away from her teeth before trailing further down, back to her chin, releasing it with a wet pop. She sucked in a noisy breath and whimpered in her exhale.

“Tell me ya feel it, come on sugar, if ya feel it, let ya daddy know.”

Gigi would have blamed some substance laced into her drink for the way her body reels like a mind controlled little mouse, except that she was wearing said drink and she could recognize what he was doing but was powerless to argue against it. He could have asked for her help to bury a body at this moment and she would have complied. She had long been prepared to be accepted and wanted for being smart, she had no equipping for how to navigate or negotiate with an established man who found her desirable. It sent her reeling. It set her alight.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hmm, whas’ tha’?” he coos, his hand sliding to her throat and squeezing a little.

“I -I feel it, sir. Elvis, I, I feel you.” Gigi gasps, tilting towards him only to find him withdrawing now he has her. Playing at cat and mouse when all she wishes for is to be a willing sacrifice, laid out for a hungry god to devour. “Please I feel you!” she pleads, trying to regain him but something has switched in him, he is confident and commanding–and a little cold as he steps back.

“That’s a good girl.” He commends and she shudders again. “You get dressed, then come on out and I wanna see ya wide eyed and bushy tailed for some fun. Ain’t gonna let the bastards ruin our day, are we?”

“No sir!–I mean, yes sir, to–to the first part–” Gosh, she’s adorable and her breasts are huge and ought to be held.

First things first, he’s gotta kick some asses. He tries to put on his most kindly face before backing out of the room and shutting the door fully again to give her privacy. When he turns around, it’s like the Spanish Inquisition in his own living room.

“E’eryone currently in this house,” Elvis speaks low and measured when he is in the midst of them, his index finger pointing to the hollowed foundations of his home, “is here at my pleasure and ‘cause I invited ‘em to create a lil fun. Anyone who ain’t willin’ or able to aid in that endeavor needs to go right now. I mean it. I don’t want no bullshit today, gonna deal with schedules and tour dates and all that bullshit another time. I want some fun. That’s all I’m askin’ for, e’ryone’s actin’like it’s hard as hell to have a good time. It ain’t. Just don’t be bitches. That goes for men and women.”

And with this admonition, having said his piece and politely ignored the inflammatory presence of the young lady currently stripping out of her soda soaked dress and donning the silky material of his tracksuit jacket.

“Charlie, Ricky,” he addresses them, “one o’vya go an’ grab some tapes, bring ‘em up here and we’ll have a vote on what movie we’re gonna watch.”

Ricky bounds out of sight and down to the basement with an alacrity that Elvis feels proves he has something to make amends for. With this brief interlude of quiet, Elvis sits himself down in his chair and enjoys a bout of smirking eye contact with Mrs. Alden that leaves the estimable lady shaking in an impotent rage across from him, so much so her vibrations rattle the opulent necklace around her neck. One he happens to have bought for her.

Next girl he tries his luck with will be motherless. Or nearly. He’s had it with courtin’ the family and not getting shit thanks in return for it. Well, that ain’t fully true, Linda’s people are good people. He’s reminded of that as Sam sits down next to him and asks if Elvis wants him to run to get some more refreshments. Ice cream, he suggests, and Elvis would have voiced his approbation of the idea if Ricky had not landed back in the room with a hamper full of film reels at the same moment the opposite door opens and out comes Gigi.

Elvis underestimated the length of those legs of hers. His tracksuit jacket just barely covers what he prays to God are swim panties under that thing. As is, there’s miles of track-sculpted and sun-caressed stems on display and they go on and on, all the way down to the pretty little footsies with the French-tip pedicures and–God help him, before this he never noticed the anklet. Suddenly it’s all he can see, that dainty gold chain encircling her delicate bones and graceful sinews the way his hand oughta be if there was any justice left in the world. When he tears his eyes away from the sight all he’s left with is the sight of her, freshly pool scrubbed and clean wearing just his jacket. Or to all appearances, just his jacket.

“That poor girl was cussing me out and praying I die the other night.” Tammy’s voice shakes him, she’s gotten so near without him noticing, lost as he watches Gigi pour over the selections of movies Ricky brought up. With the way she’s bending over he can only be grateful that she’s got her ass facing a wall and her front zipper fully zipped to the chin. Otherwise Ricky would be dead for having such prime seating.

“Not that lil innocent baby.” He disagrees, sure of it even though Tammy seems to be warming up to a business pitch.

“Oh yes she was!” Tammy Anderson insists, “Praying mighty hard for my downfall and in turn askin’ that a ‘daddy’ somebody would ‘give it to her’ good.” She sips noisily on her straw while leaving Elvis to aspirate on his spit.

“Bless me.” he mutters while patting down his pants for a cigar, unable to take his eyes off both Gigi and Sam–the latter to make sure he’s at a good enough distance not to hear this.

“The problem was,” Tammy goes on serenely, “at least as far as I can make it out, the problem was she thought I was getting to stay the night with her childhood hero while she got sent home like a little girl.”

“She is a little girl.”

“Is she though?” Tammy scrunches her nose and Elvis is reminded why he’s not going after this one. Too worldly wise for her own good. “Or just enough?” she adds in a way that makes his cheeks burn.

“I don’t need you helpin’ me feel like a dirty ole man when I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it, Tammy Anderson. You mind your own garden.”

“Damnation, you’re such a gentleman, Elvis!” she laughs loudly which attracts a glare from Ginger for it, “Using all those lofty metaphors while shamin’ me at the same time. Hell of a talent ya got there, ole man.”

“Tammy, I like you,” Elvis begins gravely and Tammy straightens her spine and her mouth trembles with suppressed mirth which attracts even Gigi’s attention from the far corner, “but I like you from a distance. Don’t tempt me to make that distance a hell of a lot greater, you hard up bleached thicket lil hussy.”

Tammy’s eyes go wide and for a minute it seems she struggles to breathe till peal after peal of raucous laughter greets his cutting remark the way it was intended. She’s pretty when she smiles, Elvis can admit, damn dazzlin’ in the bright white of day but it’s like a shark. His eyes drift back to the bambi his heart is set on and watches with a growing frown as she and Ricky tug at one of the films, neither seeming ready to relinquish it.

“What’s goin on?” Elvis demands in a booming voice that can carry to the far reaches of a stadium and is downright deafening in the closed spaces of his home.

Everyone freezes at it and Gigi looks like she’s just seen God on Mount Sinai from his tone alone, so Elvis endeavors to clear his frown and gestures for Charlie to sort it out. By it he means Ricky. The hell is the kid thinkin’?–Playin’ tug o' war with his damn films? And with a guest! His guest!

No sooner does Charlie walk over to the two young folks before suddenly they are allies, when Gigi relinquishes it to Ricky in her moment of fear, Ricky dodges Hodge and when Hodge pursues, Gigi makes a waving motion behind ole Charlie’s back:

“Ricky, Ricky give it here!” Gigi hollers, hands up and body elongated to catch the boxed-up reel like a football at the end zone. The move flashes a peek of white swimsuit bottoms underneath the inadequate jacket. Elvis groans around his as yet unlit cigar. He’s still ineffectually patting his pockets for a light when Gigi makes the catch and for that split second she’s holding it, Elvis gets a glimpse of the slipcover. And of all the movies she coulda gotten her hands on-

Elvis is up and rushing at her before he can even think about what he’s prepared to do, how far he’ll push this, the only thing he can think of besides the acres of honey toned skin caressed by his jacket, is that sweet little baby Gigi is holding his copy of Deepthroat.

“Lil girl!” he growls at her and the way her eyes fly wide as saucers makes him think she’s actually terrified of him right before she breaks into a grin and spins on her heel, headed out the room on those track hardened legs.

He chases, ‘cause of course–what else was there to do?

“Lil girl, you give that here!” he feels the disadvantages of his bulk in this hot pursuit but it’s been awhile since the last tour and his knees have recovered in the time off and it ain’t so bad, he’s still flexible and he’s still got stamina for all that his joints feel like they got hot coals in them most times. Every painful jog is worth it for the happy shrieks she lets out as he lumbers behind her, intent on a takedown.

She’s barely gotten to the foyer and stalls for a brief moment to contemplate taking sanctuary in the kitchen or music room when suddenly she feels the jolting contact of his hands on her waist. It’s fast and grabbing and not a light touch, she’s being gripped and tugged and squeezed by those large, hot, unyielding hands before being spun and tackled to the ground.

Soft carpet and his hand cradles her head, keeping the landing from being too harsh. But even if she’d snapped her neck, Gigi would still be acutely conscious of the feel of him, all of him, so much of him, thrumming with such potent aliveness atop her that she feels herself catch fire at it, her own pulse syncing with his, heightened instantly. It’s brief, horribly brief, that instant of complete contact with his entire weight smothering her, but it’s intoxicating for life. He’s sweaty, even in this freezing house and after so little exertion, he’s sweaty and warm and he smells both so wonderfully clean and manly at the same time she wants to moan. Maybe she does, she isn’t sure, all she knows is that she does fuss, like a clingy baby, she fusses at the way he immediately props his top half up and away from her.

It makes him pause.

Unable to express anything right now except that she will be heartbroken if he pulls away, that it would be worse than those stupid little love pats Ginger gives him if he acts cold now that she’s felt his warmth, felt what he can offer her. Shelter, stability, satisfaction.

She takes advantage of his pause to wrap her legs up and around his hips, caging him in, defiantly attached.

“Don’t leave me now.” She begs softly, unable to keep up with the game of it all. If she wanted that uncertainty she could just go home.

“Oh, Gigi.” He whispers, sounding almost heartbroken, seeing in her vulnerable eyes and clingy neediness a glimpse of his old self.

Flashes of memories and rejections flood his mind, dashing home from school to find she moved, dashing back from tour to find her dancing with another man, invited back to her place just to get shoved into a glass coffee table and breaking the thing with his poor back, finding her fuckin’ the man he paid to teach her how to defend herself… he’s tired, but he remembers how it used to feel, how it used to nearly strangle him, all that youthful hope.

The film reel slips from her nerveless hand, no longer the subject of interest anymore, and she brings it to his face instead, stroking his cheek with all the lingering fondness of someone who wouldn’t rather do anything else at this moment. Elvis wishes he had such restraint, his breath puffs heavily as he tries to keep it contained and not gasp and huff atop her like some lumbering oaf, trying to keep his fat gut up away from the beauteous length of her, but she winds her arms about his neck and tugs him down despite his playful protests and stiff necked obstinance.

If she wants a kiss, she can fight for it, same as the girls at his concerts.

She can feel him slowly bending to her will, hunched over her in an attempt to keep from smothering her and she isn’t having it. She’s not a small or frail little thing, she’s an athlete and she uses it to her advantage, interlocking her legs around his waist and registering with searing satisfaction that his interest for her is dangling heavy and drippy in the silky hammock of his tracksuit pants.

Her sharp smile could rival Tammy’s at this confirmation and with a pounding heart Gigi cranes her head off the carpet and leans, closer and closer to him till her eyes go cross eyed focusing on the cupid's bow of his pouty lips and she can feel the hot puff of his breaths on her lips and–

–the rascal ducks his head to the side at the last minute and burrows that marshmallow mouth in her neck before blowing raspberries into the ticklish skin there.

As if his sending her home, his coddling of her in the pool and his distance in the bedroom had not made her feel like an absolute child, this last bit truly did. To the point where the endearing aspect of his blowing on her neck was lost in the heartbreaking need for assurance. Bucking and writhing beneath his tickles she gasped and begged and thrashed while never once letting go of her hold on his hips with her legs, keeping him near, his belly heavy and solid on top of her butterfly-filled one.

“Darlin’, stop buckin’ like that, ain’t decent.” He took a break from this torture to remonstrate as if he wasn’t to blame.

“Then kiss me.” She breathes out a challenge.

Now it happened that around this time, Jerry Schilling found himself free of commitments to Brian and his Beach Boys and, finding himself in Memphis, decided to call on an old friend and benefactor. Despite what his boss often insisted, Jerry was not an idiot, and so as he opened the front door to Graceland on this gloomy and sticky summer day he came equipped for any and all moods–his muscular arms bulging out of his thin t-shirt under the strain of carrying numerous, loaded bags of steaming Barbecue from Elvis’ favorite local pit.

Jerry Schilling had walked in on many a scene in the course of his run with Elvis Presley, temper tantrums and ecstatic jubilees and the unforgettable instance where a certain chimp was beating off against a poor gals shin much to the drunk audience’s amusement, the air thick with hooting and hollering and cigar smoke–and female shame.

But nothing, nothing had been quite as bizarre as what he saw this day when stepping into the foyer ready for anything–or so he thought. What he didn’t prepare for was the sight of his usually rather decorous boss laying atop a leggy young thing, grappling and necking her like a teenager, and getting it back in spades, which was a little more shocking considering his recent state. Whoever was under him was a moaner and more surprising still was the fact Elvis wasn’t shutting her up, or even getting up off the floor since–and here’s where it got bizarre–they weren’t remotely alone in the place. Or even the room.

Although, unlike that ill fated and depraved chimp, the two horndogs swapping spit on the floor don’t have much of a captivated audience, though Jerry bets they were captivated or at least attentive to the floor shenanigans at one point. That was before the fighting and clawing and kicking and scratching and screaming and–holy shit, Ginger and a bleach blonde are clawing at each other like they’re in for blood, Mrs. Alden beating the gal with her purse in defense of her daughter while Dodger smokes her pipe on the couch keeping Mr. Alden captive by her side with a death glare through the smokey haze of tobacco. Sam Thompson remains wringing his mouth, standing unsure beside Charlie and Ricky who can’t seem to believe what’s going on down on the foyer floor at Jerry’s feet.

It would seem Ginger’s out, and Miss Leggy is in. And Jerry suddenly feels the weight of the barbecue and the whole world pulling on his shoulders as he goes to aid Rosemary in pulling the girls apart, figuring that’s probably the one thing he can do here and not get his head bitten off by Elvis for it.

It’s easier said than done what with Mrs Alden’s purse pummeling the blonde, Ginger’s last vestiges of despairing pain and the blonde’s shockingly strong core when he grabs her from the back and tries to haul her up and away. Blondie kicks at Ginger’s face one last time and succeeds at landing a blow to the nose by the time Jerry staggers back with her somewhat restrained, feeling like he’s cradling a mountain lion to his chest. She’s shredding his forearms with her acrylics and, unsatisfied with the bloody damage she’s done, this little hottie grabs at the bags still hanging from his arms and begins to throw sticky, juicy, red globs of smoked meat at her grade school nesmises.

“Let me at her, ya goddamn sunnuvabitch!” Tammy screams, head butting him to try to make him let her go–and Jerry finds himself feeling a little funny, like the feeling his folks told him to look for when ‘the one’ wandered into his life looking like sunshine and smelling like a spring day washline and holding daisies. Except that ‘the one’ is a dangerous bottle blonde with a foul mouth and his skin cells under her fingernails.

God moves in mysterious ways.

Speaking of, no sooner has he gripped this chick right enough to preserve some flesh on his arm when he hears Elvis voice booming:

“Enough with the goddamn food! For fucks sake, Tammy! Enough! Ginger put that down or so help me–”

Everyone may want to kill each other in this room but no one, absolutely no one, wants to see Elvis grab a gun. And so, just like that, utter quiet and peace is restored.

He looks quite impressive for a man in a tented tracksuit and ruffled hair, a man who just got off the floor with a grunt and creak of his knees, no doubt. But that don’t matter now, none of those human things apply when The King is pissed. And holy shit, Jerry thinks he’s rarely seen him so angry–it’s that chilly blue suppressed sorta fury that freaks the boys out more than the hotel room trashing fits of red rage.

“Jerrah, the hell’s goin’ on throwin’ food in ma house?”

Jerry looks down at the blonde in his arms and his shredded forearms hoping Elvis will maybe take pity. Unlikely. And so he man’s up with, “Sorry boss, so sorry, we’ll get it cleaned up ‘fore ya know it-“

“Goddamn right y’all will.” Elvis seethes and Jerry sees the pretty young thing he had under him shrink behind him in the foyer at this glimpse of his wrath. As if sensing her movement with those eyes in the back of his head that only Elvis Presley seems blessed with, the boss man pulls himself together with all the haughty showmanship that only he can possess and holds his finger up as if to freeze everyone in their current position before turning around to his little sweetie.

“Baby girl, I want you to go outside an’ get in the passenger seat of the Stutz, a’right?” Elvis directs and underlying it is the explanation that the ugly work of throwing out her predecessor ain’t for her pretty eyes to witness or sweet lil ears to hear. “Lamar’s probably still eatin’ in the kitchen, ya can get the keys from him.”

A whimper sounds from behind him, and it’s Ginger’s. The genuine pain of the sound makes Gigi waiver, a pained look of sympathy and torn intentions flashing across her face. Then his ringed hand cups her fresh young cheek and it seals her fate, submissive as a lamb she melts into that touch, and her eyes drift back to his. They’re so sure, those burning sapphire eyes of his, so sure of where her future is and so intense in their intention for it. Someone who looks so beautiful can’t be as cruel as he feels capable of, surely? Surely.

Jerry watches Gigi’s bare feet patter to the kitchen, looking like a kid shuffling to time out in their dad’s jacket. He can’t think on it for too long because as soon as Elvis hears the suction of the back door opening and closing he turns around to the mosh pit that his living room had become.

“When I get back,” he's addressing those of his boys present–they know he is– and Jerry considers himself one of them still, “I expect this mess,” he gesticulates to the spattered food and his once intended in-laws with a single, bejeweled, disdainful finger, “tidied up.”

It’s not until he too has disappeared out back amidst deathly quiet in the living room that Jerry realizes he’s still holding Tammy Anderson. Not that he can think on it for long. Not when he has a PR nightmare sized mess to clean up.

Hopefully Elvis’s drive is worth it.

Taglist: (let me know if you’d like to be added)

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